Chaparallel

Axiom of the Week

Wesley Davis — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 02:16:42 +0000

If the concrete were to care
whom of my choice and challis
follows
up the gravel grade as steep
as my concern for anything,
than I would be elated to find you
standing there.

I’ve always wondered if they
ravel the same thoughts
among their brains;
tip-toed in the same context and
challenge to understand what
just exactly
they had in mind when walking up the hill.

They must think some of the same things:
they must come to realize the cacti plunging
it’s Suessian limbs, and yellow needles out
toward their faces.
They must have smelled the residue of oil
from the cars,
as it had been boiled from sunlight’s graveyard shift
across
the earth.
They must have come to the same conclusion
about my hands, as I of theirs.

Time and travel, two issues making
time together short apart from
where we are when we’re at home.
I’ve fled into the valley only once -
and I don’t say much
concerning what and whom I found
throughout the twist of concrete,
stucco, and thorned crowbars
rusted red.

Posted in Poetry

To: Self

Wesley Davis — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 01:46:47 +0000

This universe was not made for you.
You are unallocated in list of
Participators and only consume… and we’ve entirely forgotten about you.
You do nothing.
You deserve an even smaller potion of happiness than the
Everything you neglect,
A unit so close to zero, it can only be limited to
The lowest number you can squeeze out of
your tube.

Most of the doors are shut at your approach, and we’re
Glad to see your nose close, but far
From the other side of plexi.

If they destroy you, and when they will –
Nothing will happen; you’ve allowed the science
And majesty of prediction to take the place of
Sweet, unreasoned faith.

Die, fruitless laborer. Crumble into your dry skin and
Rot.
Snap your femur with the flat plate of head-bone
Before you go,
And limp… limp into the dark underworld you hardly deserve,
But where else can they put you?

Posted in Poetry

“Not right now”

Wesley Davis — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 01:40:43 +0000

This grudge of time is ratio only
As I want some other time to be
Present and the little minutes of ‘happier,’ or just
“not right now,” filtering through my
Spindley little fingers, just as if to say ‘they’re mine.’

Gradient from wall to vision, cannot shorten,
Replay or lengthen. The sum component of existing,
Is that we must exist at all, and if
Not existing we
accomplished nothing since
The fall.

Posted in Poetry

Porcelain and Promise

Wesley Davis — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 01:37:43 +0000

The daily, steamed appraisal waiting for
Porcelain and promise –
That I can show the plum-drum ritual of how
I think we all think of ourselves, and our lives
So well described on forearms and
Four legs.

I’d like to be remembered, at all times –
And is that selfish?
I want my eyes and cheeks longed after,
Put left-side along the brain where the gray flesh can
Exponentially warm it’s overlapping, flapping…
Flittering recollections of how I think I
Remember you.

But we don’t talk long enough to furnace
These thoughts, or have them
At all – but instead – and this is where my bruised skull
Has versed, traversed and gone reverse –
What we do instead: is nothing.

Posted in Poetry

Origin and Source

Wesley Davis — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 20:40:34 +0000

I only thought it grew inside me
and I struggle
understanding
that when I go to pull it out,
the throat-made object taking
out from world to word and fowl
digression… makes us say the same thing twice,
every day we stand in front of our teeth,
and behind our apprehensions:

“It’s much safer,” I produced, highly and
repeated, “to not do anything at all.
I don’t like my feet and steps they take,
Don’t like my words… the sounds they make -
the day, the Dawn,
the swirl and proud lung
carrier from a sloth of what we see.”

It’s on the lonely step outside,
that I am truly called for nothing -
and this is when the beast should find me
crawling,
gnawing, crazed for mirth.

Posted in Poetry

Shell

Wesley Davis — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 17:41:16 +0000

make a new shell -
larger -
and made of bone,
where the one before
was an empty can;

more resiliant,
you’ll find -
with more abundance to
discovery, brand
and recreated out of the
same stuff
to make
new stuff.

– Post From My iPhone

10/19/2009

Wesley Davis — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 03:32:18 +0000

I believe that I have little choice about my life, and that it will inevitably ensue in the only direction I believe it can. I don’t believe I make any conscience decisions about being myself, but that it just sort of happens. I wake up in the same bed every morning, and very little changes. I am very afraid of myself, and don’t touch many of my belongings. A cup with a lingering line of milk will sit for several years, and the rats have chewed through my clothes that fell off their hangers and were never put back. I want to get high – not from any addiction – but I can’t stand the emptiness lingering between each thought. I stop typing, and look at what I’ve written; I can hardly believe these are my thoughts.

