Drew in Zombieland

Get out of that skin and get
into that freedom

strip down
nothing in my pockets

run much slicker, safer
open toed and barely strapped

Fling a thing away
I’m choking collars and belts

spitting teeth plated
enamel too heavy

I want em floating in haze

___________________________________________________

Come on Universe, meet me half way. Feels like you’re not doing your part and letting me flounder about trying to manifest in a vacuum.

And I’m so lonely in my heart, so vacant in my love. Haven’t been touched enough, touch starved.

And no one holds me out as special, out above all else. I am just as unimportant to them as I used to be to myself. I don’t understand intimacy, I don’t know love and affection.

I’m into geriatric anime, my friends are ancient beings from an ugly planet and the idea is to use me and not leave me lying there after you taken me out. These cartoons play shuffleboard and bingo while looking all god-dummies and slippers made of pink rabbits - this is multi-tasking of the irate!

Just don’t leave me and don’t see me at the same time - the eyes I can’t look in or see behind. But I don’t want to be just left out over here.

That thing in the back of my mind that seem to coat everything with dread, has moved to my stomach and makes splinters. I’m not proving myself virile or pancaking my red lines; I’m a cherish and perish, fruit on the vine. I’m not allowed to make sense, these banalities give me distance.

Anger is roiling inside my head and it’s all a fault to steer sociopath’s eyes all over me; judgmental eyes - these robot eyes in particular are bent on straightening me up because my natural tendency is to slack and let it bend and bleed to a silly putty-chunk of flesh - myriad structural pink.

Yay, helpful robotic piston driven brace of all that’s holy isn’t about to let me lead my life. Oil driven and pummeled with looks of little-man, dummy and pork chop. These eyes are all over me when I go somewhere outside and I appreciate that, keeping me in line.

One’s trying to tell me what to do and the other just keeps me from myself. I resist as I ought to, a slave to the contrary.

I’m sore. These eyes are all over me and my helpful robotic piston self.

This is the closet that recedes forever.

And the shoes, oh the shoes that she couldn’t have worn more than once, still smelling ripe with leather and better yet cork and wood and straps with buckles – boxes and bags and cartons of stilts – not a flat among them, not a flip-flop or sandal. This is a real woman’s shoe collection, the heart of a class-affliction and home for close to a king’s ransom or the man’s life of devotion.

You can lay your head gently on them, the arch of the sole a pillow of leather, the fumes so lovely, rising from shoes and the scotch-guard shag, the kind that leaves rug burns to end all stains and don’t lean back too long, don’t stay so naked and don’t you ever let me catch you…

But the real prize lays ahead, the mother-of-all porn boxes full of the seventies, in all their grandeur. Everyone is hairy and everyone is fat and the positions these people take and the piles of flesh and holes and juicy, high-key lighting that makes everyone seem flat and old and cold and flimsy is more than can be handled.

So, base camp is established at the foot of the shoe tree, this Narnia-like orifice is too vast and full of wonder for this naked traveler.

(thank you to http://www.flickr.com/photos/lifeonflower/3438894460/sizes/l)

Crossover: http://www.reddit.com/r/Poetry/comments/8ct0u/reddit_writes_1_15minute_ekphrastic_freewrite_no/c08xe0b

I want to love you but there isn’t
time, not in the pseudo-gloaming

here in the future-life fractured
by latch-free kids, kids who race

on mutant dogs named Spike and
Love-america-style and, of course

Spike always wins. This isn’t just
another excuse it’s the contrite

melodrama I wrote for me when
I was ten so don’t quote me or trust

me to find facts. I learned to feel
from a beaten cat, I learned to dodge

a truth of poor parenting. My apocalypse
is 3 feet long and can last up to nine days,

so don’t leave it to me to find happiness or
water and things that we need. I can

find misery and opiates because that
is what I do, I have no nuclear agenda.

He’s at it again, that town-crier of emotions
too important to leave to word-of-mouth,
bellowing needlessly about monsters and dragons
when I all I want is to sleep.

My drowsy style pounding its fist on the table
trying to mean more to the world. “Wake up wake
up little boy with big hands and big feet,
you got more yelling to do you dry drunk

you bread worshiper, wake up and tell the world
the invisible demons really do exist. You trust
just about everyone and tell them all your soul -
you dry drunk, you swear-mouth, you single-tailed
small mouthed shrimp.”

He’s at it again, mother of all
hangovers, tapping on my eyebrow with a bull whip.
He wants me awake and wants me to take to the streets
on a whim. His days of watching the truth-like

cuckoo’s nest are over. I am his monkey, I must
perform.

