I MAN SPLAY by Colton T. Deck a Creative Project Submitted To

MAN SPLAY

Colton T. Deck

A creative project submitted to

Sonoma State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements

for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

English

Gillian Conoley

Stefan Kiesbye

April 30, 2018

Colton Deck

ii AUTHORIZATION FOR REPRODUCTION OF MASTER’S PROJECT

I grant permission for the print or digital reproduction of this project in its entirety, without further authorization from me, on the condition that the person or agency requesting reproduction absorb the cost and provide proper acknowledgment of authorship.

Date: 4/30/2018 Colton Deck

619 Van Ness Avenue

Torrance, CA 94928

iii MAN SPLAY

Creative Project by

Colton Deck

ABSTRACT

Man Splay is a book of poems that observes and explores the current state of masculinity in America in order to open an uncomfortable dialogue between “masculine” men. Through exploring gender divides, socio-political states, and Deck’s personal experience of attempting to find his own definition of masculinity, the poems navigate uncomfortable subject matter that can’t be ignored by those with a shared experience. The book of poems is broken up into three sections, “Brownie Points,” “Women I’ve Not Known,” and “Best Friends and Emotional Gore.” Each of the sections focuses on specific aspects of masculinity. “Brownie Points” focuses on being a man of color in modern America, “Women I’ve Not Known” shines a light on masculine constructs of romance, and “Best Friends and Emotional Gore” explores Deck’s own male experience in dealing with the grief of loss, and harsh family dynamics.

Chair: Gillian Conoley April 30, 2018

MA Program: English Sonoma State University

iv Man Splay, A Critical Introduction

Through my deep dive into the constructs of what makes a “man,” I hope to blend the personal and public in a way that welcomes the reader into my experiences of masculinity. While focusing on political aspects of manhood, given the current gender divides in our country, I engage and spread myself over a vast variety of social spheres and hope to open a dialogue that can help define what a “man” is in the current socio-political climate. It would be a lie to say I alone have come up with this idea of exploration.

Over the course of my studies, many great writers, poets and musicians have inspired me to become a more active part of society through poetry. Reading Camus, Komunyakaa, Shepard, and many more has dictated the path of my collection of work in the sense that they all have unique aspects I have borrowed to create a certain type of vulnerability in my work that does not rely on the compliance or agreement of the reader, but rather the opposite. In giving more control to the reader, I hope to shrug the weight of the word “poetry,” and extend an invitation to those who wish to engage in a dialogue concerning the modern definition of “masculinity” that is devoid of the stereotype of “poetry” being a women’s genre.

Perhaps the deepest and longest-lasting wound in the days of my early writing was when a sixth grade female classmate was allowed to turn in a poem for homework, and I, for unknown reasons, was not. While this experience may be seen as unimportant, it actually shaped the work

I would later be doing in graduate school. Exploring the mentality behind “manhood” and what makes a man is my figurative bread and butter, but to me it is also more than just an academic currency. Seeing as there are so many ways to be a man, in so many different cultures, it is only fitting that men be allowed to earnestly and honestly explore this topic, assess, and make changes where it is seen fit. The previous thought is one that has hung onto my skull since the day I tried

v to turn in that poem over a decade ago. Why could I not turn in my poem? It fit the parameters of the assignment; it was turned in on time, so why was I not allowed to? Being in the sixth grade, I didn’t quite have the words at the time to fully form my argument, but from what I can see looking back now is that my teacher and I were vastly different men, or him a “man,” and I, a

“boy.”

In my work, it can be argued that “manliness” is a fluid construct that is shaped and shifted by those around you. If one is beaten as a child, one may in fact beat those he is meant to protect later in life. If one’s friends are womanizers, perhaps that is what defines their

“manhood,” the conquest of women. Obviously, the prior statement over-simplifies an otherwise extremely complex issue in the world at large. In my collection “Women I’ve Not Known” focuses on these dynamics. Although the narrator remains the same throughout the collection, it is near impossible to nail down what makes him a “man.” The back and forth between the narrator’s multiple voices throughout the collection is what I theorize as the current uncertain state of “manhood.” While the collection starts out with two poems that may evoke conflict, or the doubt tied to romance, these are concise points in relationships for men my age. Does the sex make a relationship last, and if we talk too much, are we then deemed too sensitive? What follows is a multiplicity of voices, ranging from the romantic to familial bitterness of emotional abuse, to the common male “bravado” stereotype of power gained through sexual conquest.

These are all the voices of societal constructs that push and pull a man into being. However, just being is not enough. There is a lack of conversation of what men need to change about their prerogatives, demeanor in the public sphere and beyond. Endless conversation topics arise when men approach the topic as people who can empathize with others’ experiences. Perhaps this is my goal in all of my vulnerability. Showing the “good” with the “bad” makes the narrator part

vi hero and part villain, and the readers get to decide for themselves which one they connect with more, or not have to make a choice at all.

A fantastic representation of a hero/villain exists in Albert Camus’ famous work, The

Stranger. When I first read The Stranger back in my high school days, I was mystified by the lethargic uncaring of Meursault. For me, Meursault served as a vessel for a man’s raw nature in the stereotypical sense. Meursault’s blatant uncaring nature, even in regard to his own mortality, is something appealing to the more stereotypical male in myself. Camus gives us a main character that is troublesome. By troublesome I mean we do not know what to think of Meursault at the opening of the book, and remain unsure to the end. Camus’ choice of opening in The

Stranger represents the troublesome nature of Meursault perfectly by Meursault stating, “Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know…Maybe it was yesterday” (3). Meursault’s mother has passed away, and knowledge of her passing should place us in sympathy with him, however, the blatant uncaring of Meursault causes the reader to stumble a bit on their own feelings and ideas regarding loss. Furthering the troublesome nature of Meursault, I look to when

Meursault responds to his boss offering him a promotion and responding with, “…in any case one life was as good as another” (41). The previous quote is something that comes up again much later in The Stranger when Meursault is to be executed. Even though the stakes have been raised from a simple “change of life,” to Meursault’s execution, there is little difference in the way Meursault handles the two drastically different scenarios. This is the type of conflict I create within my work, as the reader is presented with subject matter that would normally evoke some sense of sympathy in the reader; however, by incorporating that sense of stereotypical male uncaring mixes everything up.

vii My poem “pinocchio syndrome.” presents the reader with a narrator that has an opportunity to fall in love, but instead complains about those sentimental feelings. A good example of the stereotypical male uncaring comes towards the end of the poem and reads, “filled with a floral stench that i couldn’t bear/ to stomach, nor could it stomach me i suppose” (lines

15-16). The above lines are meant to showcase the narrator’s need for intimacy, while also rejecting the thought because he knows that the woman would not feel the same. Through creating these types of narrators I toy with the idea of the hero/villain complex and what it means to be vulnerable, unlike Camus’ Meursault.