But of course they are. No one in the world would claim them, and that is why I believe I will live no other life than one whom is composed and controlled by such troubling contemplations. The physical world is a strange environment, and one I have difficulty processing. My vision and sense of smell are quite intact and functioning among par, but I cannot help but feel evaded from the actuality of what is in front of me. I am so caught up in getting caught up, that no thought truly can be credited against another.

This demon of mine is to discredit myself at all costs. If I can explain exactly why I cannot accomplish one thing, than I simply won’t have to do it. No one administers me, and I allow no one to administer me as well. I am a thinly boy, unkept and disillusioned by the mess he leaves at every station. I need to be put to sleep, or poisoned. I endorse all attempts to inflict pain on my body, for what is the use of my body but to be reminded it is here to accomplish no good or selfless act? There can be no greater waste of resource than any subject of matter wasted on me. Please, send the hounds.

Posted in Poetry

Stems

Wesley Davis — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 18:49:46 +0000

Put a hair above the lip and
Walk on into parking lots -
Garages where our steel is stored – and
Take me apart,
Knowing my elements like
Cool sensations of refuge and
Excuse.

The traffic made the 8 dashed
Lanes impervious to the
Flood of force,
Unleashed and unrelenting
Sun to blame,
And all the billion
Infentesimal
Made us do nothing
Behind the wheel.

– Post From My iPhone

Santa Rosa

Wesley Davis — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 23:18:50 +0000

You have all the sense and
Matter-making sound of
Lip progressed decision talking…
I’m so much better on concrete
With the orange lamp light o’er head,
And the bic in tiny fingers
To draw throughout my forearm palette;
And just in case I change my mind,
I can lie and be deceitful, using
The same street for the same dry, deedless
Sacrament we made.

The old man with his old dog, in the
Center of the street offered
Wine erotically,
as the thing he does – and does to us –
In his quiet and quietly.

“No thank you,” and the bic and tiny fingers
Sketch roots among the surfaced veins, and
I recall a fast blood paced-beat
Resulting from the pen.

I didn’t fall in love that night – among the Spanish
Streets near by -
the shapeless vapor ‘tween
our space, removed,
and towards
the sky.
The hallways from the
houses there,
breathed with candle-light
While we both
made the name Maria something
whorish, and
self-hollowed.

– Post From My iPhone

Visit

Wesley Davis — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 23:18:32 +0000

I was in the middle of pronouncing
Myself, and
Shaking every tree-trunk thigh
For focus and for pair of eyes.
On all conditions of the clock,
I have the sweating
Pulse of know -
and to know -
Here at my stadium
and stage.

– Post From My iPhone

Straight Mother

Wesley Davis — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 04:55:47 +0000

What I need, I can’t even find
Or make with
What i got – but from what
I do daily, they’ll let me walk
Around and buy shit
That puts it to rests,
Wakes, restores, demands
And retrieves.

Install to me the functions
I’m without – and
pitch and trough,
from squirrel to sloth,
I keep my blood excusing
Itself towards
Some new-slower-faster
Melodia.

– Post From My iPhone

Harm

Wesley Davis — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 01:37:53 +0000

Desiring to pledge this time
Towards my ultimate sum -
and at my end,
when looking back is
Savoured in one exhale
of rusty vapour …
I want at least, the senseless
to be, each, a necessary step
between -
and not… not
how I am and have been: as
the dropped-jaw,
consume-agent
of sin.

– Post From My iPhone

Furrow

Wesley Davis — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 01:23:48 +0000

Galaxy of idealistic
Proportions, and
Bound to refuge any
Day I want,
As if wanting was all the
Warrent needed
To consume all and be
Retarded.

– Post From My iPhone

Drug Money

Wesley Davis — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 01:35:30 +0000

The generational dissmisal
Of human
Creative authenticity.

