THE GROTTO 

maybe baby corn and brussels sprouts
are the adolescent punks of the produce section.

and plantains must be their gang leader, a napoleon complex
like no other.  recruiting their army of disenchanted youth, hazing
the broccolini and baby spinach for member ship.

and i could see them after hours, when the florescent lights die down,
after the custodial crew has left, before every one is showered for the night
in the fine mist
of fluoride, bleach, turpentine.

i suppose they sneak out to tag the organic section
with pesticides.  scrawling "grow a pair hippie" or "wilt this".  on
their untarnished skin.  crossing

the lines of street corners, the neatly divided sections of town
to expand their turf, changing labels to prove they're tough enough,
to fuck with shoppers the next day long.  'cause after all, who can really tell
the difference between swiss chard or mustard greens, bokchoy or kale?

too young to know any better.  they swap out, "buy local" stickers
with chiquita and dole; certainly worth the laugh.

and the way to earn their bar codes,
tattooed proof of their acceptance.  and in the morning
if they don't get picked they won't care why.  it's certainly a
tough life.

whether it be cart by shootings,
or simply withering out to die.  so few, make
it out to the grotto.

intimacy must be different for the terminally ill.  the way an infant is promised the fruit it's being fed
is something it'll love forever.

truth be told, those taste buds haven't caught up yet.

yet she still swallows it down and smiles
doing anything to be, "a big girl." because "she's at that age"

when she's almost old enough to be told she's dying.

and what a way to get ahead

when you finally find out your timeislimited.

what else to do?

but fast forward through life, skipping the boring parts
unless they were vital part to the process.

that's not to say one might be cutting life in half by any means,

but by being
a stone you still need to be defined by physics.  water

over time can't help but created results.

oval,
smooth,
pleasant to the touch.  and even the gift of ripples

when thrown horizontally across the water.  and the tiny things
they might stand for.  and how those things
could so easily stand for your eternity.

grow, change, learn, love,

trial, error, hormones,

romance, slut, pretend,

drugs, dream, depressed,

silent,

then,

peace,

content, happy

enough

to

settle.

PUT ON HOLD

be that as it may, i still feel

from time to time...

this wasn't always the case.

years of alcohol and drugs, even though
i abore the cliche
kept me from such juxtaposed luxuries
intentionally.

and those ridiculous things
such as feelings, when put on hold,
have a funny way
of rearing their ugly head
when they're not wanted.

(seeing how they were never wanted
in the first place.)

and you
feel silly after wards (when they catch up).

like running away from some unseen force in a horror film.

full sprint through the woods; looking over your shoulder
cut shot to cut shot for editorial pacing.
and the aggressor is simply walking.

sure, looking menacing, but gaining none the less.

imagine such a terrifying moment
seeming insignificant, when you've made it such a way.
therein lies the horror.

after all, you chose to run in the first place.

on opiates, without having eaten in days, but on your thirteenth
jack and coke

so the calories still count.

at the time you felt
you had the, "jump" on the things.  the things

you made small enough
to tuck away and hide.

when you grab the bridge of you nose, stare at the ground,
shaking your head side to side is when
you find them in your pocket.

stow aways this entire time.

then,

finally,

out of breath, you look behind you.

wipe your brow and pat yourself on the shoulder.
thinking you outran the things that were destroying you.

('cause denial is the easiest part yet.)

and since it was obviously time to celebrate
you grab your smokes,

check your pulse, then

reach for your lighter.  though

fumbling around reveals a recollection, this
smiling beast that you thought clocked
in after you in the imaginary race you've been running.

and it hits you,
like licking sandpaper and liking it, or jaywalking

while the person who followes suit
gets crushed instantly by a bus.

you can't outrun the blocked out parts
of your life.  mostly because they never extend courtasy.

any and always an inappropriate time
to show up.  and if i battled them back when

i was sure of myself, i might have stood a chance.

though now is not that case.  so i give up, give in,

i beg to be devourer whole.  and plead that you
not bite, or chomp, nor chew.

and, i promise next time to get back to you.

pay my proper respects.

deal with you
in the moment.

your esophageal sounds
will be my music, and i'll  rejoice

in being left to digest in the sweet music
of the situation.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtSFyHt7QIE

EITHER ORION'S DOING CARTWHEELS OR LIFE IS PASSING BY

if you look up often enough, perhaps
you'll get the hint.  we were always made
to be baffled by stars.

this monochromatic jackson pollack
splattered across the sky inspires either something real
or confusion by the chaos.  yet, either orion's doing
cartwheels or our lives are passing by.  because one day

he's fully upright, bow and arrow ready to take down the moon, the next
he's fully prostrate, an old, brittle man, unable to move.

it's simply a small glimpse of who we are,
where we came from.  it's innate and overwhelming, and
being trapped in the terrestrial never helped the cause.
never truly inspired anyone to accomplish anything.