The most important influence on my work in terms of vulnerability is Yusef

Komunyakaa. “After Summer Fell Apart” served as the direct influence of my poem, “drift.”

Seeing the way Komunyakaa navigates the complexities of a relationship between two people, or rather three, left me scarred in the best of ways. While the subject matter portrays a sense of weakness in the narrator due to the events surrounding the poem, there is an inherent power in his vulnerability that has bled into my work. The vulnerability Komunyakaa possesses in his work is not a typical characteristic one might expect while dredging up sensitive issues. Instead, the power is reallocated to the narrator who shares their truth with the reader. I’ve attributed two stand out qualities to that specific sense of vulnerability, the first being bluntness, and the second being truth. When we write with our truth, whatever may follow serves as the unrefined diamond, the pain or unease of the topic at hand. From that unrefined diamond, we may polish with a blunt and matter-of-fact voice that does not lock the reader out of the poem, but instead shows that the work is cable of being polished without being muted by formalism.

We can see this vulnerability in “After Summer Fell Apart” in the form of Komunyakaa’s narrator saying, “like counting your ribs/ with one foolish hand/ & mine with the other” (lines

viii 45-47). The vulnerability in the previously mentioned lines is a sort of emotional violence as it conveys a sense of being trapped, or isolated rather, in one moment that marks a person for life.

Komuyakaa’s narrator is stuck in a “foolish” kind of pain loop that stagnates his emotions into one moment of searching for commonality between two bodies. The poem “drift.” was the first poem I had written that instilled a sense of pride in my writing, and I wrote it to be in direct conversation with “After Summer Fell Apart” to showcase the commonality of this feeling in some men regarding the difficulty of intimacy between two bodies.

In “drift.” I chose to recycle Komunyakaa’s use of azaleas and rose (lines 22-24) in the form of “the soaking mess of/ Her floral stained skirt” (lines 7-8) to directly illustrate the commonality of complicated feelings between some men regarding our relationships with “pretty things” like flowers, or what some men might describe women as in a superficial manner.

Furthering the conversation I’m engaged in with Komunyakaa, I also sought out a connection through desperation in “counting Her finger tips, shamefully/ one after the other, like keys,/ feeling for what would saturate? “indifference”’(lines 16-19). The above line is meant to correlate with Komunyakaa’s narrator stating, “like counting your ribs/ with one foolish hand/ & mine with the other” (lines 45-47). While Komunyakaa is seemingly referencing the story of

Adam and Eve by having the narrator count the ribs between the two illustrating, the almost darkly comedic notion that all women are derivative of men, I chose to riff on his idea and take it into the question of whether or not there is any difference between the two sexes and the roles they play in a relationship. In other words, who holds the keys? Both Komunyakaa and I provide no solace in the end lines of our respective poems, and I feel that this is due to the complexity of pondering such thoughts in a concise space, which contributes to the sense of violent vulnerability. Poetry is not always the best medium to provide answers, and that looseness of

ix interpretation is representative of the issue of confusion in being a “real man.” These are the important things, the crushing blows that “real men” cannot share with each other, but through these poems there may be a chance to engage a male audience in a dialogue on “what really makes a man.”

Furthering the idea of a violent vulnerability, I look to Sam Shepard’s SAVAGE/LOVE as a source of inspiration in how I can approach sensitive topics. One of the things I have found most troubling in my writing is the pursuit of balancing connotative and denotative meaning.

Where is the line between giving away too much at once, and giving enough to make the reader satisfied? The answer I have found with Shepard’s help is providing the details of less consequential events surrounding the Event; the lowercase events being the effects, the moments, and the violence surrounding the bigger catalytic “capital E” Event. The idea of “event” versus

“Event” is what inspired the choice to have a period after every poem in my body of work. Every

“Event” in our lives is something that has occurred, and we remember that it did occur, but the reality of recollection is not so simple. I am much more inclined to remember the “events” surrounding the “Event,” but I also acknowledge the every “Event” is a punctuated moment in time, hence the period after each title. Punctuating the title is meant to hint that the title is the

“Event” and the poem is the “event,” which is my own homage to Shepard’s form of intimacy.

The second instance of the poem “Killing” in SAVAGE/LOVE is precisely what I’m talking about when I mention “event” and “Event.” By the time “Killing” appears in the collection, we are aware of a romantic engagement between two people that has, by this point, deteriorated to some extent. The focus of the entire collection is the savagery of love, but the collection strides to leave the aspect of betrayal vague and mysterious.

x For instance, in “Killing,” we know that an “Event” has changed the course of the relationship between the two lovers; however, what we don’t get is the betrayal itself, rather, everything surrounding the betrayal. While betrayal and romance are frequent motifs in poetry, what “Killing” does so well is lock the reader out of the intimacy of the betrayal. The betrayal itself is only meant for the two lovers, and not for the reader. In locking the reader out of the

“moment” and inviting them into the thoughts that take place after the fact, the violence in the vulnerability grows tenfold. To illustrate this specific violence I offer the last two stanzas in

“Killing,” which read, “You didn’t know/ I didn’t say I saw you dead/ I saw you thinking of something else/ You couldn’t see/ The thing I had done to you” (Lines7-11). The last two stanzas are a shift away from the collection’s “confused lovers” to a more sinister, and guilt driven narrative. The question of where the guilt comes from is never directly addressed, and it doesn’t have to be defined to be intriguing or painful. In fact, if we were to read even one line that attempted to let the reader into the “Event,” the poems in SAVAGE/LOVE would not carry nearly as much weight in terms of violent vulnerability. Even though Shepard chooses to use a simple word like “thing” in the end line of “Killing,” it is actually the most important word in the entire poem. “Thing” is the operative word in this poem that readers will no doubt base their interpretation on. What is the “thing” the narrator has done to the other lover, and why does this

“thing” cause her to appear “dead” to the narrator? We never know, but if we did there would be little incentive to follow the pair through to the end of the narrative. Shepard strikes a balance that has become a large influence on the whole of my work.

I see Shepard’s work in SAVAGE/LOVE as an influence on my own work, “period.”

While Shepard never relays the moment of betrayal in “Killing,” I have also chosen to tell of the events surrounding the Event itself. Creating this distance between the “moment” and what

xi follows is something I have come to incorporate in many of my poems, as it rids the work of “the diary entry tone” and opens the poem up for a more personal interpretation for the readers.

