There are effable responses that
I misplace, my dorm
I misplace my key and throw the
ring to Blacksmith, w/ her pearly
smile in constant contradiction
against soot. A town thrown
out like a back, westbound, harried by salmon jumping at the chance, against morality. Carmine offers me a glass,
brown, brown.
White and black, hearts held to
telegraph wires as reported beeps,
salivated over or mined under.
Fractal boy flies against the sky
and like most guys, is gone in the
morning, white against scene and black within absence. Twin lamps
and hatchet bulbs, awe-spots &
blotches sit under the hutch, or
move all the wrong directions.
I pushed off of the pier w/ no fish in my boat. I sailed until heatstroke met me with a croak. Opposition forces comprised of gravity and circumstance held me to a cadence. I burned as I danced. The sea spread out before me captured dust just like a corner. The openness w/in me was silenced with a sword. Its curve set shoes within me to the nearest corner sentry. I had tears and snot and god knows what dripping somewhere on me; covered in salty stuff, I refused to open up, and the guardsman was a stolid brick waiting there to break me. It was only a matter of time, his eyes told mine. He was handsome and well-read. His implied diction was flawless. And while I don’t trust many men, I felt that he was honest. One lung was still white as the other started to darken.

Monomania’s the rock album Deerhunter’s owed me for a while.  It’s what Nothing Ever Happened promised.  Super pleased.

I am going to die a death. Do not
whet/wet your pencils.
I am going to die a death. Let there be
no tears waylaid by my notebooks on
their way to the earth, when I am found.
I am going to die a death. Put away the
rusted hatchet, place the shovel nearby,
lay them both in the crypt with me, and
leave your wounds and obsidian points there.
I am going to die a death. Sharpen the knife
of the mariner, prepare the sail when your
ditty bag is fully assembled. Leave the trinkets
of your dead past in the canvas cocoon and
put away your iPod. There shall be no port.
I am going to die a death. Glory be, though
the growing pains will render me insolvent,
will sunder and shatter the ginkgo. They
are the triangulated point, it is the man raising
hand and claiming leaves are trollops, blood
vessel pounding the sea within, full sail.
I am going to die a death. It will be to it, him,
her, choose your antagonist to paint against
me in songs that will be forgotten, bibles
that will be held like angels and burned with
a reverence I can only approach on my knees.
I am going to die a death. The cruelty there lies
toadlike, poisonous or trippy, the brandy
of the writers I like, the ones I will fall on
my gilded sword for, if you will gild it.
I am going to die a death. You can tell my
parents it was clean and sober, non-metallic and
reminiscent of chicken soup. A cure for cold.
I am going to die a death. And it is not my
favourite thing, but I will take my medicine.
I am going to die a death scented on the horizon.

all this heart stuff tends to be
confusing usually
I think I should stay in.
but I find insularity
doesn’t do that much for me
I crack the window to begin.
the smells of foreign entities
waft in while I am fast asleep
That sense is present in my dreams.

And some cute lady’s cheap perfume
gives me motivation to think of you
And I plan to sell it back
below market value

buy a ticket with the earnings
swimming to offset the burning
Overboard is underrated.
wash up on some trashy shore
with pescado and some needle
I feel I am part of a set.
distilled stuff into my ears
vomited some of my fears
Drowning would have been too easy.
I sit up and look embarrassed
a pink room, overly garish
Effigies up in the window.
the newspaper had a heroine
the cameras had a derelict
To focus aperture upon.

but the feeling of underexposure
clings like my want of closure
a grand design,
designed and shown

blue papers all along the walls
crude sketches and a thousand stalls
they will be realized
but not if I stop

Song 1 (first thing I ever did write)

Well, I’m at a loss.

Song one, have some fun,

Get a little more before you’re done,

‘Cuz songs 2, 3, 4, and 5,

Won’t bring you back to your first time,

You’ll sit, quit, watch a flik,

Then think about it ‘til it makes you sick.