"in the beginning there was nothing." but most parts
of us don't buy that, not for a single second. never
a solitary moment do we agree while our heads nod in forced approval.

have you ever treated an idea as a seed, a tiny delicate thing
struggling to root almost anywhere for life?  watched it grow?
more than several steps are taken back at this point.  this promise
we made to ourselves but have since forgotten.

and without a doubt,
we are a species with amnesia.  still it's not our fault.

eden was only paradise because we didn't know any better.

take eve and adam to six flags one day
and they'll say, "fuck the fruit.  can we ride that again?".

the real trick is that it was
never their decision to make.  never ours either
for that matter.

it's the conscience mind
never believing in beauty.  refusing to
acknowledge that paradise could ever exists.

until getting over this false notion, this unbelievable inaccurate thing,
that we've never once earned it, that deserving it requires more than

being alive.

THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT BAGGAGE

once again,
spring won't make up her mind, or perhaps
it's winter's inside joke.  just enough warmth
to get used to before the bitter cold crawls back in.

march is as fickle as it gets, a child
given permission to pick a single toy
alongside an everest of shelves.  there's not enough
oxygen in world to scale those hills.

the heart often follows suit, then
gives in this far north; one day excited
about even the possible love interest
in the cashier at the co-op

the next, her mention of the kabbalah
has you shopping hanafords for weeks.

but we forget
how the flowers come up once again.  everything
seems ephemeral, fleeting.  then don't mind so much
waking up again, as

we're reminded to both dance in the sunshine, and
collect snowflakes on the tongue.

the weight of all the things i haven't done keeps
me both chained down and in fantastic shape.

dragging mistakes behind me around the baggage claim
at the airport of missed opportunity.  personally, my
luggage never closed correctly.

the zippers get caught on the choices i never made.

THERE WAS A NIGHT...

dark and forgettable,

that's how it was
when i slept on your front porch
after the fact, far after the world ended.

then walked
away, still drunk
before you rose:
before you woke.

to this day, never noticed.

that was the night
that hindsight caught up with me.

an idea of you being perfect,

as if there were such a thing.

and how out of love i'd fallen with myself thinking in such ways; i was

further gone than i imagined.

and of course, no one told me, not a friend in sight.  not just even one
pointing me in one direction or another

and i wondered
how i got to that point.

i'm smart, and charming, and hidden well, and so on...

and so

the fact that you lived on the same street as me
didn't make up for the
perfect; fucking cliche metaphor
of the pedestal
i'd conjured up in my mind.

(a place to place you.)

those things didn't happen, nor exist.  why would they?  why
would the universe ever tap you on the shoulder, whisper in your ear; and

then be wrong.
except perhaps he wasn't,  and maybe  never could be.

yet still i divide...
directly in two:  part one

hopes i get a piece of me in the deal,

standing if front of the mail box
waiting for the letter,

"save the date",

the other part existing somewhere else,
another beast all together

a hair extracting skeptical, knees bleeding across the floor, heart: well...
giving all it's got,

not for even one second, "holding it's peace".

not one of which,

are of,
nor ever will be

any of these far worse images conjured up:

an elephant scared of a mouse.
shingles falling on a roofers head,
the same shingles licked slowly across one's tongue,
a different (and of course; somehow better) man fucking you.
the smell of pavement

as it gradually turns a hard, your nose first

experiences, the scent then
up in disgust, and soon high
from the fumes.  high enough to entreat the texture
of the shark as the remora
bites down.

a grain of sand
might as well be the pyramids of giza
when you want something bad enough.

Probably the worst thing about California breaking in half and falling into the ocean is not being able to laugh and point at everyone and say, "Told you so!!!"

THE GHOSTS OF NOTHING

sometimes, in the country

(when even winter is exhausted by itself)

the stillness and the cold forget to argue over

who is more important, 

so they don't.

and all things usually harsh, become soft.

the part of you that used to simply tolerate

wears off, while acceptance creeps in.  

you let it.

the quiet that so easily, once before, haunted your past

allows translation.  it's not your fault she left,

you were always good enough.