Through mentioning in “period” that “it’s the old blood/ clotting and rotting/ miles away” (lines

10-12), I hope to relay the dissonance that Shepard has so gracefully achieved in “Killing.”

Throughout any poem dealing with this specific narrator I have created, the reader will never see the “moment,” but is free to insert her/his own ideas of what type of betrayal constitutes the reaction of the narrator in “period.” I find this to be a more effective way of presenting a narrative in the medium of poetry.

While I have explored Shepard’s work in depth, I always find it useful to situate my personal preference next to the theory, or criticism those preferences have undergone. For a little more context, and inspiration, I look to Carla J. McDonough’s book, Staging Masculinity: Male

Identity in Contemporary American Drama, which includes, among other topics, a great exploration of Sam Shepard’s use of masculinity in his works. Perhaps the most interesting thought in McDonough’s work is that the constructs which cause men to fear any sense of femininity are constructs that are entirely made by and for men (36). The concept of “who are the muscles really for” highlights McDonough’s thought perfectly. As men, who are we trying to impress? Who are we trying to prove ourselves to? What purpose does it fill to peacock in front of men and women alike? The answer is something that McDonough is privy to, and one that I heavily explore in my work. The idea of “masculinity” being made by men is an easy one to accept, and one that I focus on in “cape check.”

The poem “cape check.” is meant to evoke a very boyish view of “manhood” in the sense that as boys we learn from the men around us what it means to be “men.” While writing the poem, I could think of no better early boyhood role models other than comic book characters. It

xii is no surprise that the comic book characters I predominantly read growing up were all male heroes, with female heroes taking a more muted role in the narratives. In “cape check.” I outline the pitfalls of comic book symbolism and their effects on young boys’ concepts of “masculinity.”

From “Peter looms/ Hung from webs he ejaculated pre-/ Maturely” (lines 3-5), to “Tony with the tipsy topsy trove of alcohol,” (line 10) I illustrate the negative views of manhood handed down from men who are attempting to make men.

Using the backdrop of comic books is no subtle tactic these days, as most people now are at least familiar with some kind of super hero movie, and it’s important to talk about what that means, and what boys are learning. This is in no way an attack on comic books, but rather a look at where our male-centric ideas of “masculinity” come from, and why they make boys into

“men” who never really want to grow up. In McDonough’s exploration of Shepard’s play Fool for Love, we can see that she really understands the most simple concept of stunted

“masculinity,” by pondering, “if becoming an adult means giving up their fantasies…then why grow up?” (37). The prior quote is an interesting, yet simple summation of the male experience in the coming of age. What happens when your dream of being the hero dies, and you’re left with your own inferiority? Returning to “cape check.” I write, “Just men making men, making men, who make/ Men who makemenwhomakemenwhomakemen/ Stop./ We’re not old enough to get

The Shining reference” lines 13-16). The purpose of this line is to illustrate that there is some part in a man who does not wish to grow up and assume the cowl of maturity in age. Simply put,

“I forgot I’m twenty five again, can I get shithoused/ Play with marvel heroes?” (lines 19-20), meaning can I act as a boy while getting the treatment of a “man?” This denial of maturity also leads to the denial of responsibility in “men.”

xiii To close out how McDonough has supported my work I look to two of the most damning arguments against a set standard of “masculinity;” blaming women, and lacking courage.

McDonough states that the men in Shepard’s work cannot cope with their own actions, and instead choose to blame women for their own personal failings as men (40). While McDonough is specifically referencing characters in Shepard’s work, she is also striking at a larger nerve in the real world. The common male stereotype is one that, like Camus’ Meursault, tends to gravitate towards shrugging their responsibility in a relationship. There is also the issue of courage that McDonough brings up in her musings on Shepard. McDonough states that instead of taking responsibility, whatever that may entail, Shepard’s male characters often just repeat the sins of their fathers in regurgitating the patriarchal nonsense that they were given, which shows an immense lack of courage (41). I have incorporated this male disenchantment with personal responsibility and proper courage into the collection “Women I’ve Not Known” in an attempt to combat my own personal shrugging of responsibility in relationships.

While the collection “Women I’ve Not Known” highlights the narrator’s own misgivings as a man, it also attempts to stage growth and courage on the page. While the term courage is used in a less traditional sense, as there is nothing about the narrator storming into battle or anything of that nature, it showcases the emotional courage some men may find with hard work.

The poem “c.b.” reads, “You belong in the garbage,/ Crumpled up next to a used condom…/ I’m garbage too, so/ We can rot together” (lines 1-4). While the poem is off-putting at first, as intended, the blank space between the top two lines, and the lines way down at the bottom of the page, is meant to showcase some kind of growth in the measurement of time on the narrator’s behalf. When looking at the concept of courage in facing one’s own shortcomings I reference the poem “t.m.,” which reads, “I’m not your father,/ But you’re not my mother…/ Two half finished

xiv drawings,/ Still connecting dots where none” (lines 1-4). Here we see the same format meant to convey time and growth, but the subject matter is one that some men may not be comfortable discussing; meaning when we lose the love of a parental figure, we may look to others to fill that void with an unhealthy love. The discomfort this poem may cause some readers is meant to be constructive. Poetry is meant to challenge the norms of society, whether it is political, gender oriented, mental health, or really any other facet of social constructs, and that is exactly what I am working towards.

These are the poems I am interested in for the purposes of my work at this time, but I’m also interested in the concept of tone. By tone I do not simply mean what the connotation of a work may convey to a reader, but tone in terms of musicality. While it is sometimes hard to hear the sonic nature of poetry on a piece of paper, it is heard in the performance of poetry. Music has served as a crucial instrument to my creativity, and without music, I most certainly would never have taken to writing. The sheer variety of tones in one song is an overwhelming source of influence on my work. When we think about tone and really break it down, there exist two poles: pure, and impure. While pure tone can be most easily described as a note being played on a keyboard, impure tone has its roots in what I would call the crunch and sourness of music. By crunch and sourness of music, I mean the tones that we may mark as unnatural. There is something strange about guitar chords, and something disturbing about hypnotic drumbeats that are arranged by another person. Crunch and sourness are even further held up by the qualities we lay over the base sounds. Things like equalizers, or filters, to alter and transport the purest note to the most unnatural place in our ears. Looking at two specific genres, we should be able to see a direct difference between the two. Take Pop music and Metal music for example. Both genres have strong fan bases, but the numbers would say that the Pop music fan base outweighs the

xv Metal music fan base by a landslide. It can be argued that the technical arrangement of Metal music is far more complex than Pop music, so why would people prefer Pop? The answer is pretty simple: pure tones are far more acceptable to the human ear, making Pop the obvious choice for most people. I live somewhere in between a love for both genres, and that is where I situate my work.

