I represent the head that is also a pumpkin, sitting at your doorstep

Photo by Taylor Foss on Unsplash
I wake up on my body's time, 
not a time permitted, 
I didn't ask permission,

I like to watch the stars
shoot each other.

Mangle me now, I dare you. I've run away. I've seen the sky for the first time. I don't choose burdens with cattle,
I don't seek to be yoked with those
who insist I pull harder,
I am full, large and bloody, I bear kisses as though my breath doesn't stink, I talk as though I haven't slurred, the tax collector collected and I'm wealthy,
The paper burned
bearing my name and my picture defaced
that's been buried
have appeared on my enemy's dresser

The carved pumpkins
on doorsteps laugh with me,

I don't represent the cemetery,
but skeletons applaud,
Their bones rattle,
their rags swish
in caskets.
I'm on top
and I bear the light for them.

Flames whip my skull from
inside. Don't be fooled.

I hear crickets talking,
persistent till Aten grabs
them by the throat
to tell them there's tonight
but not today.

The window blinds gave my girlfriend stripes
that change by the minute
and I believe I purchase mine
at the dollar store
along with liquid they dare call coconut
I wear leopard print
to fit in at parties
because my altering form confuses.

This is a time for ticker tape

Men standing at the corner
keep throwing rose petals at me.
They won't stop. They say,
I wrote you a birthday card.
I ask, what for?
They say I need to eat
and get more sleep.

People playing basketball
shout when I walk by,
they ask why I haven't stopped
to practice my jump shot.
One of them offers me a soft drink.

Eat, they all say.
Sleep, they all say.

Barbers attack me with clippers
every 3 days.
A random at the bus stop
tried to give me a massage.

People keep breaking
into my apartment to fluff my pillows.

Eyes rarely follow me when I appear
in button down and slacks form,
they're rather led
by a waving car shop balloon figure
called by the wind.
Breathers lack the visual variety,
a product of humanity manipulated
more funnel for vision.

Listen to the crackle,
the flame my mouth emanates
and let me know if your back nerve
is rattled by night creatures
huddled in the corner of your bedroom.
I speak for them.
I represent the head
that is also a pumpkin,
sitting at your doorstep,

The rare anomalous burn
is found on your morning
paper. When no one is looking,
I'll speak to you,
when the moon is out
to outline the wire branches
choking the sky.
Witch laughs reflect
from parked cars.
They are in partnership
with me also,
an association of ghouls
with glossy cards
whose hands emerge
from laptop screens
at computer stores.
I've run away to join
the prestigious collaborative
of the skull and bones screen saver.
incorporating lava into your
everyday technology.

The secret invasion by tulips who are here to take over America

A gift from the flower dons
Photo by Catia Climovich on Unsplash


Secretly, there is a plan for tulips to take over America. They’re elegant and you can buy them for people, but it’s all a great conspiracy by the flower dons, who sit behind desks, who rub their hands together, thinking, how can I make the world more beautiful? I’ll give the world tulips.

They just walk around in their suits, the tulips dons, handing people flowers for no reason. Sometimes the flower recipients are annoyed. They don’t necessarily want to carry tulips in their hand. But most people just take the flowers.

Once, George got up from a restaurant table to use the restroom. And, when he came back, there was a room full of people with flowers, showering him with them.

George, have these flowers, one said.

Thank you, Ron.

George, have these flowers.

Thanks, Judy.

George, have these flowers,

Thanks, have these flowers

Thanks, Jules.

On the ritual went, late into the next morning.

It wasn’t death, but you’d hope them considerate enough to bring a wheel barrow to allow you to take the flowers home. Is this what flower dons get to? Who started this strange tradition? You see, it all started on the park steps on Union Square. The first victim of flower bombing was hit and the strange trend caught on like a storm. People would outdo each other, the stunts more grandiose and extravagant.