I had a dream last night and I never remember my dreams but I was in a place that was a sprawling complex that could be a house or a business or a mall or an airport, who knows because everything is always fuzzy around the edges in my dreams. But this place had a lot of rooms and was full of washing machines, the top loading kind that have the metal lift-lids.

And of course there are monsters but please don’t ask me to describe them either because like everything else in these laborious episodes, they are fuzzy (and I believe that that makes it obvious that it isn’t about the monster but more about what I am doing to myself (don’t ask).)

Did I mention the washing machines are everywhere, along every wall, in every room and the monsters only means of attack? That’s right, the monsters were attacking through the lift-lids of those top loading washing machines. You know that sound they make when they get dropped, that clang? Imagine that sound mixed with some unintelligible groaning and moaning, or is it growling, anyway the dream is filled with that sound.

And I have to find heavy stuff that’s heavy enough to keep the lids down and the monsters out. I have to sort through room after room of random crap, mindless possessions to find something for each top loader heavy enough to keep the monsters out. Seems fairly standard except I wonder what on earth is the point of me having to sort through what amounts to someone else’s junk, possessions. I mean, this is a dream right, I should be doing all kinds of fantastic stuff; I could be flying or a spy or hell, I’d settle for a cowboy at this point. Anything but a rummage sale picker of random objects.

So I’m in my dream bored to tears, in the midst of this not really very anxious quest for weighted items and I realized that they wont be able to push through because they will have no leverage, so i just need light things and can basically use anything to keep the lid down.

That’s was my big revelation. Chew on that. Then I woke up and remembered:

My generation can’t sit still,
they can’t meditate or hear their
stomach over the timbre of their singing; they relax
to a drum set and like sharks they must
always keep moving to stay alive,
always keep moving to stay alive-
geographical fixes, moving without change,
butter the bread where it’s lightest.

Time is relative and hardly worth our energy. Time travel’s even worse because there’s way too much second guessing and way too much haggling over details. They keep telling me to live in the moment to stay in the moment and then tempt with time machines and spacial distortions, luring me to float through space and be devoid of thought, examining the issues and punching the pink-white underbelly.

I am told to not have expectations on who I am or at least not the expectations that came from my unruly childhood. They make me want a ray gun or a sonic blast, I want to sprinkle pixie dust and make the whole world vanish. I see endless space and the event horizon of the most insidiously hidden black holes - this is swirling infinity, these are twisting spirals of broken planets and scalded moons with desperate astronauts plugging golf clubs and stabbing flags into moon dust.

I don’t have any need for love, I don’t have oxygen to share, I’m Pickens-riding towards Earth on a rocket to end it all and I’m in the middle of two separate times, stuck. I can’t see the time, the effort and the energy I am suppose to be in..everything is off kilter by a smidge and this is the mathematical term. I don’t know what should be done. I am not a unique snowflake. The Universe is cold and lonely but remains out there, round and alive. These are my assumptions now, my childhood rules have finally burned out.

Time stood still when I focused. My voice trailed off but, you couldn’t have heard me anyway.

Running against that wind that always comes up because it does what it does and I’m not running anymore, not running any more to do and away from everything that made anything less than anything away…No wait-

I’m sorry, I’m not here, here, let me make it up to you, let me make it up to you, let me make it up to you this way, I’m not saying let me make it up but let me make it up to you and you can stay and stay.

Come to me, with me, to me and you can come to me and we can be together so, come to me with open arms and come to me with open eyes and come to me means not just come to me but come to me with me for me.

And start presenting it that way, you presented it that way and presents or presence or prescient but presenting it that way just presents it that way and so it presents it some way that I’m unaware of…

And we’ll carry on and carry on and carry on cause that is what we’ll do too, carry on. You carry on and on and on about things but start working things out because that is what we do; that is what we do when we do what we do.

And I’ve stopped running it this way, running this this way, a way, another way than the way that we’d been doing it all before, the way we’d been running things and now we’re running things this way and nothing ever more.

I vanish into the veneer like a champ to avoid
the She that holds sway over my inhabitants.
These are simple folk who speak in tongues of
those who raise pitchforks, those who storm
holds and keeps; they yell at her, reject her first
I’m vibrating between realities of close and farther
than synecdoche. This is all I need to defeat her.

And then shoes are dropping everywhere
while I’m hallucinating farming,
stumbling around cow pastures, hiding
among knees and bones and trees-
The water is violent, I’m cold on the inside,
I see stuff that happens when no one is watching.

She moves through phases of idolatry and ultimately
settles with fusion. I have a hard time adjusting. I’m slow,
like an edifice.