– Post From My iPhone

Liars and Perverts

Wesley Davis — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 05:33:15 +0000

I was seven when the tribulation ended. The Messiah, at age 836, died of heart palpatations in his Temple in Moscow. All that came heard in shuffled whispers first in hallways, or in the public bathrooms. The adults and sensors used there words sparingly, like infrequent, thin little birds darting between angled ear clams. Few of us seemed to care, and reluctantly passed on information to the uninformed with a breathy dillusion of skeptiism and boredum. Were the masses really finished? A week later and the Sensors had an explonation, after a thorough examination.

– Post From My iPhone

Plus Empathy

Wesley Davis — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 06:32:45 +0000

There are several of us
When there’s a throng left of them…
Took our seats in the corner,
and played the scorpio again.

Falling over at the sound of my name,
It’s not my skin, or what red’s beneath

This fills time like silicone, but
This diffsuion beats being alone,
our maker makes

– Post From My iPhone

Confessing

Wesley Davis — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 08:57:06 +0000

When I could be home and
Feel elated around
The hundred things that smell familiar…
Know how much light can
Fiend from curtains to be blood-blue,
Steel regalia
In this lost day and recall when
I had my lip pierced promoting
Each succulence with a sweet return,
and finally… fall asleep alone.

– Post From My iPhone

Posted in Poetry

More than Mote

Wesley Davis — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 08:45:56 +0000

Hold it to my face as
Part of steam to feel from fingers
Longing from a lingering
We endured since we
Left my house and
What sweat was made
Was made colder, damper and
Sheen
Like how I remeber walking onto
Unknown lawns in
Mornings made in bronze and seeing
So many familiar drops
Of nightly reign that
I could repeal the sun-ward taste of
Light
Taste nothing save disease
And be on my feet on Friday nights
Where the color is not drawn
By carried by the hair and
Dragged.

– Post From My iPhone

Winners

Wesley Davis — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 17:25:45 +0000

I will perish eternally for the
Thing I cannot control temporally.

– Post From My iPhone

Lethargy Kingdom

Wesley Davis — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 17:24:40 +0000

The perfectly contrasted siloghette against the blue shell moon produced the illusion of wiry fangs erupting out of the face of a haggard, faux-crippled vagabond. I had seen her at the intersection of Mariscos and Loma Linda enough times to point out her jagged contuors. Only because of the moon, and the angle of her action was the phenomenon embellished: Dark, enamel pupils glowing lifelessly. With this phen she checked both directions of the street, then shifted her lifeless posture and tightens in a coup of arthritic fragrence that was both painful and artistic from my vantage.

Argh… To be continued..

– Post From My iPhone

De la Chapralla

Wesley Davis — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 03:58:23 +0000

From the chappral’s green, brown and gold
Come men,
With the soot from their sin in the curve of their eye.

From the first stem of light through the crest in the earth,
Curl each bud like the turn of a fin.

The draw from the drug, and the pull of the strings
Was my willingness to interupt

and be tired and vacant, a glutinous vagrant
While the purity learns to erupt.

– Post From My iPhone

Dabble

Wesley Davis — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 21:25:02 +0000

Using more than nails
To pull more everything but sleeves
Up my skinny arms.

– Post From My iPhone

Timing isn’t everything, but it’s about time

Wesley Davis — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 19:42:30 +0000

I’m wrong and ill-completed
when I step out of the bone frame
lugged machinery… I bore…
taking my rotation ’round
the paralleling programs of
self help as so
many others
seemed to fit.

I stay like this for reasons -
while never was content
stepping over clothes and
into eventually a
wanton rut for machinations.

– Post From My iPhone

Fume

Wesley Davis — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 17:52:58 +0000

Thinking that
I can crawl from beds like this,
and assuming we really fear
the hall and not the stranger,
Who would want to be
with all their skin, a matter
of sled-ridden dogmas
that do nothing to the senses,
even less unto the hour,
and absolutley nothing towards the tenses.

– Post From My iPhone

Mustard Blue Raptilia

Wesley Davis — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 22:57:16 +0000

I can feel around the mustard
blue
raptilia-silk drawn drape;
a whicker torn basket to
lose all amorphic
sage, until, at last,
resolving still,
I’ve become used
To all this light.

I spoke a little Spanish and
could translate parts of speech,
but for the most part…
we smoked in back seat (as
a species great with hands and
wordless in everything else).

An instrument for Makers
kept me high on
aspirations
and
appropriation for our ceaseless
mediocore
that would sprinkle for
another… What?
20 years to date?