Taking two examples from the respective pop and metal genres, the line between the two will become more defined in regards to how music and poetry translate well between one another. Starting off by looking at the Alternative-Pop band Missio, who have a definite synthetic, and pure tone to their music, we can see there are grooves that are in place for the listener to slip and slide through for the duration of the three minute song, “Animal.” While the song features a prominent bass line, it also features a “cricket” style chirping keyboard, which creates a texture all its own. The texture I refer to is that sense of purity within the synthesized music. There are no real instruments at work here, as even the drums are played using a touch pad, a mainstay synthetic instrument in most pop music. Sourness does not exist within the band’s skillset. Pop music is what influences the smooth, and savory aspects of the language used throughout my work. Even something as simple as Missio’s lyric, “I’m an animal, you’re an animal,” helps to illustrate the simplicity of sounds that, when repeated, create an easy and accessible tone that seems to be desired by the majority of music listeners.

One of the few examples I offer of a whole pure tone poem is “urn.” The subject matter of this poem is perhaps one of the darkest among my work, but it is also rooted in rhythm and religion. Borrowing from the Jewish tradition of rubbing ash on your own body to grieve a loss of a loved one, I hope to implicate the chaos of the “moment,” while also sheltering the reader through playful rhyme. The entirety of the poem reads, “rub his ashes on my face,/ just to see

xvi someone else/ reflected in my place” (lines 1-3). While tuning this poem I realized that it would be best to have some sense of playful and pleasurable purity within its small, three line confine.

The purity of the poem does not come from the subject matter, but how that subject matter is presented. The poem “urn.” is pure in tone because it is a complete thought outlined with precision and playfulness, which is hard to come by in my work.

While I’ve illustrated the benefits of incorporating Pop music influences into writing, it is often said that Pop music has no actual technical proficiency in terms of arrangement. The lack of technical proficiency in Pop music is where my work would suffer if I were not also influenced by Pop’s polar opposite genre of Metal. While it is no surprise that Metal bands do not thrive in the music world, especially when compared to Pop music, it does come as a surprise that most people neglect the pure skill in creating the impure sourness that is prevalent throughout Metal. The band, Glassjaw, serves as a shining example of how to take a piece of music that has rhythm, and completely dismantle it until the listener is left with a chorus that barely resembles any medium of music. The song “Jesus Glue” is the biggest influence, musically speaking, on my work. While Glassjaw starts “Jesus Glue” with very simple chords, drumbeats and bass playing in synchronicity to create a smoothness that the listener can easily settle into, the song quickly turns into something of a chaotic mess. Within the genre of Metal, and its sister genres, the deterioration of a smooth piece of music into chaos is known as the

“breakdown.” Glassjaw, much like myself, are not afraid to show their technical chops before throwing everything that is pleasurable out of the window. I have incorporated this sense of chaos into the poem “machine.”

Perhaps the only difference between “Jesus Glue” and “machine.” is that I never offer any Pop style precursor to the chaos. Instead, what I have chosen is to use harsh, and almost

xvii scientific language, from start to finish to create the choppy, and disorienting impure tone. An example of this chaos from “machine.” would be, “as death strandings creep up in numbers, participants/ without dorsal, but with opposable thumbs we use to push/ firing buttons in agreement…” (lines 17-19). The above lines showcase dense and/or off-putting words to carry that sense of musical impurity onto the page. The most telling instance of impurity within the poem is the fact that the word “strandings” is technically a made up word derived from a term for a mass beaching of sea creatures known as a “death stranding.” These small whiffs of impurity are what keep the language and music within the poems bouncing up and down constantly, from anarchy to chaos; the poem never gives up the concept of impurity and crunchy sourness in its tone. Chaos has its place, ironically; however it is not a universal tool and this is where balance must be achieved.

To achieve some sense of middle ground between two contrasting tones, I strive to subtly input various devices throughout my work. Often I try to incorporate pleasing tones and then abandon them within the same line. Instances of this can be seen in the poem “shit zipper.” The poem opens with the line, “five o’clock shadow singin’ sweet,” which is meant to slip the reader right into the poem and into the mind of the narrator. However, the next two lines completely destroy that version of the poem, as well as the narrator in the first line by saying, “for the ladies of the night, or/that’s no pc enough, let me try again” (lines 2-3). Even the word “no” is meant to cause the reader to step back and wonder what happened to the intelligible and smooth operator- narrator from the first line. This is one example of how I try to use the concept of pure tone and impure tone in my work. Again, it is hard to see the sonic quality in free form poetry while it sits on the page in my work, it is still heard throughout. Meter will constantly break down, if it ever

xviii existed in the first place, so this juxtaposition of smooth, savory words, and broken down syntax is what keeps the music varying and bouncing throughout each poem.

Through years of writing and reading I have gathered what I consider to be a specific skillset that has been influenced by various writers and personal experiences. Without the catalytic Event of my sixth grade English teacher denying my poem submission, I doubt that I would have gotten to this point. The exploration of that old wound has led me to create something I feel is an important collection of writing. I chose to explore “masculinity” as a way of coping with the current, and confused, state of the word “man.” There is nothing that resembles an answer in my work, but through engaging in the conversation other poets and artists have already started, I hope to keep the issue of confused “masculinity” in the forefront of discussions. Without Shepard, Komunyakaa, and Camus I would be a vastly different man than I am today, and I doubt my work would have half the merit if it were not for their expeditions into what makes a “man.” The ideas presented by each individual author have culminated in a collection of work for a new generation, and that serves as the primary goal of my writing. I do acknowledge that music has and always will play a large role in my process. Music and poetry are linked by rhythm and play; two things that will always exist in my work. The process of creating such a large body of work has made my hunger to create grow tenfold, and this will not be the end of the discussion.

xix WORKS CITED

Camus, Albert. The Stranger. Vintage International, 1989. Print.

Glassjaw. “Jesus Glue.” Our Color Green, Self-Released, 2011.

Komunyakaa, Yusef. “After Summer Fell Apart.” Pleasure Dome New and Collected Poems. Wesleyan University Press, 2013. Web. February 12, 2018.

McDonough, Carla, and Garner, Stanton B. Staging Masculinity: The Search for Male Identity in Contemporary American Drama (1992): ProQuest Dissertations and Theses. Web. February 17, 2018

Missio. “Animal.” Loner, RCA Records, 2017.