Butterflies play with your eyebrows

This is one of the butterflies that plays with your eyebrows.
Photo by Boris Smokrovic on Unsplash
Weirdo, I know what you're thinking,
when butterflies play with your eyebrows.
You think it excusable to have them
do so. I tell you that it is
so tell the butterflies go for it.

It is afternoon sometime in Paris.
I hear it's a cool city,
but I don't know. My mind
is now dedicated to another location,
within walking distance of the train el
and the rhythmic thumping
of passing hours.

I'll light a lantern and venture
to the woods, barely seeing the traces
of monster faces when my eyes are closed,
but i am in the land of bricks and concrete
when conscious.

Nature is still indeed my nature,
the scraping on leaves against
street also natural,
created by someone like I,
created by someone of nature.

Take me, the dull street creature,
seeing the shiny teals and purples
of mine subtler.

I want you to take me
to the sewer to the stink
of this planet. It helps me to live
to see the clothing hung out on lines,
it helps me live
to hear glass breaking,
though the crack brings
to sight exploding
the place I heard the gunshot.  


A discarded letter from your toxic ex

Photo by Radoslav Bali on Unsplash
My eyes once dropped like cartoon anvils
but now my cage is struck
whenever demons mock the trinity
and my cable resets
and those without early work
wake the neighbors with vintage soul tracks.

What I do is I order tacos,
I scribble while I can 
till the warm day I pop out
and somebody pops me. 

A pact was made with lesser beings
who sometimes come to my dreams
to tell me things, all useless,
but the years no longer grow heavy
and the voice who recounted stories
 of my childhood beating
and the day I slipped while running
on ice no longer talks to me.

I walk the park and I feel the park likes me,
its sun beats my face to shiny eye me
so that I'm hypnotized by its glitter
in the leaves.

I walk purples of flowers,
her beside me,
our trail emitting foliage, a forest
with grass the color of pearls.

I don't expect you to understand
the mythical creature conjured
that is my aura,
it has horns and paws.
its fur is thick 
so that if you kill my spirit
your feet can feel its rug.
You, human-like can tell stories
of how I once roamed the land,
a unipanigriffinipanicorn,
luxurious is how your guests would describe it,
in your no shoe household.

I once had respect.
I once ate mangoes with the greatest of men,
we held the mangoes up, took bites
from them and had mango parties,
we threw the mangos
and mangoes were thrown at us, 
which hit our cheeks softly.
We drank Mango wine.
We dipped our cups
into a mango pool sourced
from a mango fountain.
But I didn't know how to maneuver,
cutting into neat slices
rather than eating messy.

What I do now is I order tacos,
if you think about it,
isn't so bad.

Yesterday tomatoes fought

Photo by Brenna Huff on Unsplash
Yesterday tomatoes fought and made sauce of one another,
using tin cans for armor, their insides barely spilled. You will consume
the perfect tomato. You will add
it to your consciousness.
Your consciousness is now a pizza,
a pizza with a top hat,
a pizza made of empires
of pepperoni,
radiating extra cheese.
oozing countenance,
twirling its cane
as it descends down your throat.

Authentic, dark and dirty is the undercurrent surfed

Dark and dirty apartments like mine which I live in proudly.
Photo by Sunrise on Unsplash
It's impossible not to be changed by my old, humming fridge,
sturdy, unphased by its lack of futuristic appeal,
a white box born cool, not yet collected
for the landfill, still eating my ice cream
and vomiting it out on command,
talking the way it talks-- brrrrr

Authentic, dark and dirty,
Authentic, dark and dirty,
so I've been born an ugly man,
too awkward and too nerdy,
long dead before I'm killed,
a hungry zombie unfulfilled,
I want to eat your brains,
I want to eat your brains.

It's impossible not to be changed by my gray walls.
They look at me. I look back at their molding, furrowed,
it seeks to browbeat me, but I can't be cowed.
I shall not be mooed.

My hand bursts from my dirty home,
I walk slow, but you're bound to trip
over your tasteless garden gnome,
into your your shoulder I will rip
with fake teeth I've been buried with,
my life spent with poor dental health
won't save you from my undead grip
I belch out pieces of a belt.