– Post From My iPhone

Roamer

Wesley Davis — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 09:00:07 +0000

A gear turned mechanism found
In most felines is cause
for all this
Drilling into face
And bone-fence
Chest-devine.

of course the guitar’s releaseing
like the endless needle scratching
‘gainst a flats of skin…
for what else cant keep us talking?

The small one drinks three that
belong to no one so long
as they are taken by anyone
in the time -
I use that word so
appopriately,
unaware (at least), that
I have no idea of time,
and I probably look weird
In white shoes… thinking about time
as if
I am the Adam to appoint the Atoms
towards each ecstasy
I feel… drawing tension to itself
and saying it’s time that’s spent
while
Doing all the wrong things,
apparently.

Outside and in garages, and
Slung lifeless over couches,
Slumped and warped as
Erosion of the bodies… anyways,
thats where we were:
when this trip had first
made sense, and
Could be called at once: a thing,
or class to be
Defined… and then
Referred to:

remember when three
less than now, we
made the point so well that:
we
were Great Pines with
bloodlust for tinsel,
Worship,
Ornaments and our
Ritual and sacrifice… of
Some posture of ’self.’

well I’m much different now,
I think:
a sorta
revisted kin in tight
garments choices
Keep deciding… until
some overwhelming tune
Of ’self’
Seems even less apparent.

– Post From My iPhone

Either the Baest or Best of Pharoh

Wesley Davis — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 05:07:50 +0000

Either the belt
Of fans
or the low
Belt of
Leather strung-
Dry-trachea-
Heaves of sulfur and
Suffer finite into
phantasms into
of a
wordless
Vapor I would hate to
Breathe in slowly.
……………………………………………..
the low behemoth drumming, now,
below the glossy mire
wounds the pitch-drip droplets forming
from blue mountains
melting slowly
under two twine-twirling amber
plasmatic wraiths on orbit bound.

– Post From My iPhone

Following Tall People into Taller Grass

Wesley Davis — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 03:55:38 +0000

As long as they’re not me,
And not without all these ruptured -
Crumbed parts:
A mechanism of choice I know, but
The sense of change’s
Demanding.

Anyways: so long as they are
different, better
Whole and packaged
From the kings and queens, then
We must be down
To do nothing
But fither into their ficket.

– Post From My iPhone

Concept

Wesley Davis — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 06:19:41 +0000

When it started, it
Started because I kept finding
Myself amung the twilight
intruders, with their bronze rust
Chest machine beneath the
Rupture of my body, and
I can only
Slightly
Hold my arms up.

In well below my lungs
Is where this phenom
Is stored,
And restored again…
Wanting to be bellowed to my
Lowest and my knees taken
From the responsibility
Of defying gravity.

I want it all to be devoured
From something that
Can return from
Cages
and have the urgency that
Cages
Often supply us all.

– Post From My iPhone

My Greatest Fear

Wesley Davis — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 06:09:11 +0000

I could be staring down the
Paper-towel roll, and
The thin white circle feels
Like the only… but I do more
Than spend these
Minutes focused
Onto the edge of steel, so
That all the force that comes of us
Being what we are, comes down
And the blade can divide
The smallest,
Most alienated,
Stranded and
Empty conceptual contentments for living:
That after all I can do, and
After what I didn’t,
Feeling
All the blue-drawn air and half the gods…
Maybe I’m always wrong.

– Post From My iPhone

White Road

Wesley Davis — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 22:57:31 +0000

White road as it can only be seen
At this point;
So much of it had been
Made so many times, that
I make it a sort of light seen
Always from it’s first incision,
Walking home from school and mission,
Swiping cigarettes from earth
That fed the half smoked entities
Like little white and plumeless shrooms.

I’m walking the same way home today -
From work -
And very little changed.

– Post From My iPhone

A Matter of Feet

Wesley Davis — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 18:34:01 +0000

When they catch on to
The warrent boldened by my product
Lugged around from sharper elbows
Than you,
Than they
Will waste no time, for reasons similar
To mine that keep me blowing
Vague plumes of indecision
In your direction.

At least, it’s much easier on my hands
When I think like this.

– Post From My iPhone

Timing

Wesley Davis — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 17:25:21 +0000

I can hope to be
Plunged into the coldest, bluest water -
Held from the neck and spine, and
Account for myslef seven million times as the thumping
Proceeds in desperation…
The functionality of lungs a thing of
Wanton, selfish need and that too
Can be stiffened.

