I set my alarm to take the chemo.
I shouldn’t have called her…
I set my alarm to take the chemo.
I shouldn’t have called her…
My attention is a bowl,
Every distraction a freshly
Washed grape jumping frenzied—
Slippery in its will to explore—
Bouncing off any surface.
As when a man on Wilshire Boulevard
Unburdened his head of a Dodgers cap—
Hair oils and sweat tie-dyed
Its discolored blue—
Frisbeeing it on the grassy verge
Delineating the realm of the walking and driving,
And I worried less about whether or not
He would jerk his cock out in time
To burst on the agave leaves,
And more about the sharp
Of its needles perforating
His uncircumcised flesh, blood-gush
As teeth through grape-skin.
It came out as the rain
That falls whenever it wants to
Not went it’s most needed;
People in cars swerved, unnerved.
In my 33 and a third years
Of living in LA,
I never bothered
To spend money on rain boots.
I overheard another man
Tell his blonde girlfriend:
What else do you think people do
When they move to LA to find a job?
Before he could sip his coffee,
A cyclist zoomed by sneakily,
Too chickenshit to ride on the road.
To wonder why I care about it all—
The neglected that hides,
The hidden that wants to be forgotten,
And the forgotten that wants
Nothing more than to be noticed again—
Is my struggle to look away, and still look;
Too see what I can see, yet remain unseen.
How easy it seemed to empty
Yourself of your innermost waste
On the sidewalk for all to see—
Yet as empty as you’d walk away,
The bowl would always be full of fruit.
You want me to be a good boy;
You want me to keep a secret;
You want me to just try it;
You want me to trust you completely when you completely mistrust;
You want me to choose;
You want me to be as faithful as I’ve been unfaithful;
You want me to lie to myself to live your truth;
You want me to be as bad as you;
You want me to come;
You want me to figure you out;
You want me to forgive you for things you haven’t done but will even though you know we’ve been there before;
You want me to abort preconceived notions of you;
You want me to take it;
You want me to like it;
You want me to chase after you when you’re too afraid of saying what you really think;
You want me to believe that you don’t say what you want to say because you fear regret, even though your silence hurts more than words it fails to suppress;
You want me to be as good as you think yourself to be;
You want me to be the bigger person;
You want me to accept your apologies, all your apologies regardless of how unnecessarily stupid they are;
You want me to be thankful for your all understanding, all-encompassing compassion to bypass my flaws, all of my flaws;
You want me to beg;
You want me to watch what I say;
You want me to shut up;
You want me to forget how childish you can be when it comes to playing games;
You want me to fix you with love even though you’re the one who does all the breaking;
You want me to be me;
You want me to be like you;
You want me inside of you;
You want me to be yours;
You want the me that isn’t me.Read more "2 POEMS – Jose Luis Oseguera"
Crumbling Values Disruptions to city life are only noticed when they inconvenience people. Explosions, acts of terror, other extreme occurrences get everyone’s attention. A few try to help, some sympathize, many ignore the event a minor distraction as long as it doesn’t affect them and continue normal routines indifferent to the suffering of others.Read more "CRUMBLING VALUES – GARY BECK"
“Look at my pussy,
it’ll make you feel better”
she said, as she stood
in the shower, one leg in
tub, the other up on
the ledge, her hand
parting her lips as she
smiled: a few moments
earlier I had noticed a text
come through her phone
from her dealer, picked it up
and scrolled through the
message history: she assured
me it was her friend who
had used her phone to text
him about fucking and what
not, and that she would
never cheat on me: later
that night I found out she
was lying: I thought of her pussy
but it didn’t make me feel better.Read more "FEEL BETTER – DAVID BOSKI"
The Mundanity of Chronic Illness
when i say that i don’t want to live like this, it’s not an idle suicide threat
it’s just that i’m tired of my life exploding
little explosions and big explosions
not just my life, but my brain
my kidneys are fine for now, thank you
because someone (hollywood?) must think bipolar is so exciting
not the days when you can’t string three words together but go to work anyways with the other ten stuck in the cosmos
not the evenings alone at the kitchen table because you have alienated the other three
not the tremor or dizziness or running into walls or the stupid snakes
that aren’t snakes but (my doctor says) might be a tumor but it isn’t a tumor because I’ve been dealing with this shit too long
not the fear that the only things that have worked are not working
the scars on my body are not exciting
the incompetence is not exciting
the ways i’ve let everyone down – still not exciting
yesterday the phlebotomist told me her mom is taking such a high dose she doesn’t know if it’s still her mom
i didn’t say that maybe she is more herself
i didn’t say that there are no angels
no self, just
ions, synapses, protein
codes that don’t get screwed up, just passed down
which is unbelievably pointless
i want to open my brain from the base of my skull and pull out the snakes
hollywood would love itRead more "The Mundanity of Chronic Illness – Lindsay Ballew"
ROLES OF PROVOCATION Winded, I can barely raise my head. Grieving strains like gravity. I lean on my desk, keys twirling on one finger, slapping into my palm. The outer window previews carnival propulsion, the integrity of the Ferris Wheel distinct through a desert sky. Samaritans at a safe distance place 911 calls and side […]Read more "ROLES OF PROVOCATION – R.T. Castleberry"
ON A THEME FROM BRECHT
Wisdom was passed on from mouth to mouth.
And wisdom was passed on from mouth to mouth
in soft kisses, quickly lost, like music
from her piano. Windows let notes out
last night (and it was the last night) and you ran
after them with your net. Then starry air
found its way back into your open mouth.
Your tongue brushed her wisdom as it landed
on fact. Her candle out, the smoking wick
a token of wisdom from her mouth’s lair.