Shepard, Sam. “Killing.” SAVAGE/LOVE. Seven Plays. Dial Press, 2005. Print.

xx Table of Contents “Man Splay”

Brownie Points…………………………………………………………………………………1

Women I’ve Not Known……………………………………………………………………….15

Best Friends and Emotional Gore………………………………………………………………37

xxi 1

Brownie Points.

BEG(in). deaf dumb horned and blind enter screaming about his skin no color correction box dye fix mourning a color morph baby she begged for recount.

3 white limb. sit, listen, wait for a door to kick in, a scream to slam it shut, or a swirling volition that ends with a damp thud of blood and linoleum under a shitty scape of fluorescent flicker from the ceiling where a stray shattered the plastic cap of light bulbs that shower a cohort in a red horror set forth by phallic explosions that break apart, scatter, and scurry lives farther away, beyond the imaginary scenario where we all end and we all begin careers as mute anti-NRA spokespersons, the only job we can take in this economy of death, the one that supports the salary of custodians half-masting flags, dyed in children’s blood and the dominating color of the house of flaccid old men, in front of an unscathed school in a half-assed attempt at solidarity to combat this odd new white extremity. and do you ever wonder if a coffin half the size of a man is half the price for a grieving mother or father? these are the dreams of the graduate degree, a school designed by a prison architect with shitty escape routes and concrete pillars that look as if they’re missing obligatory bullet holes. but praise be to this new white extremity. but praise be to the document that birthed it.

4 yo, joe. lady liberty weeps into the ocean. she hates her new toupee and thinks her new inheritance excessive, or at least, half of us hear a whimper. i’m pretty sure adams set the constitution on fire the other day, something about a 9-11 call at the smithsonian, or maybe that was a post 9/11 wet dream of mine. what’s with all the people in the streets? there are crosswalks for a reason, for reason’s sake, i don’t know why they’re smashing up a starbucks. capitalism, duh. i’ve always loved cobra commander, though i fancied myself a joe. snake eyes to be precise, but now i know a real life serpentor, and now i see for one pence we have a cobra commander. and now i want to smash up a starbucks.

5 take 50, call us in the mourning. spread my love with the speed of a Tomahawk and ferocity of Blake's almighty Tyger. a love cruise with 50 passengers and a dead letter recipient, painted and primed. and we choke on the news of a new consummated relationship, as if little gods didn't choke on the love of their go(d)vernment for years. an angry man, looking through fear-flavored pixels, tonight at 9pm. all hail the great romance, for we deserve each other.

6 piehole. how many fingers in how many holes does it take to say me too? just me, or is it the color of the pie, an apple, or more tropical key lime that gets so smear me too in whip cream on the dinner table, I’d like to know, what about the banana cream pie? does it get any real love, or just the many fingers in one pie? or chocolate cream pie, for that matter, and by now, yes, the pies are a racist critique and the banana is creamed dicks because lump us in all together as the pie everyone hates these days, and how many unwanted penetrations I guess I’ll never tell and I guess the answer to the question posed at first would be, the world may never know.

obelisk.

Okay, all right, I know I do persist in this stupid tongue, but tell me the truth, would you view me as art if I were to speak as the native son. The son that rivals the constructs. Not these constructs of patriarchy, for I am man and I have suffered the misgivings of my kind. You know, the ones that tell me to play harder, to rush into decisions, the ones that will slap a back brace on you and render your future feminine in the gaze of your peers. Yes, yes, I speak of me, and what a funny thing to do. Speaking of a man, against men, I am a compromised subject, or advocate, but I ask you, who better knows the operatives of chauvinism that drag with a Neanderthal’s gait? For being hit in the face so often, I’m sure I have not learned my lesson, no, I’m sure I have not. If I had indeed learnt what I were supposed, then perhaps I would not have the broken bones to better show my turning of the cheek. No, I should say I haven’t learnt, nor will I ever, for I survive because I am the fittest in an ocean of minnows posing as sharks I will serve as the patient bottom feeder of life that is overlooked in its non-threatening phallic camouflage.

8 land of strays. dinner a coffin stew of fish bones and other tacky things tom and jerry would be proud if it weren’t lacking violence, but oh wait, here we go round this pendulous thread. swing us back to reality of bile from the night’s before and after, or what we stomached to make sure our counterparts were ok in the conversation of the Other screaming in heat, or so they say, but who can really know for sure what they’re thinking? maybe if we had bothered to ask while banging trashcan lids and laughing at the Siamese cat with chopsticks stuffed under his jowls, then we might have a hint of how to get some of their attention. that nutriment we all crave. barbed to make them scream and bleed, so what would the difference be if we did? and if animal control wasn’t a factor, would some of us be so polite as to ask for this consent, or would we continue on, never talking, but always making noises nobody wants to hear, but everyone makes heard.

9 shit zipper. five o’clock shadow singin’ sweet for the ladies of the night, or that’s no pc enough, let me try again five o’clock, oh fuck it, all beards are wrong, scratch and sniff last meals the chicken grease gooped on, and whiskey dipped whiskers make you man enough to combat anti-chivalry shit smeared in the men’s restroom because we’re men, we shit on everything. just read the poem again to pin us down.

10 spandex. and growing up i ought to be the hero, but i found cowardice in age, nothing in return, so it is to be a “man,” for what that should be, isn’t, and “no one knows how to raise these boys anymore, ” is echoed through generations of naysayers, how’d we get here, and why are superheroes so swollen with muscle, while their junk is somehow non-existent, despite a revealing, spandex wet dream? no, muscles don’t make the man, then again, it seems nothing does who would care if it did, or didn’t? my seat could creak and my female counterparts would defecate on my chest and point in case, i don’t know what a “man” is, i doubt my father did either, you do the best, while you accept that you’re the worst.

11 brownie points. is it safe to say we can deface monuments now? i’ve always hated that douche on the horse, and who is that french woman in new york we never asked for? please pay us proper france. we’ve a new shiny regime, with personal fortune was made off the promise we inscribed on your beloved bronze goddess. oh! the suffering of the dust bowl…or whatever it is that is so angry at us near-do-whites, because they’ve had it bad, and they’re not free, and they don’t know liberty, or wait, has capitalism struck again? dare i say that we brown skinned commoners have forgotten to contribute to the farmer? probably, but hey, nobody complains when we get a finger up our asses at tsa when we’re only thirteen, funny story, true story, but you won’t hear me complain.