And in the middle of the night with no damn light,

You’ll find out “It’s all right!”

Forgive yourself and make some tea,

Then think about the guy who isn’t really me,

And you’ll see,

That you did want to be free,

From his tyranny.

And you’ll misplace that look on your face,

Such a mistake, it didn’t need to be fate,

Too bad I’ve already wrote it on the slate.

So, take it up with Jesus, he’s got your cross.

And when you’re in check, just take the loss.

I am under one sheet and one comforter,

I still hear the fan’s screaming.

Its endless whine, all drone and cry

I should probably stop feeding it.

My fingers stretch over to render it inert

And it whirrs to a purr, then nothing

Suddenly I miss its presence

That’s the way it always goes

So the switch goes back to on

I go back to shivers under covers

And nothing ever changes

Until the morning, I am motionless,

Sandwiched and wary

Of any light through the window.

I like where I am.

Why do you trust that which erodes your riverbanks, turns your plains into Rio Grandes?

And the laughter next door is meant to lure him into friendship, into covenant, but he takes it as a sign of satisfaction. The state of affairs is pleasing, and he remains half-covered on his bed, sweat beading. Is his next move to spend a little money?

It’s settled, then. My first collection of songs shall be called Anger Songs, and it will be a bold lie.

Nothing makes me unhappier than your faking it;

temper it, tamp it down, hammer it into a blade if you mean to stab.

You,

unbearably sweet aftertaste of three month old Pepsi.

And every day I get a little more sick of my station; I want to rise above without humiliation.

Lightning’s somewhere deep inside your eyes, and when you glance, you put a spark in me.

Thunder’s deep in the way you move, and only you could dare to put the needle to the groove.

The record’s playing some brand-old love song about a county line, and you’ve placed your hand in mine, (despite my unworthy cuticles).

Back and forth we awkwardly waltz, your smile, my smile, in my apartment, our clubhouse.

The lights are on, the ceiling’s blue, you’re beautiful, and so dizzy too.

I’m not gonna make it through this year!

I’m not gonna make it through this year!

They found me three feet deep in a grave somewhere in south Chicago,

The ravenous ones took me up.

The put me to busking with a half-stringed guitar and a bottle.

I’m not gonna make it through this year!

I’m not gonna make it through this year!

What’s up?

Half the universe,

or possibly more,

depending on the place we were,

floating through all there ever was on that night.

Lifeboat, rescue me,

because she’s getting up to leave,

and it’s too deep to stand without her hand,

too cold to wade without her body heat.

Who am I?

Mark A. Boykin,

I said the worst words that I ever have spoken,

and now I’d like to say something to set things right.

Sincere apology?

Certainly, but you won’t forgive me,

No matter how apologetic, it doesn’t change the fact,

one thousand sorrys cost me nothing.

Gargoyles on the rooftops, fly away.

Machine mice for the kittens, now escape.

‘cause the buildings are collapsing,

and the kittens now are catching,

new toys, all arranged in different shapes.

I saw the ambulance amble this way.

The paramedics had arrived far too late.

‘cause your heart had already stopped,

I can’t write and I cannot talk,

to the beat, no shocks will start a rumble today.

Lightning has struck here yet again!

A lack of thunder, but here comes the rain!

And in this perfect storm’s olive eye,

I will look and I will say goodbye,

to it, and the wind will throttle me awake.

Let’s spin a while more.

I’m not some perfect man,

I never tried to get this tan,

It was given to me, oh so naturally,

And made me as dark as I seem.

I did not work for this body,

No, I strove not for the grade,

And I’d take an F and a death just to keep you abreast of those who lie in wait.

I’ll be your record,

If you’ll be my player.

Let’s spin a while more.

I really like that one song by Jeff Mangum!

Let’s descend with falling rain and see if we can find some way past their coats, and make them cold.

