alien hand syndrome

when I’m on the other side—

I’m a molten orb of desire,
kindled between your palms
released, summoned
to a damp forest floor.



“you only love me because i’m f*cked up,”
i spat in your face.

you were hiding behind
the camera, naked
and i was baked trying to catch
my breath after battle.

the camera kept flickering at me,
i knew you weren’t capturing anything
on film, and stumped, you tried
again and again
blaming the flash.

“You exist,” you sighed,
“I see you once a week.”

I touch you, the sun rises,
and you are there,
the twin mountain to a valley…

i watched all your future poems float
from your ears
and levitate
from your mouth,
brush your fingertips in resistance,
then settle on the floor,
sheets of paper i’d dirty with my feet
if i tried to escape.

so i told you,
when the cops took the mugshot,
the film would expose
my prints wouldn’t stick to the ink
and when they ran my dna,
the results said i was an ugly black crow.

“so what does that make you?” i asked.

but you needed not say anything
for us to know the answer,
that you were crazed, intoxicated
with a lust for life
and anything nude or new,
the many things you shouldn’t like
or shouldn’t do.

You and I (a nice poem)

I listen to all the modern music
inspired by the rockers of your time.
You choose a path knowing where it goes,
I find the most unkempt and make it mine.

You work the simple words with force,
I wrap your head ’round them to delude you.
I think what’s worst is what’s better
while what You crave is what You pursue.

You make no sense without numbers or rhyme,
and I spit on logic like it’s a bad joke.
it’s no secret You drown in vodka at night,
and I’m always wanting just one more toke.

You say we’re opposites.
I say we’re both insane.
but at the end of the day,
we sleep in the same bed,
and that makes all the difference.