12 alien. her face brown, her card green an alien share anatomy funny separation never casts vote, constant exile fleeing war ended decades ago, be tortured again by pacific theatre, an island followed in wake, landmass shadow scars tend to fade, grandfather's finger nails never grew back the same, bamboo reeds take place, what shame for working man, have his cuticles buried (to me) foreign land next his teeth he since replaced with fake american enamel, he watches dutch men riding elephants, otter by river, grandmother folds into herself sight of the river and i've heard tell her lunch dates with mr. otterly the plantation river, bread with muisjes and he hunting sand crabs, ends with crying girl, slaughtered zoo, and all seem surreal, but tell the trope: stranger than fiction isn't all that true.

13 surviving a survivor. million things to say about survivor’s children, and million of them said to child. lessons built into the horror of childhoods, and how to obey and obey well, while their rules break scales of who you could be and who you will be. because history repeats itself, we need to be ready, or at the very least perfect, please, word they don’t mention. wartime vocabulary handed down and down and down. it isn’t your fear, but an inherited one of hypothetical misery. ache all the way down from bustling brain, full of who you should be, down to the heart hassles child to be one the parent could not be, or chooses not to be, or so we think identity is malleable. be proud of identity formed not of yourself. proud of their survival, of their struggle, of their blood buried in veins, strength fortifies bones, pride becomes a pot of gold in your eye, look in the mirror, realize you’ll never find treasure in real life, because you’re never good as gold to them, or any other stranger in your home. because you never knew them and they never knew you, that’s besides the point when disappointment looms heavy upon young shoulders, think of their finger nails in dirt, their hair matted with lice, and how heavy your school books are. and you’re pathetic in their miserable shadows, they’ll never let you forget or forego. what is left of you after they’ve gone? questions fill a shell of what could have been you, you aren’t you, you never were, how do you tell children to be? how do you tell to be proud without pressure welling up in tiny skulls pressed between school books based on grandparents’ hell? you don’t, won’t, never will. just like you’ll never sew your love into backhand of preparing moment of pain, lessons always prepared for pain with pain, double pain, leads a double life, finger nails grew back funny, but grew back. their hair was deloused and yours was never infested, you have to be prepared for pain, just as you must prepare to care for others. show the sympathy never tasted in their cages, and they show kindness to another, what does it mean when they’re the very cause of your cynical pain? it means it’s a lesson, it means it hurts, it means you’re strong, weak, prideful, ashamed, everything in between who you could have been and who you should have been, you must prepare, must be ready, must be ready, must be prepared, must be prepared, even if you don’t exist in your own reflections. 14 machine. at the end of a turbulent rainbow, find death become a pot of gold riches and spoils you wrote off as rags and rationality without end. a plane with a sperm’s tail to fertilize a colony of savages you wrought by years of emphasizing the Other, or the viewed by the viewer and disregard black out days where armored tanks roll on through, decorated in a regalia of entrails that slip and slide to the wet virgin dirt below as the turret spins and aims at a Thing of a childhood, or creature bereft with guilt, howling at a bleeding moon that seems to have moved on from the galaxy, sick of the screams and pulls away tides we rely on, as death strandings creep up in numbers, participants without dorsal, but with opposable thumbs we use to push firing buttons in agreement to end it all and finally see the end of that rainbow bridge all our dogs are barking about.

Women I’ve Not Known

16 romance of the nerds. if she opens her legs, does that mean we’ll make it last? or does it indicate our flaws in thinking of currency in terms of labia, minora and majora, or are we just playing zelda to pass time?

17 pane. a heavy ring finger befalls Her white thighs, hot with light seeping into grooves of lonesome fingertips. sliding across length of shadow cast down from arthritic tree bleeds against the double-pain glass, separating. invisible chainmail keeps me from questions deteriorating beneath my tongue.

18 drift. splintered planks i stand on, watching glorious tides of "circumstance" pull Her in and out of focus, i held on, gripping the soaking mess of Her floral stained skirt between my fingers, but "circumstance" is strong, my nails brittle if i had known it was the last time i lay on the beach we made of cold sheets and warm bodies, i would have spent more time counting Her finger tips, shamefully one after the other, like keys, feeling for what would saturate "indifference"

19 cape check.

Stretch died by the wayside, Wayside, wayside. See what I did there? Peter looms Hung from webs he ejaculated pre- Maturely, but Mary Jane don’t mind. Hey Bruce, where’d ya get those fancy Toys? Big wheels for kid watched them Parents suddenly drop

Dead.

Tony with the tipsy topsy trove of alcohol. With the black war machine by his side, no, It’s not racist if you read your comic books, Just men making men, making men, who make Men who makemenwhomakemewhomakemen

Stop.

We’re not old enough to get The Shining reference, But we kill action figures and dream of skin tight Spanks to run the jewels within boyish reason, but I forgot I’m twenty five again, can I get shithoused Play with marvel heroes? I back-flipped off a building

Once…

Swagger sweat and sweet for the ladies on landing, if a man does something cool, and there’s no women ar… Fuck it,

where do I return my cape?

20 catfish.

wasting money at the art store, and god must be ashamed of the soul, so he painted over making abhorrent pretty faces

21 s.z.

I wish you a hellish journey While you go to glory…

But I’m a coward like you, So consider this an I.O.U. 22 s.b.

I’ll never forgive you, No sane man could…

We’re all sluts for something, And the coffee slut in me says yes

23 s.s.

Romance was dead, still is, Downtown tommy’s a casual run in The last time I thought of nipple rings…

A lie at any rate, I wonder, Are you alive, or are you in between?

24 c.b.

You belong in the garbage, Crumpled up next to a used condom…

I’m garbage too, so We can rot together. 25 j.k.

Half fucked when we half fucked, A double digit game I play now…

Half fucked, half fucked, I wonder, Is that what you told her? 26 l.p.

Brother fucking diabetic, All three accurate words…

Was it jane, or my brother? We don’t talk, I was never a crush. 27 a.s.

Robbing my cradle I scream, Yes, ma’am, more please, more…

More pain, guilt, anxiety, and Brother, are we even now, or Do you need a few more notches? 28 k.n.

Stoned, fucked and sucked A first impression of you that lasted…

If you’ve read twenty-two, Then you know this is the one. 29 t.m.

I’m not your father, But you’re not my mother…

Two half finished drawings, Still connecting dots where none. 30 m.r.

Skiing in Hermosa next to trees in bags, A borrowed truck can be a bed…

The only one I’d apologize to, We don’t talk, I deleted your body from guilt. 31 c.d. are you proud now, happy yet, man enough? No, I thought naught, we’re the bad guy…

Fuck if we tried, rage and pain In the shape of phallic pleasure, We’re nothing without someone’s Skin dripping for us, pathetic. 32 pinocchio syndrome. a floral flume from this way comes linoleum, asbestos give her chase, not too carcinogenic for to scare a doe away, with every color eye her gate follows this way call and come a male gaze, or liberalism strikes again, i’d love to be her man, or a man at any rate and no one in particular, i’m rather a pinocchio and she something hiding from me in a tower, no, i’m not the dragon keeping guard, just a sad wooden boy at the bright end of a fluorescent hallway gazing away, my mother asked if i was to marry, i told her the end of the hall is dark filled with a floral stench that i couldn’t bear to stomach, nor could it stomach me i suppose.

