16 Watt

Calluses.


Fleshy shields
born from repetition,
born from overuse.


Lips never callus
and a heart,
while it may grow harder,
is always a sponge
sopping pain and
beating stories of
regret.
The realizations of the past
are recounted with each
thump, and
every pump is a step closer
to scarlet tears.


A slow burn.


The pain of living.

Demain Matin

Treasures are nothing in the dark-

they are lumps of coal,

ridges on a distant mountain range;

they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-

porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,

teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;

they have lost their meaning

no longer coveted for purpose-

only finding small warmth in a cold,

passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-

thoughts of books set on distant shores;

sketches of paintings depicting truest love-

never to be penned,

never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums

graveyards for passing fancy-

what could have been

and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall

the china in its case

and the manuscript in the drawer

placed there years ago,

then you stare proudly while you yourself

gather dust.

Lemonade

Sensuality and sinister foreboding-

sensations, almost audible

through bone and blood.

Cracking and creaking,

each rib snapping into a new position

protecting and steadily compressing

that which lays inside.

Amidst all the real and imagined horror

the beating thing and it's metaphorical spot

in your mind

hurt more than bone splintering

and flesh peeling-

they call it the blues

they call it loss

they call it heartbreak.

No riff from scarred hands

can wipe away the cold sweat

that washes over in the middle

of a hot, summers night.

Sitting in a dirty, humid kitchen

knuckles white, gripping a cool glass

of foggy lemonade

swallowing greedily ice an all

deep into your soul

but only citrus steam forms

on the back of your eyeballs.

It's not for you to cure

or fight off-

close your eyes

let the deathly hands of grief

drag you into the wave

out with the tide

That same beating thing

protected by shattered bone

and raw flesh

will bring you back to dry land-

eventually.

The Failure of Senses

The latch is broken, the window is never clear

but I can see beyond the hazy glass.

I see what it is and what it could be;

what I used to think I needed.

There is a figure there, near the glass

its breath rising and falling on the pane.

I want to write messages of love and joy,

hearts and initials in the condensation;

but the figure moves off again.

I place my hand against the cool surface

my forehead resting beside it.

My eyes are sore, tired of straining to see past the fog;

then,

for a moment,

I feel the warmth of another hand

and I look up to see the figure

reaching out, its hand pressed against the outline of mine.

So near.

I think there is a heart warming that hand

and a consciousness placing it there

but something in me is still wary;

could this thing

be the work of a candle's flickering light?

casting shadows?

forming false hopes?

Snare and Piano

1.
Cold Glass
tints of green and
brown
Sleepy eyes staring
at glossy wood.
Put your feet up
on the
rail;
relax.

Looking up,
checking the
mirror
amidst a crowd
you feel
safe.

Spin around
meeting the smiles
of a thousand
unknown
possibilities-
friends;
lovers.

Another round
another laugh
tapping the oak
a coaster
slapped down
cold
sweet
and sour.


2.
Keep fighting
the inkling
to be
a silent
observer.

Make a joke;
smile into the eyes
of a
beautiful
woman
or be a bastard
make an impression
start a fight
or
drown
within
yourself.

Sometimes
you need to be
your own
inspiration.
Make your
own
scene.

3.
Blue light
comes for
me.

The night
abandons.

The sun is
hot
on my trail.

A Night Spent Waiting.

1.
Alarm clocks shouldn't be trusted
once wound, programmed or called
they should be prompt
punctual,
and should never fail.
I will never trust them,
and have spent many nights awake
waiting for the day to begin;
content that I would not miss the sun,
at least not because of that...thing.
Is my mistrust misplaced?
Is it really me?
A heavy hand, or perhaps
a stubborn unconscious
not wanting to turn over the keys
just yet.
Why don't more of them
come with a taser attachment
or a bucket of water
on a string.
But then, I suppose,
we would be terrified
awake, with bloodshot eyes
watching the alarm clock
about to pounce.

2.
Stopped at a light,
wondering why.
There are no other cars,
there are no people;
its 3 o'clock in the a.m.
and ghosts are impeding me.
Where is modern technology?
and why the hell is my car
still on the ground?
I should be floating about
in a DeLorean type-job
streaking through the sky,
among the other spirits;
the ones not holding up traffic.

3.
Sitting, reading;
I need to piss.
Across the street
a sprinkler is broken,
a geyser on Scott Road.
This doesn't help.
It's too early for anyone but me
and my bladder
to notice.

4.
I'm thankful
when the past catches up.
When memories become current
and new ones are made.
I'm glad that resolution
can be found in remembrance.
It's not always the case;
and if you err
history will not happen upon you
it will hunt you.
It has found me
and I am hopeful.

5.
Hands waiving,
wildly gesticulating with silence.
What are all these god-damned spots?
I need coffee
coffee.
Panic ensues over sugar
rather, the lack thereof.
Confusion, no focus
lack of lens cleaner.
One cup trembles against my lip,
warmth runs down my throat;
addiction.

A Few Nights Distilled

1.
Smoking areas
are wondrous things;
drink causes clouded thought
but just outside the pub
wafts a mixed air
of smoke and words,
a haven for the cultured.
The thumping noise within
makes for deaf ears
individuality wanes in the dark;
Here you are butted against
a variety of miscreants
the drunks, the smokers
observers of kindred souls.
Wander out into the soft din
step onto the toes of the repulsive
this is my living room
and you will find my lot here
lock eyes,
find the education of countless universities
all the hard knocks that society can muster
drink in the experience
for the barkeep inside
only offers a hazy recollection
this cocktail is one that
offers a hangover that life beyond
will lust after.

2.
People are more interesting
when they're vague
so much to long for.
The mind creating infinite possibilities
filling in the blanks with your own criteria.
Facts enter and judgment occurs,
the fantasies die swiftly.
Mystery is the muse of life
lose it and reality is what remains
reality, is a harsh spouse.

3.
Will he remember me?
stumbling up from across the bar
asking for a cigarette.
He was from "Spain"
a casting director
a space explorer
and a rodeo clown
I bought him a drink.

4.
The late night weirdos,
huddling together under smokey umbrellas
in brick coffee houses,
glaring angrily at the glow from a laptop;
a foreign object and symbol of the outsider.
Thick rimmed glasses judge your book jacket
and a scarf from across the room sneers at your shoes,
this is not a place to lock eyes.

5.
Fidgeting again.
Cool walls hold back ash
the fires are still burning.
My radio plays a soft tune
some 1920's voice.
At this moment
I wish to be there
to open my eyes and see nothing
but a typewriter and an ashtray.
I want to look out the window
and see a sparse Los Angeles
free from traffic
dripping with youth.
I want to bump into three piece suits
private dicks
and women in furs.

6.
I sit at attention;
coffee, chocolate and mind
close at hand.
Like a small boy before thanksgiving dinner
poised for the massacre.
My pen is readied as his fork is raised
and when our customs are done,
his grace and my candy bar,
we will both carve into our task at hand.