I've matured the way my old apartment matures
with an old tub better than those recent,
deep, deeper than pooled learning
of performers in conference rooms presenting
with software built by builders building babel 
shaken by thunder, struck by light inevitable,
confusing establishment upholders,
their hierarchy undermined
by a fart I let out in the bath.  

Aliens, baseballs and bullsh**

Baseball game, enjoyable, but it ends.
Photo by Mike Bowman on Unsplash
There might be something in there of value that I can take,
taken by this delusion I am daily,
thinking that my lazy earnestness will suffice
for the cars and the shops and the vendors
of gaudy goods,
thinking my earnestness will compete
with snowy television sounds and the pissy subway.
Maybe I'm not for here, where I've gotta impress,
but for some alien world where big purple 
trees bend down to feed you fruit punch,
where the aliens invite you to random dance parties
in which the moves don't matter 
but enjoyment does. 
It's not so bad to not love people 
as it is to consider people not worth loving.
What you'd have to think about is that
the sun peaks through every once in a while.
You can go to a baseball game and enjoy it,
but you've gotta remember to really take in the baseball game
because there are only so many innings 
and then you've gotta do something else,
maybe buy some mouth wash or write a bad poem.

I won’t smile

A neon sign, spelling out the words "say cheese" because it's an appropriate way to tell people to put on a fake smile.
Photo by Wyron A on Unsplash
I will not smile for smiling's sake
if there's nothing to smile about,
I do not care if in my wake
are lots of people walking out,
I will not smile to ease your pain,
your pain should be by you addressed,

If I'm sad I tend to cry
and I sweat when I am stressed,

I take to me reality,
not woo that I will manifest,
I do not scratch where there's no itch,
I do not laugh at corniness,
I don't look at the posts online
and agree because it's a trend
and find agreements echo most
among the fakes that some call friends,

I might laugh at your disrespect,
but not because you told a joke,
but that you have a clown effect
and so my humor's been provoked,

I'd rather hear a good sad song
than empty, bubbly, chorus lines,
but every creature is born free
so, if you're stupid, I'll be fine,

I alienate by saying my truth,
a truth that's not in you instilled
so I lay dusty on the shelf
an effective but bitter pill,

have a gummy sugar coated,
wake up feeling pained and bloated,
cure it all with ancient chants,
not so quiet, be full throated,
buy rose quartz and amethyst
and wonder why your health's eroded,
keep playing at spiritist
clutch the charm that you have kissed,
with the saints we do not play,
mocking spirits do exist,
talk to them if you insist,

but far away from me.

The restaurant is closed

A menu someone is looking at... forever
Photo by Amanda Vick on Unsplash
If I'm rejected, why surprised I leave,
When I'm neglected, that I fill the void,
If you killed it, why then should I grieve,
it's natural, when insulted, I'm annoyed,
so low am I that I won't sit and wait
for you to stroke your chin, to hmm and ha,
My grave will come while you deliberate
a mile long beard would grow upon my jaw,
I won't persuade nor engage in debate,
Plus hesitate to me equals a no,
less honorable to whimper at the gate,
I think I'd better take my things and go.
The menu sits for years beneath your nose,
Stay choosy but the restaurant is closed.

A prism held to my flame

A prism, which divides light into the spectrum
Photo by Sasha • Stories on Unsplash
Some mornings I wake up with my eyes red,
pressed like orange juice and likewise strained
(when the yellow liquid's gone you're dead,
a green dumpster will carry your remains)
Sometimes, when you're picked from out the blue,
you feel a royal wrapped in indigo,
Plucked, like you're a violet when it's new,
when you're withered, out the vase you go,
If I'm chosen, I don't really care,
in the cabinet must my hand reach
get the eyedrops, clear my eyes and stare
past others' discernment so my speech 
is light that's not through flattery inspired,
sourced instead from my internal fire.