head in the clouds

they tell me i've got places to go.
i listen to acoustic covers of
over-sexualized eighties gods and
wondering if beethoven ever wanted lyrics
for his lyricism
there are rocks in my shoes
and pits in my chest. i have been eaten away.
i would like to recycle, to save the earth
but it's hard to have more than
one dream. there are electric trains
round-trip flights, automobiles
but they are all wrong.
why do they tell me i've got places to go?
all i have are places to be.

we interrupt the daily broadcast...

...To direct you towards places where you can buy my short story, "Number Theory", which has recently been published in eBook form by Untreed Reads:

The best place to buy from (i.e. the place that gives me the most money):
Straight from the publisher!

These places are cool, too:
Smashwords
1romanceEbooks. Yeah. (please appreciate that it's listed under "ManLove")
AllRomanceEbooks
OmniLit!
Scribd

If you insist on buying from the Apple iBookstore or the Amazon eBookstore (or some other esoteric webstore), you can wait a bit.

and now back to other, cooler stuff.

miles from nowhere

my feet were broken, hot
two lights, your eyes, spun in
place and returned my gaze
your dare was more than literary
my solar plexus more than empty
you ask, "why are you so destroyed?"
but only hurricanes destroy. water erodes.

the slight push against the door
sent me someplace erotic as you
unburdened me, pulled out my vitals and
said, "here, this is what you're looking for."
and you wouldn't have been wrong
but i get the feeling
you weren't exactly right.

your shoulders will peel next week
like scabs on fifth-graders' knees

oh, dana

sitting on a window-ledge
a shadow told me of my past
and i, i listened rapt with wonder
as shadow dear my life uncovered
"who are you to kill your foes?"
"who are you to think you know?"
the shadow stared and left me blind
i took his light, he took my eyes

why do we hide on windowsills?
the shadow laughed and held my neck
his voice was coarse, i held my breath
"i have no answers, little friend
your eyes are yours, your eyes are new.
why would i, a shadow old, corrupt a thing so bold and true?"
i had no answer, i was dumb
i sat and wondered, sipped some rum.

not so old

i'm burying treasure, i'm going
away. i'm building you houses
in exotic locales. there are shrines
to your honor, grass at your feet
and i'm meters away, no, miles
from the point you all meet.

and i wonder why i

--and on the subject of
touching oneself (on foreheads
with ashes and other places)
i find it repulsive that the
deep greens of your best days are
so muddled by the bright reds of your
worst vulgarities. your verisimilarities.
do you get the feeling that
there's too much pressure
in your head?
have you tried to open your mouth
(let some of the pressure out?)

when you were younger
-- that phrase seems out of
place, you were still an adult,
dead flies would find their way
onto your thighs, into your
wide-open, silent-screaming mouth
every time you fell asleep.
or maybe i put them there.
i'll never know. some things
are so mutable.

but deep below (in all the places
that might be touched)
i can hear the rumbling of
a life discontented, a residing
belief that my platitudes and attitude
are all coming full-circle.
with this frown, i'll have wrinkles at twenty-five.

fragile

in the last days of the journey
of white through water,
over the sulfuric acid mountains
and deep forest clouds
beneath eons of frustration and guilt
a deep black pall of silt covered the dreamer
like a blanket for a baby
or a cocoon for a full-grown boy.