Soaked and sad, they’ll find a house and ‘round the fire, without a doubt, they’ll change, become best friends.

Or swing around with swirling leafs, and sing contradicting memories, from fever dreams.

My voice, it cracks, it spits and cries, it stabs you just as deep as knives, so I’ll stop, if you’d just please, provide me with more time, so I can come up with some brand-new lies!

And if you don’t appreciate the way I bend the truth, I’ll call you out, call you uncouth, a hypocrite who knows no humility, just like me!

Your mouth’s a bow, your tongue is poised to string some words and let fly the noise.

Let out those ringing notes, and war is called, released by some, declared by all,

Such a mark’d way to fall.

And if I must, then I can make you scream and fill with music all my dreams, the saddest song I’ve ever heard, it’s what I deserve.

“The beggar could now say with

certainty that reflections were either

a grievous lie or the sum of all things.

He waited patiently for a donation – so

he could heads or tails this

question into oblivion – and

when a naïve boy did hand him a

coin, out from the metal burst a

flower, bright and vivacious, scummy

to his sensibilities.  The beggar was stricken with

ringworm; an Angry Teenager poured

salt on him from on High and looked around

at His friends for approval.  The desiccated

beggar waved his prized box of blue

Parliaments at the charmed, bewildered

boy who started it all, saying loud

enough for Him to hear, ‘Boy Howdy!

As my way of rewarding your charity, here:

smoke these and all your friends will

think you’re the coolest!’  Well, who

could resist that?  The beggar laid his thumb

under the box and flipped the weighty thing

up to the hand he knew would be reaching

down greedily.  It landed tails-side up, and either

existence was unmade or

God got throat cancer and couldn’t

afford an electrolarynx.”

um reverend we don’t think

that part of the Bible would make

for a real good hymnal

maybe um we

should sing about Deborah

The Reverend furrowed his

brow and thought about

smoky days in Palo Alto. 

Days he never got to live. 

“Y’all owe me.”  And they did.

Absurd, I know.

Wake up in the night with a confused start,

No more sleep, no beats from your heart,

No bedraggled thoughts in your bed-head,

And no connection to the world wide web.

It’s all come apart right at the seams,

Trees are breaking up with all their leaves,

Clouds dissipate, stop condensing,

No more clusters, no more teams.

Look up through the window in the car’s back seat,

Rest your eyes on the duplicity, feel the heat,

Coming from those orbs raised up on high,

The streetlights we built look so like the stars in the sky.

Crack one open with a rock, not a meteorite,

What do you find inside?

Any nuclear fusion or heat and pressure at superheights?

Or an improvement of an idea from the mind of Thomas Edison?

It’s all come apart right at the seams,

Trees are breaking up with all their leaves,

Clouds dissipate, stop condensing,

No more clusters, no more teams.

I can float higher than a cloud,

Grabbing altitude, not slowing down,

But I won’t fly above my problems.

They can move in time with me,

Swaying to the beat,

Until I get crowded off of this dancefloor,

Where neurosis was my only partner.

I’ll settle down awkwardly into my corner,

And try to look as cool as I can.

Pencil in hand, thoughts in a man,

Write them down in a complex-declarative sentence:

“I think, no, I know, that I can win this.”

Perhaps I’m mistaken.

Tics.

Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know.

I’ve got two legs to run one mile.

I’ve got one mouth, should I frown or should I smile?

Nope, nope, nope.

I’ve got a brain to think a thought, connect every little misplaced dot.

Yup, yup, yup.

It’s exactly what I sought.

I’ve got carbohydrates and sugary fragments,

Questions, arguments, guesses and hypothesis-es,

But, but, but,

My lungs have air and medication,

My mind’s got work and meditation,

My hands have tools and procrastination,

My feet have socks, and I’ve got lots, but my heart’s got what?

My heart’s got tics. And tocs. Quite akin to clocks, but it wouldn’t hold up time if it stopped.

Whatever, it’s not my problem.