Something Different

I know there hasn’t been any Trek coverage for a while. It’s coming. In the mean time, I’ve been harassed for a while about putting some award nominated poetry up. Here you go, hungry masses.

 

Death And Other Distractions

Pull down your lower lip and look at your teeth.

It’s like a sideways curtain, opening to show a

row of kerosene dipped cotton balls, stained from

a cup of coffee in the morning and Diet Coke and

whiskey at night in front of the television.

The plaque is especially noticeable on your lower

canines, a half golden ring of shame.

Smile with your mouth half closed, expose your

crooked incisors to the apathetic movie attendant.

A pity you couldn’t have cared a little more.

And you’re only 20 fucking years old.

 

Take off your shirt and look at your navel,

The last outpost of your belly atop the hill

of stored fat that steeply declines to your hips.

Look at those six stretch marks, six pink

and purple roads, the product of Starbursts,

growing from squat to tall. From fat and

awkward to average and unassuming. Reason

not to swim, a reason not to work out.

And you’re only 20 fucking years old.

 

Take off your pants and look at your pubes.

Look at the humanity’s last line of defense

from shame, a veritable wall of dark trees,

an evolution of Adam’s leaf. Think of how

you see two on the bed after you fuck her,

the way the tail is gray and white and know

it’s a shame because she is not your girlfriend

or the girl in the library with the almond eyes

and know that you are already forgotten.

And you’re only 20 fucking years old.

 

Apartment Complex

The morning bells go off like

bullets breaking glass

 

spitting fear as the radio made of teeth alerts me

to news of cultural sodomy and that at 8,

the doctor and the animal will play the Friday Morning Fart Song.

 

The door is like ice, whistling as it

shatters and splinters into my hand.

Rooms smell like waste, incense and saffron,

neighbors want Asian, but don’t realize it

all just tastes like sand.

 

My bones feel like eating Cheerios sounds

and I crunch as the knob turns.

 

The top floor is Staraya, Russia by way of

Homer, I wade through

the snow and shattered shields to the stairs.

 

No, the sand. It’s all just fucking sand.

 

Doo do do do do doo do do do do do

do do do do doo whoododo

Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side,

I said hey sugar, take a walk on the wild side.

 

Words reverberate through the halls

spat by the bantery couple who argue everyday.

He’s easy to ignore for me

and his girlfriend, who sleeps

with my leper roommate,

 

whose arm falls off during sex

because he’s not wearing a condom.

 

On a fuzzy screen, a broadcaster, says

“Live TV is like sex, almost better

when everything goes wrong.”

 

Her smoky words of indifference

make my lungs sting and my heart hurt

 

like my sister, born in a Canton abortion clinic.

 

I sink through cracks in the floor, my body folds

Into the slivers of entropy and

I reassemble in front of a door,

 

Because Jack has no other choice

 

and I am ready to watch the cannibal girl sit in the kitchen while her parents will

masturbate in separate rooms,

until the moon changes to steel.

 

She eats nothing but meaty Skittles and weeps

 

Because she knows that everyone’s first

when all the line’s leaders are last.

 

As she laughs, I retreat

zum Ausgang, wo die Könige weinen Regel

and the door asks Are you ready?

There is nothing for you there.

Head shakes no,

Handle twists and

 

I step outside into the morning

where the moon is shining metallic.