Stranger Poems

i. not knowing chaos I read flowers as mathematical phenomena and feel the science of what makes us breathe too complex to question

ii. knowing not chaos but some bargained calm of a half-day’s meditation the spine breathes along its length     Transpiring, the mindless evaporates

the 3 AM debacle tires her vision already jumping from ambulance rushes to lower body kisses to the oily glow of ageless faces –– grains of sand nestle in her diminishing plucks of eyelash whose mascara was lost to tears that cannot obscure the color of the infected eyeball, oozing with yellow suffocation under clear shelled dome of artificial sight, allowing her sleepless mind to see more of the wretched peers of her generation, rustily nailed to the fates of their failing livers and short-circuited brains –– who live emptily beyond 3 AM, who survive like vampires and feed on their own metalless blood, sharing their crimson grin for more junk

at exactly seven she wakes with eleven shocks of eyeballs rolling to consciousness filled with the pretty skeleton of a white he-angel smelling of vodka snores –– she catches a late sunrise below his waistband which has gathered a morning ocean of perspiration pouring out the pores breathing in lazy comfort too happy to wake from the jaybird’s song –– like a duvet the angel cuddles her also too happy to shake up for day

the bedroom tribes stay behind wooden doors all day content with the sky above the balcony (stashed with money to blow on room service and lost adaptors) –– they paint their war face with sweat, howl their chant in pants, weave their pubic hair in beads, wipe cum on the well-thumbed pages of the night stand Bible, for which wet hands cross and pray that love shall not betray

cocktails upon cocktails of medicine prescriptions sunset orange pill bottles plastic pollution to the planet’s 70% to the brain’s 100% –– mouths water for the melting fizz boiling the ocean surface frying the cerebral cortex

I put on my glasses to look for the vinaigrette –– where is the vinaigrette?! Dónde está la salsa para mi ensalada –– here is a bowl of garden greens stale and barely edible like orchids coated in pesticides I smell pizza and pasta but here’s to a pre-drink cleanse –– salad it is!

Romayo loves pussy, Romayo loves ass –– you love what you can’t have

tomayto –– beer –– tomahto potayto –– beer –– potahto split mind –– Jekyll and Hyde Philly boy / Aussie mate / China-                                                       man of HK monster sex with cheese dick / surfer cock / slanted                                                      stalk potayto –– shots –– potahto tomayto –– shots –– tomahto

on a sun bed of water cans in a rocking truck coughing a cat of fur, purring from sickness, a pulmonary sneeze, lungs of tuberculosis boring a tube of pain pleading for a drip of morphine to clear an oasis for maniacs to recover from this infected chest leading the stricken body to death

limbs feel like noodles, numb dough appendages to the cold core –– trudging along is time, trekking tiresomely up the godless steeple worshipping the depleted body like a temple where hours blend with the translucent glaze of Heineken queueing up behind Jack Daniels absolutely hallucinating the tequila sunrise of Malibu with the chill shocks of Finlandia creeping the skeleton hung over the wailing railings of an afternoon balcony: loose legs and aching arms           sinking in a soup of waste,                                wasted

cruising in style –– no Harry no Beiber, no Ke$ha –– only music that matters to the drinking daughters of golden daddies who play Frank Sinatra behind sensual sipping of Blue Hawaiian, sweet rum aloha from lipsticked mouths –– who at night bring their girls dancing with flight in bones –– no tropical fungi but psychedelic mushrooms that in the morning leave lemon skin itching for more kicks back to paradise searching for the zest in life that lives in silk dresses twirling with drink and lifting in love  

finding the way to self, the right way, my way –– wrong, stuck in transition between x and y lady and boy –– cannot Google translate sex, oscillating between genders      non-     binary still Homo sapiens, an animal –– desiring the jade stalk of another while despising my own rod raw for pleasure that loosens the pink ring, accepting penis to butthole flamboyant like a flamingo endangered by scrutinization strutting to find the way to self, the only way, my way –– rightly myself.

feverish friends fat w/ fish & fried rice, happy to be care-free tourists cooked in summer heat,                            alive

every atom of this skeleton spins with electricity, three(3) sixty(60) with the yellow star beating 40 degrees and the horizon marking the circumference of my skull vibrating with music and walking on the setting sun, floating on cotton candy clouds with sweet water oozing from a desiring mouth & yearning thighs, mad like erratic electrons spilling love like songs in these bones, swimming

leather and chains wound around the vagabond soul twitching for adventure, bewitched, now witching for a broom to sweep through the revolving doors of fate like a gun, and boom! go, going –– seeking the next hit of novelty through the streets of concrete encased with the remains of light souls –– sinking, then lifted to the homebound road, yet still restless and itching for motion, moving, going –– gone

I can’t quite picture Claire smoking weed at a green table with her feet dirtied up on a chair without a care –– sure it’s Thailand & one man is down from heat and over-hydration of drink & drink but Claire needs sleep and a mind clean for a fair jaw so keep on drinking a jug of milk and ditch that pot of wine no drink in & no smoke out, the jungle of mind must clear, find cla(i)r(e)ity