technically delicious flowers

something similar to rain.
(something unworthy?) something
unwarranted & un-
awake. something to sleep for
& on (say “bed”)(say “divorce
from & of feeling”) from meaning-
lessness? from me to you
to me? something from
& for something else
— someone else. air

flowing through
clasping fingers, grasping
eyes. listening for
& from the meaning
(-lessness?)
of music. something
incomprehensible, invisible, in-
awake: o uneven tower
of black & broken levels...
o let it
fall through grasp...

lullaby

echoes through subway tunnel
tracks click click click into place
rhythm rhythm rhythm
psychic dance of dust
lamps illuminate steel train
bent against
the breaks shriek-shriek
lullaby of steel streaks swiping
plastic escape
an opening
a vanishing
windows windows windows

who’s the loudest of all
—fastest strongest strangest

break down the dark
silent spinning spinning spinning
the halted-wheels
on on on

excerpt (beginning of a longer poem I'm working on)

I am for an end,
a close of closing scene, the sun
downing a day’s dullness,
covers to cover skin,
skin to cover bones,
bones to cover me.

I am for the world,
for the morning before,
throwing plates at clouds, claiming
victory over calamity.
Eyes closed, I see the obvious.

For sleeplessness.
For I want to begin
with restless hesitation,
and I want to end
with capitals and a title.

New publications, etc.

Greetings all!

Zygote in My Coffee #127 went live today, and I've got two poems in the issue: Glue for Broken Promises and Breath is a Scam. People who read my blog would also probably like Ross Vassilev's poem, upon realizing things will never get any better. I like the grittiness and desperation in the poem.

Anyway, yesterday I got accepted into the honors writing program at the New School. This means I can take a whole array of advanced writing and literature courses, as well as attend lots of exclusive readings. The program also gives me a $4,000 grant in my final year, when I will be compiling my "thesis project" (i.e. a poetry manuscript). Getting into the program also means I now have a chance to work for 12th Street, the program's prestigious lit journal.

So things are looking up. I plan on submitting a lot of my new poetry to journals sometime soon (I've already started to an extent), so that way you all can see what I've been up to. From the bits and pieces I've posted here, you can probably tell how much my writing has changed / is changing. Nonetheless, I plan on staying the course and continuing to get better :)

Farewell all!

where do we go when we go to sleep?

slices of your head on my chest
ask for a darker dream,
a dream to take us

where there are no last names,
no eyes flickering
like broken bulbs, a poem unflolding

into an endless hallway, losing
it within. closed eyes stopped
like bottles. a shadow
inside of blue inside of blue. where
do when we go
to sleep? it is

a closet deep
enough nothing fits inside. a memory
of memorial for nothing
happening. where
do we go when we go...? it came
last night, wrote
sleep’s airport
to soar my name
through a spectral postcard. Thursday & Friday
bled like colors,
scammed darkness black to black.

I
for one
am unlikely to survive,
charming to those
easily charmed. my smile’s
blue as ocean.
my happiness, salt.

My skinless lover

smashes a saucer flat, the dirt
spheres lunge through her fingers. It’s
fat Philomena, hair knotted with GHB, le transvestite de wet sand circles up the water bong,
weeping to terror-on-ice as the songs
devolve, the walrus-boys’ riffs restart, she snaps
like rotting fingers off
the Rolling Stones. And not mixed-up
midnight—not void
of silence nor xylophones.
Christmas,
she’s just a boob-less
cubist caricature, so many
dumbly demolished pianos—you fucking kidding me?
—my microscopic matchmaker, her,
cold as night and brain-freeze passion
freeze-dried to feed a famished astronaut
or a bullshit Northern Star:
soft kisses, do-it-yourself lullabies. She swallows
a penis, a poem—
a vast vat of radiation. Gravity
goes down with her, switch set low,
and she’s off—
a rocket to the moon.

Spectrum Blues

Blue balloon boy, blue-beds, blue
in moan-like soft
radio blue
set to blues. Or Other: Blue
unworthy sky. Blue
afraid of cats, of blue funerals (blue death?
why fear).

Museum Of Blue (death?
why not).
Blue eyes shut-down blues—blue
dark, simple blue—blue remainder
of blue below. Below

all blue. Believe it
(or not)
yours truly vomits blues—
believes “man in blue moon”
as blue as you
—him?—
not android blue but invisible too...

(blue death?
why ask)
As blue is not to blue.
Or also blue? Like me?
—or still?—still blue?—

Un-blue (death?

why certainly) Get it, Blue?
Period blue? Yes?
(Say no.)
Never, never blue. Don’t-speak-it-blue.
go on, go on...

(and on? and... and yellow?...)