33 slowpoke. trapped under water or ice, or i’m a frozen air bubble trapped in old water turn to ice, fossil of what a man was/ is/could be/down low/ too fucking slow for current affairs, or currant drift to pull me under a refreshing breast to cope we’d burn, the ocean is too cold, drowning is a slow man’s game.

34 redecorate. left behind ring-spun hairs. reminders and memos, woven into the threads. pull gently, stop dead, i'll miss you when you go to some far away land, only minutes away, an island all your own, the place I imagine you away to, the one that keeps me missing a physical trace.

35 son or daughter.

Spilt seed and an empty space filled with what could have lived. From A to Z, the names that won’t be painted on a blue or pink door. Selfishness as selflessness, as her womb became an open wound.

36 period. it's the old blood, accompanying the cavalcade of her bones jostling, buried beneath his chest. for the repetitive little death suffered in vein, reminding of the conceit stitched between her teeth. she-grin. chagrin. she grinned. it's the old blood, clotting and rotting, miles away.

Best Friends and Emotional Gore.

38 twenty-three. if the circles I speak in are any indication, or the doublespeak I play with, where I beat bushes, pointlessly, never asking mom and dad if I could keep the torn jacket. if the circles I speak in resemble the same stories from 18 years ago, of your attempt to drown me in the deep end, living to tell the tale of a funny start to the oddity of friendship. then it is no wonder why I have not buried you and never will

39 it. my mother called me on the phone the other day my childhood bat symbol flown in sky is no longer a viable means of communication, i doubt it ever was, but she went with it. my mother called me the other day just to tell me a baby had died, on the ground, alone, out of the crib and care of its mother’s arms. “IT” a funny little thing, to call a baby an “IT,” as if to say she lacked humanity. she called me and i answered, the letters written about me made her proud, but the dead baby is still dying and “IT” will always loom above her pride. my mother called me the other day, on the phone, miles away, and seemingly just to say, i’m glad you survived.

40 i blame my mother. i was a soft-hearted child, hiding between two selves, a feral child, an unrivaled empathetic response expressed in blankets over sleeping family members, trinkets by an urn that couldn’t hug me back, i had a mother with foresight, a spectral premonition of that child disappearing in a furious rapture known as age, for all of her work and third chances she gave me i never repaid my debt, as i’m still countless good deeds away from being square, i hope that a terrible child can age and rapture into being a good man, if it is at all possible, she was correct, it is all the mother’s fault.

41 shelved. the corner i keep of you: drunk at a pool hall jeering for the camera, next to this, a fantasy of me as batman, and these delusions are sweet caricatures of life, or maybe, drawings of another outcome, either way master chief, poe, a penguin, some villains keep vigil, i’ve never seen them move, they never collect dust, unlike my batmobile, which still has an open seat.

42 the past three years. pour one out for the boys (and girl) them lonely ones left behind stagnate, switch, synch up shower sweet then hang the skin suit, and she really did, shower head coils, but them boys (done gone goofy on pooki) one shit himself in a van, the other lead his dad to locked door and hypodermic tragedy, my girl was in the house that one boy done goofed (going home from cheating) ran aground under a tow truck yes, pour one out for the boys (and girl) life is beautiful, except for the bloody bits between friends.

where was i. 43 a bad death… the yellow twins signal it's over their automatic blinking, incessant and irritating. rolling black rubber limbed pedestrians, privy to damage of family of friends, of ones who sat home, hours away. bits of bone, chunks of fault line teeth lining the divider where concrete help asphalt swirl familiar red to create blind corners groping for passerby.

…of a good friend. every side street nothing. and I wonder if the mom tattoo faired better than the hopeless host.

I sat on my couch being eaten alive by the possibilities of yellow twins and bloody shoes.

I thought to call, but didn't.

45 not-loc. been shapeless for too long finding new containers to hold tight to the image i consume liquid viscosity with olive skin wrapped round, the only plastic container i can’t settle into, and it’s a business suit with a quirky bowtie to strangle, and stretch armstrong, do you hear the kinetic sand in my skull squeeze, slither, pop into the eyes of a shapeless child, no. this container contorts to look the part of a man, but when seeing reflections through other’s glass eyes can’t help seeing a shape shifter stuck in the woeful form of a boy in a funeral suit.

deviated. a new white devil, son, father gave intro. right side drips down to floorboard. dragging metaphors through higher times. and brunch by retina as images glitch on tv. screens echoing nights past that serve as the destroyer and bringer of nasal discomfort. in the morning wake to a hole in the wall. and is this fine powder The devil, or just dry wall dust? an aunt had a confusion similar, I’d call, but she lacks the brain cells to answer me by name. and blood stained pillow cases the very essence of what it means to love a new white devil that is inherited by the very blood of your blood.

47 mother love. reversing superstition of bless you. primal inhalation, welcoming a white devil distort and make havoc veins. sprawl through amusement park, so far from temple born. many years past, slung in arms of assigned angel. now recites name in cursed way, somehow slur name without letter S. wonder if a new white devil taken unto self understands pain of mother hate. but biblical vocab fails, and I read my bible daily, line by chemical line and verse by eye numbing verse, the only use of gift given by love once true. mother dear, I, the son you fear. the one divinity failed in Sunday school, place that taught the wrath and the dragon, or I misunderstood a loving god who baptized genetics in fine crystals and blurred vision? angels admonishment thrown with unattainable light. a high horse with broken legs, shot joints from diving to restore halos thrown into snow.

48 house of mirrors. melancholy confiscates very bones of being, of transience, or obsolescence, or anything requiring love stronger than bath salts, bruised veins. swell, welcome the always open mouth, claim shelter. misunderstanding swinging branch to branch, screaming fever dreams, broken jaws and day old hate interrupted a sneeze. jewel of blood cuts mother’s, “bless you,” and I retract into fine lines, graphing me into unfinished buildings of mirrors and razor blades.

49 california dreaming. a rope is charming, but have you heard of the new assistance legal in our sun fucked state?

50 some old ode. i’ve never felt nature was in sympathy, but i suppose when the rain comes i weep just as well as any man might to subdue that specific burning deep down in his gut.