With mouthfulls and no where to put them,
The verbless vapor of my profane -
No longer the throat-flung
Plague -
Subsides, and the universe
Relaxes in one susurous
Hale of gingavitus.

– Post From My iPhone

Nile Denial

Wesley Davis — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 19:36:06 +0000

Profit is the pharoah’s
Tomb, And what
Was hoped to have in hell;
Profit is what never swims
The pool of action -
A resting, swelling, and
untouchrd node.

The pharoah understood
This empty,
When he understood the infinite -
But try and use a dollar there:
The gods exchange in sin…

– Post From My iPhone

Stove and Oven

Wesley Davis — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 19:44:52 +0000

No longer steel and slender
Face recovered from
The low behemoth to be
Dealt with after everyone leaves…
And how
We’re always left alone in rooms with our
Fingernails and teeth to be
Reckoned with by all the grit and soil
Gathered and collected -
Hoping to be joined in summer,
Found in fall, and if not
Softer by spring, to
die by December.

– Post From My iPhone

Travel

Wesley Davis — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 04:43:39 +0000

A level night from my
Rehtoric evening,
Accumulated sharply
From the sharper things I said
Between, before and after
I was so vulgar – and
More

– Post From My iPhone

Unique

Wesley Davis — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 04:36:01 +0000

To often see the ‘why’s’
When making
What we’ve leaned more
Than the rest…
Never taking time to
Contradict our occupation
Thought to be the etching in the
Skullplate bone.

– Post From My iPhone

Radio

Wesley Davis — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 07:14:48 +0000

More than noises
Down the stairs, coming from
The lapse of verbs I hear
Like more intensive subjects
Aesthetically filing through their words…
and finally deciding
That my contribution -
Limited -
Could be the total net affect;
But I keep on this internal crunch.
I’m told,
Kills more than mindlessness.

– Post From My iPhone

Prevent Nothing

Wesley Davis — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 19:23:54 +0000

We who shrivel in the green
Amorphous dial,
Lunge with words from low and bitter bile
Held in the gut – the dire wolf and mutt
To plug steel after steel into Christian bellies
Like the vicodin in ours.

Here again this year
The canine from that chaparrall
Comes from his knuckles and
The carpet, a wreath of red around
The cornea, and the steam around our feet
Means more recklessness than moisture -

Our war as well for us
Inside the constitution -
Take the liars and the whores
Out of recital and we swear with all our
Weightless words, to
Quit our limp piles
Praying postures.

– Post From My iPhone

Rarity

Wesley Davis — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 17:05:28 +0000

Holographic fox tail darting,
Gone… a fiebt of my most natural thought:
That I could have a thought all,
Spawn an indagered figment
Just when I sit down to strip
The filment of their needs away
Like snake skin that only makes it
Easier to be burned for all hell, and
Make nice with other ground dwelling
Whore-people.

– Post From My iPhone

Appendix

Wesley Davis — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 01:16:57 +0000

We can go and check the mail or
Stay in our rooms
While the solstace turns irregularly,
And we want all affects to dilute their
consequences, making sure that
we can always stick around and be
Whom who waits formail – or doesn’t -
But can think of all the ways
To be terminated and
Removed – the same silver fingers doing
The work of thousands and
Thousands of years of
territorial evolution.

– Post From My iPhone

Elliot from the Steam

Wesley Davis — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 04:37:50 +0000

Elliot from the steam – guy liked to steal – made of curves and crescents from his low hanging arms, bowed legs and slpaintered fingers – stands within the threshold. The floresence from beyond him… shears away these black, what are they? Pockets? They hang more like seaweed from my arms, glinting all sorts of sapphiric tones… Lovely sometimes. Most of the time I toss to one side and everyone’s minutes whizz by like a furry of flat images replacing one another. The dense stone of his body, being held like one in the emptyness of space I always venture…. It’s weight enough for me to plummet onto some other orbit.. a swing around a futile planet and then the etheral thrust into a sort of recklessness the angels use as a high.

Sometimes I find a salty lobe while I am off… being half myself – and I can grip it to wince the heaving figure I sometimes find sleeping next to me. I don’t know any other boys, but girls find me some mornings – I get fedl soup from familiar hands whenever they come by. But mostly I’m alone.

