Three Trees

not writing for weeks makes everything ooze out my pores in the morning, before the birds have even awoken. no bursting or busting or bleeding, just slowly escaping as each butt is burned out in the secret jewelry case ash tray. i wear camels and marlboros on my skin like charm bracelets and diamond rings hidden in perfume. i wonder how they sparkle in the sun when i look away to fake an emotion he'd rather see on the street instead of twirled in pillows and something warm, quietly drifting down curves where rich satins will never touch, but it's okay right because we're artists and all we need is love. and a piece of paper that says i'm good enough to the world. and three trees in our backyard to make it look just right to the neighbors and our family members. and two point five children. and a dog. and a cat. and luxurious fabrics my thighs will never touch.

Vieques: the palms always the sound of rain.

Airlock: It's all about humidity.

Newark - 10:47

smogsmogsmog smogsm smo ogsmog
mogsmogsmogs gsmogsmogsmog mogsmogsmogsmog
smogsmo sm ogsmog mogsmogsmogsmog

i tried to show you haze

Even the early bird doesn't know what 4AM looks like.

preparation:

we have reached the twelve hour countdown, minus forty minutes or so.

in my hand is negra modelo, and this is a beer I fisrt experienced
mixed with tequila at a mexican restaruant in the city across from
the mueseum where the dragon skeletons linger and the old men
with their beards are in glass cases and walk naked hand in hand.

it was probably the worst drink i've ever had. it wasprobably the best
meal i have ever had with th ebest company, the most beautiful woman

mexico has become puerto rico and the bus leaves tomorrow;
we hit the plane; we hit the tarmac; we hit the clouds; we hit
the jungle.

typhoid and dengu fever

company.

channeling hunter s. thompson by doing rumshots.

streaming mobile

for three weeks,
posting on the run
once a day, live
from puerto rico

"A Huge Body Count"

Sex fiend trapped in a bottle yells, give me one chance to make a difference, all I need are pants around ankles and a tree to lean against.
Satiate bent toes and staccato groans, the first time you don’t come home and no one goes looking for you.
Fourhundredandsixtytwo bees regurgitated in my Oregano tea this morning, and I just want to know, how do you like your brown-eyed girl now, Mr. Death? And I just want to know, why did he vomit?
Brown bottles don't break against the edge of the table, never make a weapon worthy of quick thrusts and quicker deaths.
Hanging off your moustache, my neck is longer by the second. I’ll reach the tallest fruit in your tree and pluck it with my mouth.
He had a box of vulvae, none which kept their charm. And over time, he lost his mind and caused himself some harm.
It isn’t as scandalous as she made it out to be, the sudden gasp, the loss of breath, and waiting there to see, if my eyes would show guilt or intrigue with my crime, the ultimate invader, stealing other’s time.
It was good to know that cockiness will almost always lead to punishment. The strutting proud, the highbrow few, who waste and squander life, with wrinkles and disinterest meet a lonely time of strife.
So she cut it short, a skull, a face, chap lips and oily skin, another night with bottle friends and no conversation. She crossed her legs and bowed her head and took to counting freckles. Within each spot, another star, a part of constellations and she a universe to behold, in the lead paint tent she paced in.

Sudden Bravado

Here I am, gearing up:

i am dreaming a story
about a man on one side
with a man on the other
and it ends in death as all
these sort of stories do.

i've heard that this is an
immature way to discover
the world but how else does
one know? these are little things
and well, and well, and well,
i don't konw.

in a field there is a cow
and she is baying and she
is sobbing her eyes out.

sherlock holmes discovered
the hound of the baskervilles
was (spoiler alert) a dog
painted phosphorescent
but he didn't realzie the
love of his life was standing
behind him all along

i cut my finger filling my
car with gasoline, and pumped
myself full; now i feel ready
to explode into flame.

this is all i have to tell you;
you should read into yourself more

On a Day Like Today

Buzz, buzz, buzz. Chamomile company. Brown sleeves and chipped polish. I've got plans for your memory, where you never say no.

earthworm eyebrows

she's got chili-pepper lips and earthworm eyebrows and belongs in in the dirt, her toes like roots and her fingers like vines. she'd have him water her with white wine and she'd be happy down there with the bugs and the core that's sometimes too warm, but mostly it's just right.

he won't put her in the ground 'cause he says it's morbid, like he's burying her. he doesn't like thinking about death and wants her to stay beautiful. death and dirt ain't beautiful. she's not in love with him but instead it's the way he says hello that she can't let go. it's funny 'cause he never asked her to stay she's just got no other place to be.

so she goes and sits in the garden in her white nightgown and sinks her toes into the dirt and pretends she's growing like a weed. it hasn't rained yet, but it will and when it does, she'll be ready. she'll open her mouth and drink it all down and and she'll leave that nightgown behind. she'll leave it all behind and year later when the garden grows there will be these little nightgown plants and she'll remember the rain and think maybe it's time to leave again.