51 tabernacle. watching a priest sling used cars by an oak stained pulpit to preach of a used love that never feels fresh a hand-me-down to the lesser child young hell steeped in old robes, cheap wine and false divination seducing little gods through a strangled light seeping in under some white oak doors to remind us that the sky is a beautiful glass ceiling for all us creatures stuck in a heavy gloom

52 redondo. stoning sinner sensation of that blessed salt water solution scrubbing my skin raw with sea foam and an unfamiliar succubus sinking my shoulders downwards, back to back, to salty back, the boy dies, the man is in middle, suffocating by his ribs.

53 urn. rub his ashes on my face, just to see someone else reflected in my place.

54 pack. the toy wolf you gave me is still crying.

55 candy dish. and how many times can you watch a person die? wither and fade into an imperfect blossom, opposite winter’s lust for dead limbs hanging off a bed of green the ways in which we infect ourselves with grief, watch the train collide with a coyote’s brick wall tunnel to nothing of importance, nothing transparent, nothing easily overcome with the guilt of having functioning limbs, to curl around a body that has now become a thing to be carried with, the dead weight that encircles the crust of life, and is the line so thin? and how many of us sit, unlucky in life, dreading the note we wish to write, but stay for duties and promises to those who withered in front of us? surely, winter is not content with so few out of seasonal bloom, and therein lies the problematic morning glory who die each night and prove that Christ was more flower than man, waking up to a sun-damned day where we all beat around the bushes looking for Halloween candy to place razor blades in for our own candy dish, oh, but we mustn’t, for we have promises to keep and if the nagging bite of a corpses’ teeth on the nape aren’t enough, go ahead and look at your keepers in the mirror, for certainly they grip you from their beds and whisper something of Lazarus, of rebirth and of betterment, but do they see the rope, the stool, and the beam talking us in circles, or rather, talking us into a short drop in a pool of nothingness, and wither, we must all, wither.

56 porphyria in real life. now i am become browning, stuck in a golden, looping conversation with a corpse. now who become death if god refuse to speak soft? only speak in car crashes? confidence kill my favorite (human) cat.

57 endline. my body become a shrine of death above descending from lazarus cherry blossom petals in a spider’s web selfless cult/generous cult "more french than writing, smoking, and shrugging" young hell steeped in old robes soaked in cheap wine. they turned us into gods when we were only capable of being men special creatures in a heavy gloom licking a butterfly's wings, just to have the taste of beauty in mouth and a sleep serpent wraps its way around dirty diamond eyes uncrushed to match the soot of some lovely dark soul

58 letdown/letup. a smoke to guide the way into some metaphor not worth writing, its not block, something sinister crawling the folds of my brain a thing to violence, an accessory to murder, and vocabulary that makes my mother cry, beg to know why, there’s no answer to a love of alcohol, sweat that smells of nicotine, or dead family i told them i’d go to school, failed to mention the thought of crumpling them up, setting them in a trashcan with other dreams i failed to see through

59 laughter is. laughter, and is assigned no magic property, and is something i have not heard from your corner in a year, maybe two, maybe three, or four, in any case, i forgot your voice the other day, played a song, but couldn’t hear you in it.

60 twenty-two. he told boy to get, so he got going downhill from rented fuck fest of desert heat, and looking back never occurred, perhaps boy would have seen brother weeping between expletives thrown out at moments notice, or maybe that’s the strong dark slurring boy’s brains away reduced to temporary transience, dodging headlights under dim lit moon of no help ineffective sprinting round mountain corners, thirty mile blacktop snake leads into nothing, but maybe there was hope before water ran out, the gas station attendant neglects a plea for phones, and who would blame them, with your vessels in eye that scream in angular reds. feet begin to glow, halogen haste speeds faster, two feet in sweat soaked shoes. the bogs in the shoes get the better, as pace slows and breaths become shallow round the bend, no shoulder to collapse, to cry on, and a funny roaring wake up call mirror clips the hip, spin down in dirty tandem, reflective glass glisten, pathetic light. coyotes laugh at a boy bleeding to be man, an inuit brother to his brother, twice now, and hallucinated rattlers crowd, hiss and shake, or distract from desert noises and false perspective of the glowing city, fifteen miles, but even more on foot. crunch of dirt and pebble behind. moon slips two bald heads with half-missing smiles, eyes fixed on threat of blade boy pulls, and an anti-Semitic stain of ink wraps them in a certain light, or lack of, that wants me hanging, feet kicking, hung from 61 cactus, just inches above gravel, sand and blood. they choke on their intent, fading back between oncoming headlights and a black mountain, symbolic of some vague doom, or is it the alcohol? or is it the white devil? or is it the flowers I burned in swirled glass back at the station? the marine who took pity on a seemingly sober boy who wants to be man? and is that Jim Morrison up on the hill? and is he a proud member of the 27 club? and is he there to tell me I’ve got five years left? but, no, its all just more three-headed snakes speaking Harry Potter, and more coyotes dressed as werewolves with hyena fits, while boy trips on own useless legs, fall down to breathe desert dust, wishing it was a white devil of numbness, but no, and now fade back into the mountain, and tears do come when mile marker informs, twenty miles to palm springs.

62 macy’s. i’m screaming at manikins just to feel some semblance of control over the actions bolted onto stiff limbs.

63 nineteen.

“romantic” smell of Summer sex and salt water stream down half naked little grains of sand littering shit brown shag wiped off your back while ignoring the blatant kink of stranger’s home kiss the length of neck atop swirling floor, painted with sweet tea and linoleum tile.

Summer was years ago. traded holding hands for a single pack of cigarettes.

64 sunfked. imminent sunrise, sunny d pissing on my hair, and it isn’t waxy like the watermelon pomade it’s the gushing gold rays of divine comedy to tell of a love of public urination and consequence is of no consequence when the sun dribbles on you, breaking the golden rule of shaking it more than twice.

65 garbage disposal. i got this monkey on my back, or some itch i can’t scratch right now much like my failure, i can’t swim shadow companion in the deep end of life, looming above as below with some empty bottle and razor blade speckled mirrors where my face turns sour in disgust of my dear ol’ friend, but its hard to choose between living for a dead man, and dying for a living self who’s expiration date is well past pouring a chunky, clotted red down a garbage disposal champing at the bit just for bits of hollow soul and brittle bones, but suicide by any other name is just as cliché.

66 remedy for aging. there's nothing left, save black shirt bottles and those fascist cigarettes, or that new white devil with a nose spritzed in shame and these things left of age, or these things felt one fine day in a mirror where the eyes are hard glass bulbs in a charred, foreign skull.

FIN.

And for all of this, He was gifted fear.