Elliot in the threshold… can hear him ripping away at
marajauna… making all sorts of crumbs. I precieve the noises in my head as he proceeds to make all the green and purple twilights burn a gold æmber. The bedsprings and then my ribs adjust as he collapses with the gray torment still in his writhing cavity.

I clasp my lips to his, and press and make them flat. Their’s moisture and I can only imagine it could be his. The coil of silver keeps it’s form as it archs between esophogi… and my dry plasma responds with all the verve of creation. Elliot from the steam, breathes fire in my throat and drowns in my abdomen… comes in smelling like clean vegtables and Red Bulls… made of gold beneath the skin, or at least a kind of metal – absolves the coldest end of the bed with all that blood and breathing and especially when he isn’t there.

Do you remember that movie? I know where we can find it.

which movie?

The one with the girl who loses her face, and her father with the knives kills girls to take their faces. It’s from the World War 2 time, when everything was so prestine, and entire kitchens could be ordered from catalogs. We can buy that movie.

I remeber that movie, it’s French, right? –

and I drive the valor of his words through the gaps I’ve made between my teeth -

Yeahhhhh… that one, well we can buy it and watch it. I
Missed you.

But he doesn’t answer, just sorta makes these little noises on my neck. I missed you too, he finally says, making those hot ‘hales on my face. I’ve tasted so much of him already, I feel my particles enriched with whatever it is he brings.

He does something with a blanket, wraps around and round around me. With what I got I put myself beneath him… make sure he’s between my legs when I can’t hold up myself.

I fall asleep somewhere near the middle, kept waking up wrapped up in all sorts of Elliot. I never have him – but now I have everything that he is. With what these thinned arms can lasso is fucking mine. Please fin my glasses, and he doesn’t respond until he finally says they’re on the bed stand, and he holds my hand and places the brittle little insect in the center.

So fucking gorgeous, I say when I can see him. I have nothing to get my hand to his face, so I think abou it and imagine all the bristles and fine bone. Elliot, so far away, steps off the bed and his posture is taken through the threshold and into the floresence.

I wake up and he is either their, or was never there at all. Most of the time the phone rings and it’s a black voice, ending every sentence with an inflexion. Other times I step out onto the porch and squint until I reach the Starbucks. Rucko’s got this blue shit, and I haven’t really thought about switching back to bars… Tasste too muchike ground hoof.

But I have written poems – my best – in the summer, on the porch, after I’ve handed my twenty to Rucko. I have a whole stack of paper on the nighstabd or in the drawer – some are in the pockets of my sweats, folded eight times long. – an the rest are in the minnie-fridge that I’ve unplugged and used for storage.

Elliot hasn’t read them, but I mean to say something. He just always comes at night, and that’s when the pills drop you, and if I don’t eat or take another, then I have to breathe a lot faster to fall asleep, and sleep for longer.

When I am being fed, I ask about him. Natalie says he has a new sleeve, some sorta pattern. I hadn’t noticed last night. I ask about his band, and have to swallow an entire spoonfull of chickens and noodles.

Sometime with Elliot in the morning, and I have a handful of poems to red, the blue ink coming off the paper: when too much of the rich/blue air I’ve taken,/from the bottles here and/there hung/I get the worst of these machines and/mechanisms I have to/stay alive.

He’s got his fingers all over and across his break, making pink crop lines and he won’t reply. He won’t say a word, and my words have done something. The pretentiousness of my tone, the use of the phrase ’stay alive….. as if someone with so much as the luxury to compose verse is threatened so much by the forces, that th initiation to thrive should ever be implied – he thinks such a fool out of me.

I feel like I know that poem, he finally says. When I pursue any limit, I feel that way; marvelous.

My fingers make lines too, with more opaque and tender tearing of the surface of his skin.

I remeber that day, explicitly. I was walked to the Liqour store and bought him an ice tea, saying I was going to lay down with him tonight – we can lie down, I said with my tongue… I’ve got so much that Rucko can get us, and you’ll fucking get a kick out of him

but I was leaning on a sunglass stand, and it fell over. The Iranian fucker said he would take care of it, and handed me a napkin for the blood, and Elliot took me home.

That night I crawled into his lap on the couch, and listened as he watched tv. He had a hand that he ran through my hair – would stop for like a fucking hour, and then go back. He stole a bracelet and wrestled it onto my wrist. It was silver and weighed a shit ton, but I would keep it for a while – only cuz Elliot would be gone for so long.

