Purging the Thick Sticky American Plight

It's been weeks since I've watched the explosions
plume into petals, blooming crimson and pears
like soft spears, cape and muster
this cup of sour mash whiskey
that holds glaciers cracked and hollow,
shell-like frozen cases,
pools of bitter dandelion yellow swirls
fall down past my tongue, until my spine cracks
and I wish I was elsewhere.
Too coherent for a night like this,
and here I am writing.
Typical.
I need a gun, and some sultry music.
Pretend we were back in the hallway,
trading looks, maybe morals.
Too late, for I am already molded
into a steel that only bends in the backseat.

Seoul food.

It's not the patterns on the shirt,
it's the type of fabric.

Don't let anyone touch your hair,
they'll bite you way too fast.

If you wonder about her state,
you will need more bricks
to grind your teeth on.

I will stop thinking about the surge
for we are becoming too weak
to hold our hats on our heads.

I should ditch her more.
Be a real man. Wow, that's
pathetic.
She believes in shitmen.

I write to get clean.

How it happens

I need a few things:
coffee, silence, peace
rest and study.
To become a scholar
you must first pretend
to be one.

Smiling Towards the Swamps of Jersey

I often think about drowning
in the black arms of the ocean,
with icebergs obtuse and unforgiving
enough irony to blind a rescue team,
ice stitched shut harbors
no echo
no
echo
"Echo?"
No echo.