Greys Anatomy Baby (poem)

I want to cut you open
play in your vitals.
i want to run my hands through your blood stream, and squeeze your heart like a loaf of bread, and smell it.
i want to remove your eyes and put them in a dark room
ask you if you can see
what's in there.
i want to use you esophagus  as a straw, and drink freshly poured coca cola, pausing only to rub salt
in deeper.
i want to
hear your mind crack before you ask me
why.
And I don't want to answer.
I want to bend your bones backwards, hearing them
snnnnnnnnnnnap
like dry sticks in a wet towel.
(your skin is a wet towel)
i want to ice skate over pavement using your kidneys as ice blades.
i think it will work.
i want to wrap your hair around my throbbing manhood, pull
twice, always twice down
and groan in simple, mute pleasure, my
Greys Anatomy Darling.

(prose)

Another day, the hours between whenever i get up (normally around noon) to four p.m., spent lazing around. The world is in full swing, I'm secluded at the shelter, that weird limbo of suburbia that we've come to depend on for safety, security, and warmth.
Decided to listen to Tool w/just the sound from the needle. the voices, usually powerful complaints about sobriety, women, society become chipmunk squeaks, albeit very complex and talented chipmunk squeaks. Wish you knew how to sing. Wish to fuck that you knew how to do much of anything. But it's not a bad feeling. A drifting apathy floats on the days right now, the haze of -non-writing-just-jotting-ideas, giving myself a cool down period, leading to half asleep, mad, or caffinated scribbling in my notebooks between breaks from slinging topsoil, pretending that the name badge saying CARL Always Low Prices doesn't really matter. Seems as though someone refuses to wear the HOW CAN I HELP YOU vest. Maybe because i like hearing the question do you work here, maybe to hear myself say that I'm not the mindless robot of everyone else. i like to believe that I'm different. But afternoon apartment life tells me otherwise.
I feel, overall, like a cat. soft furry belly stretched out to meet the world.
In orbit around a moon, private moon, lamp post light up my eyes. Drinking cheap beer, sitting on the curb outside my apartment. talking on the phone, feeling better, fighting off that old sickness that riles up occasionally. Thinking about the sleeping, sexing couples, wasting time on sheets, instead of reading Dune on the front steps of the apartment complex. People drive up; people drive down, they look, what's so bizarre about seeing a person read in broad daylight, when instead he could be watching TV? What's the deal with that guy who's always outside at night, at one thirty in the morning, sitting on his car hood, looking off easterly? Shouldn't he be inside?


no.

I feel fat, and butter knife dull. But for the first time since i discovered i was absorbing the world head on in the cross country bus, I'm
content.
and ain't that a bitch?

(prose)

thinking about the subtle, undeclared act of war between two people, ultimately not being anything at all, just the right place at the right time.

swish
swish
swish
(the sound of the broom, over concrete floors)

I imagine other people, dearfully departed This is the Queens court, dressed to kill, ready to do so at a glance, a wave of the hand, break your heart in two, drive your mind to want that blissful drunken stupor, wreck your car on the way back, in course between a Ford and a guardrail. The driver embroidered in crushed metal, oldies station, their own blood and bone.

swish
swish
swish

(but before we bring you the latest in roadside horror, we bring you this: the last thoughts)

The diamonds on my windshield are really just rain drops. The wheel feels loose beneath my hands, almost like it has a will of its own
(angels don't fly at 85 miles per hour)
as it jumps under my hands; like a popcorn kernel, or that goddamned clitoris on a woman
(but devils run that fast)
I seem to find myself this position often, way too often. This really isn't about heartbreak, misery, rejection. And sure, why should it not be. Every day
(the small bile filled hiccups of drinking, momentarily unfocused. The world snaps back into Technicolor, and a car breaks suddenly. Swerve; another bile hiccup, the rising free buffet)
every day can't be about someone, or something, relating to the state of affairs. Existing outside of the restless soul, I used to write poetry about it, now i write nothing, just cleaning up piles of papers and dirty clothes that gather on the dirty floor. Not feeling anything.
vvvVVVVVVVVRRRRRBBbbbbb
The direct psychic hotline into this 6 cylinder engine. It goes where i want it to. I remember watching my father doing this, he's still alive, he used to think, oh, fuck, what did he think about this, something about trying ones luck with the fates, trying to prove that God really loves you, after awhile.
(the passing car lights leave beautiful blue and yellow streaks, all pointed at him. Not knowing who's in the other cars, just a beautiful driver up front, she knows where SHE'S going)
Shit. I can't help it. I can't help but smell alcohol, listening the Champaign laugh, feeling the mild, excited darting tongue. My mouth tastes like metal where it used to sneak in when least expecting.
swish
swish
swish
(in his minds eye, he sees the hidden kiss there, on the dance floor, the exploring hands, gentle, groping. In his eye, the diamond studded/rain soaked image of the two women in the middle of the road. Dancing, grinding. They seem to stay ten feet in front of him at all time, dancing in the middle of the street. maybe their having a strange romantic moment, there, in the middle of the wet, cold road. They turn, look RIGHT AT THE DRUNK FORM OF RICHARD, now IN FRONT OF HIM, and he swerves, across the median, into oncoming traffic)
impact has been reached. what the fuck?
car spins, front end meets headlong into the guardrail. Airbags have failed to inflate. Richard like to live dangerously, or wanted to that night. The seatbelt was suffocating him, anyway.

dreeeeam, dream dream dream, dreeeeeam, dream dream dream, when i see you...whenever i want you all i have to do, is dream...

diamonds on the windshield became millions, airborne, hitting the ground. Safety glass is so romantic. The actual ring is in his glove compartment, nestled safely between a flashlight, and his registration. He wanted her to wear it tonight. And every night. What a sense of timing.
swish
swish
swish

I wonder if Elisabeth stopped from her unplanned enjoyment, looked up at the ceiling, covered in those glow in the dark sticky stars. i wonder if she wondered what had just happened. I wonder if the brunette tugged her hair gently back toward her face. I wonder if she complied.

Richards funeral was January Fifth, Two thousand Three. I imagine the diggers had a time of the grave; the ground was frozen solid. During the service, his face looked a off kilter. The makeup was cheap, and had a peculiar smell. Same sandy hair, same thin lips, same roman nose. I believe behind those eyelids were the same eyes, filled with passionate gray, with green flecks.

swish
swish
swish

damn shame. damn, damn, damn shame. poor Richard. I suppose that's the last time i go ring shopping with someone.

swish
swish
swish

"Sir, can you help me?"