Rucko bought the bracelet for a whole bag of the shit he gets from his sister at the Vet shop. He put a pair of yellow, box shaped pills in a different bag and said don’t try those, although you’re gonna want them anyway – just make sure you drink water, you’ll be alright.

And he slapped my ass and hopped the fence.

Everything before the yellow was something I’ve done before and could remember. I remeber tasting rubber or dry slate, or feeling like every sound was too fucking intense and how all the blood can go to my head and I’m thinking of all the steps until starbucks, the words and gestures I use to get some change and how black coffee – steaming like when I know it’s Elliot – can make it all return to before I decided to do anything today.

The cops arrested Murray and Dorian, too. When inwas being fed, i heard I am going to be asked to say what I know about them. I can clean my gray skirt, but I need to go with Elliot. I can’t fucking leave my room and go infront of a judge without him. I don’t care what I’m going to say – I have no idea what I’m going to say. I told Murray and Dorian they would eventually get caught and that’s all I know.

But Elliot doesn’t pick up, or all these number I have written down aren’t his. My sister said she saw him walking, a mile from here, towards his home into the hills. He walks home every day from work, and I can meet him on the street and tell him about Murray. The seven or eight times I sat on the bench along the street he takes when he walks home, I have only seen him once: in the passenger seat of a car.

I lifted my hand, but he didn’t see me and went through the intersection, talking with his hands. I got some change – too leering and diverse to count, and was too afriad to spend it. I think I bought an apple and was able to get down half… left the little half in a bush and kept walking, the sugar and the juices giving me the right kind of lift and exaltation.

In court, I wore my gray skirt and thought for some reason I would run into Elliot – that he probably heard I was going to be asked a whole bunch of confusing questions, and that I would need his help… Remembering dates and putting all the things I went through and misplaced.

They asked more questions than I was answering them. I did not know most of the questions I was asked, and they understood. The judge was very kind and soft spoken… talked with his eyes peering over his glasses, and all those glossy teeth. The PA bought me Mickies… she said I would look lovely with my hair up. Her name was Karly and she told me to call her every day. She kept my hand down with hers, and looked at me with her eyes, just like the judge. Hoping she’ll be one of those people who comes by to feed me, I let her know I love sushi.

And I can taste most of Elliot’s back as if I have the planet and just a starship-tongue… Watching too many cartoons in an apartment that hadn’t moved for two days. Heard it’s gonna rain and I have no pots, or anything to put beneath the sobbing depressions in my ceiling; although I love the terrifying sound of glossy hemmoraghes in the night.

Elliot, can I hold your chin while I wonder off about you? Whether your here or I’m just splashing color on what I can remember – it’s been so long since the court room and the sex – and I just want to put my hand like this and think it’s being resisted at this point by that bone…. carved to the marrow like a narrow splinter I can always taunt with alone. I believe I could sleep from that. And will.

At some points I would become this rank metaphor involving toe nails as increments for what was left of the moon – pastures streaming out in front of my hands and all this light can make me uncomfortable. I chewed on my tongue and tried to listen to the people and try to gain access to their lives merely from the availability of their whore voices. They are always moving in and out of sun-bearing rooms and balconies, with their sex things just waiting to happen.

Wasting time is how all this time without him feels. I started all my sentences with ’sar,’ and forgot the name of my blue bobble… Xanax… Vicodin… Hydrocone: all the prescribed shit sound like Greek Gods that muse me to be there manifest. I shrivel with the density of all that glorious throne.

The women from the courts found my apartment number and liked my music. I think was with her sister, or someone who was every bit the same, but maybe held underwater for maybe a year to acheive that glossy, pale blue skin. She kept holding my head up.. using so many o’s in her words, I feel I counted at least sixty. When I had stopped scratching she left – or maybe the two were because of one another.

Her sisters name was Ema, like the stars. The miracle was that she recovered from meth, and that why she dressed so mice today. Emma’s words turned into all sorts of shapes I could not fit together, and just dropped them on the tile. Fuck puzzles.

That night I held my breast to sleep, feeling the thumping lump like the hand covered execution. I feat bugs most of all. I’m allergic to penecylim and have no way of letting anyone know. I can write it on my skin.. Or you can tell them.

