One of Those Dreams

I’m driving. No. I’m cruising. On 280. Alone. In the driver’s seat wearing my sunglasses that don’t really filter out any sunlight anyway, let alone UV rays.
But I don’t care. There are hardly any other cars on the road—or maybe I just don’t notice. I feel light and free, like I’m just gliding on the asphalt.
Smooth, effortless asphalt.
One hand on the wheel, the other arm on the car door propping my head up, I glance detachedly at the speedometer. I’m going 80. 90. 95. 150. 200…
I can’t stop.
I’m going fast. Too fast. Out of control.
I take my foot off the gas, but I just keep going faster. 250. 300. 325.350.400…
I am panicking. No other cars. No people. No police.
But I’m panicking. Like I’m expecting it. Anticipating it.
What is “it”? “It” is a brick wall. A big, red one.
And it came out of nowhere. In the middle of 280.
And in a split second I am going to hit it.
It's one of those dreams.

Jamie and Chris first met the night Stanford defeated USC

The chaos of my Language
My touch
My senses
Eat at
What I want
What urges
My Life
To continue...
each Step
Heavier to lift the leg
Step forward
and continue on...
through the Rubbage
that remains - vacant
yet Crowded by the homeless
Thought, which beggs
For sympathy & nourishment
From my bleeding hands
Which can offer nothing
But the pain you so seem
to want
to live through, even though
Nothing Remains
Take my small, childish hand
in Yours and walk me
through my broken mind
until we find the Light
In my wasteland of darkness
That is my mind
My Soul

Insufficient the Merely Decent Man

I sit

And wait

For the day when I

Am not paralyzed

By the party-affiliation box

On a voter registration form

Or

I do not have to qualify

My belief in God.

For

My back hurts,

And this chair

Does little to support me.

Questionably Unworthy of Post Number One

I was born so long ago
That I can hear sometimes
The way above me, slowly,
Cold water smoothly glides...

-insert disclaimer here-
[for some reason, my poem refuses to appear in white font.. try highlighting it with your mouse?]

Come.
Let us rape the garden; I hear
their apples' moon milk flesh might
lick my bare wounds
Shut.
Come.
You can be the neon dripping,
muscle-tearing ravage flavor of the peach.
Like the sun-son.
Strike
with your sickeningly standard physiochemical
form, human.
Come.
The heaven's drenched with silent stars,
my poison swims so poignantly to clothe
the lamps in mist.
Grasp.
I want your paranormal laughter.
Come. Our witch brews amber blood tonight, bronze syrup,
liquor,
liquid jam--regardless, I am floating,
death in doses is my rebel ecstasy.
Walk
the fallen corpses of the ancients,
Breathe raw pine, feathery birch skin,
Trace the ideal-less curve of my prison.
Come.
Whisper not the truth. Lithe rain echoes
too scalding pure. Instead,
soak me in illusions, partner.
Come.
We both prefer the glossy green to
rancid pink indulgence. Let the refreshing sour
bite
drown you. In doses,
our witch brews sickeningly
standard neon dripping moon milk death.
Come.