I’m sure I dreamt of Emma, because Elliot hates caves, and I always dream about caves. There was just the acidtone this morning, and that made everything on my mouth go yellow. I ate three apples and felt the stone in my gut, the fist relax, and then Elliot came home.

In the hospital he held my hand to hold a pen.. I thi k to sign some papers. Denny’s DA came in with his mustache and said something about my life. Everything was gray, and then blue and knives with the lights.

They said I had to drink the charcoal, but I said that’s shit.. It only takes a month to get back to when I can look for a job.

– Post From My iPhone

Laden

Wesley Davis — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 17:55:44 +0000

Emptied of heavy arms
Laden
Unnecessarily – like I could be anywhere
Else as anyone other than
Whom has all the time in the universe to be
Anywhere and anyone with no
responsibility.

The haze without the sun is white, and
fills so much like fluid,
Swimming particles of low hung
flakes of skin and hair and I’m sure…
Eventually… so much comes out the
Temperature of cooled baths, that I can
Never be called to be anyone in particular
Anywhere other than here, and
thank god.

– Post From My iPhone

Deserves nothing

Wesley Davis — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 14:52:38 +0000

Deserves nothing of the
Silver-blue array while I
Cannot capacitate the
Bottles and bottles of oxygen and
Space, made all around the room like
Tiny mistakes to be relived like pins and
Sometimes more like
Smaller, driving, dulled rebar through
This surface that belongs to me,
But that I feel
No loss in losing what
I pry.

– Post From My iPhone

Please

Wesley Davis — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 00:54:19 +0000

Pleas do or
Don’t… Just be someone
Who does or doesn’t but
Promotes the end result
During, after or before for
Permenant judgement,
Ridicule, debate, berevery
Or worship.

Or don’t, and be someone who is
Stronger and can implement
Some other instruction;
Just be someone with power
So long as you hVe power.

– Post From My iPhone

One of a kind

Wesley Davis — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 00:44:49 +0000

You are one of a kind of
People who drives a windstar
In between ground breaking
Television programs -
and I’m sure that I stare too,
Thinking a drill should probe this
And every hollow dome,
And sell for parts -
But the world relaxes at
The end of every day,
Ashamed of everything.

– Post From My iPhone

Stomach Fist

Wesley Davis — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 00:19:02 +0000

Stomach-fist clench -
With all the ribbed knuckles
I’m used to seeing on my hands -
Hidden in all that – unimaginable -
For I’ve never gone behind the
Opaque tarp and
Grip the stomach-fist taught.

– Post From My iPhone

Tribute

Wesley Davis — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 22:13:41 +0000

My room, met with
The inkling: I don’t care…
We use what we have,
Run out, and have to
Call and sound like hounds.

I’ll be pressed and steamed to
Slumber,
Hoping all the wrinkled garments
Straighten out in my distractive,
Only state I know of glee.

You worry me, she says -
The one or two times
I recall -
But you’re one of those
Extras, I think less about
Than words.

And thank god, we
Usually just have the nouns
We keep for company.

– Post From My iPhone

Hubble Trouble

Wesley Davis — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 01:22:47 +0000

I was born into
the universe of
Pleasure – shapeless
To any other sum
Of democratic good… Held
As the only prototype to offer…
And this
Is a terrible thing to think,
But i have aged and melded softer,
Turned to gelletin from frame…
Learned the inward thing
should boil, and
By the process of repeated
Past-me-choices hollowing,
Learned I’ll be watched-down…
Translated
Exactly how I meant it: only
Thirteen or so reckless times.

It’s like the accent of a
Spectrum,
When through cornea creates -
Without the shearing black
And white to end them -
An emblem made of warmth,
Construction,
Fervor, gust and no design.

– Post From My iPhone

Verbage

Wesley Davis — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 07:28:31 +0000

What you do while
I wait and swell…
Hide from the sun
And wait as well -

Wouldn’t it seem
A better use of air…
Comparing our carbon,
And breathing our hair?

You’ll learn

I swear more lavish and
I swear a curse i say
Collect from the ancients
Youre overdue purse.

Because

I made a pledge to
Hold onto the wall -
Grit my teeth until they powder,
And wait until it’s solved.

There are

So many wild sensations I have to
Bludgen with trauma force -
I’d love, thin hands to grip when I’m shaking
And company for this course.

Just wait.

– Post From My iPhone