Cold and lonely sights like these
Scare and push me toward the ******
Of nights I knew so well when I was young

Of closing bars and empty lots
Nightly walks and ***** thoughts
Things I'd thought my frozen hands had wrung

But now they're back and tempting me
In silent forms that I can't flee
Like an image some old musician once had sung

Nothing is more put together
It's set up perfect and completely organized
Its not a book, nor one of
humans many establishments

Its a single piece of paper
and the ink on it reads
the Periodic Table of the Elements

by God, I don't know what to
do.
they're so nice to have around.
they have a way of playing with
the *****
and looking at the **** very
seriously
turning it
tweeking it
examining each part
as their long hair falls on
your belly.
it's not the ******* and *******
alone that reaches into a man
and softens him, it's the extras,
it's all the extras.
now it's raining tonight
and there's nobody
they are elsewhere
examining things
in new bedrooms
in new moods
or maybe in old
bedrooms.
anyhow, it's raining tonight,
on hell of a dashing, pouring
rain....
very little to do.
I've read the newspaper
paid the gas bill
the electric co.
the phone bill.
it keeps raining.
they soften a man
and then let him swim
in his own juice.
I need an old-fashioned *****
at the door tonight
closing her green umbrella,
drops her green umbrella,
drops of moonlit rain on her
purse, saying "****, man,
can't you get better music
than that on your radio?
and turn up the heat..."
it's always when a man's swollen
with love and everything
else
that keeps raining
splattering
flooding
rain
good for the trees and the
grass and the air...
good for things that
live alone.
I would give anything
for a female's hand on me
tonight.
they soften a man and
then leave him
listening to the rain.

the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...

we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.

I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...

and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.

the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.

Welcome to Psychotics Anonymous.  State your name, and little about yourself:

My name is not important.

I have a problem.
I don’t tend to preoccupy myself with others’ problems.
See, I don’t care about my friends, loved ones, or myself as much as I should.
I mean, obviously, I realize that  I don’t care about these things, but my problem is that I don’t know the real reason why I don’t care about them. I know I have a problem, but I don’t know how to fix it. Think of it this way,  you know when you look at roadkill on the road, you might feel sorry for it, for about a second, then you blow it off and keep driving. Some people might kick it or laugh at it, if they walk  by. Well see, that’s how I feel about important people in my life , and at times, about myself.  I’m the one kicking that road **** while its down. Except the road ****….is my best friend. Do I mean what I do? I’m not entirely sure, but I do know that it’s wrong.  I know that I should care, I know that I’m a bad person for it, but I don’t know why I still do it anyway. I have a problem. My best friend is in the hospital and I’m sitting home writing this instead of visiting her while she’s 10 minutes away. Instead of apologizing  and telling her it was my fault. I’m sitting here not caring instead of going up to her and telling her the truth she needs to hear. I have a problem. My family’s a woodpile on the side of my house. The wood I never use but I like to glance at from time to time and then ignore a few seconds later. That woodpile’s pretty close to me, its always in my proximity, but yet…I never seem to care that it’s there. But I notice it. Oh, how I do notice it. I notice it so much that I pretend to not notice it because my lack of caring for the noticing of this woodpile is the only thing that matters. I have a problem. My brother is sitting on my mantle, every day he stares into my eyes, hoping and wishing I would care. Every day he’s there reminding me that he not only needs to be noticed, he needs to be cared about, and so do I. And every day I ignore him and that photograph with that picture perfect Ivy League smile.I have a problem. I don’t care for myself. I don’t really do much grooming. I mean, I shave…because I hate touching my face and feeling prickles. I don’t cut my hair, I don’t shower until I start smelling. I don’t care. I work at the one place where caring doesn’t matter. I work counting other people’s money. I don’t get into trouble or miscount because miscounting annoys me and everything has to be perfect.  It needs to be counted right, or what’s the point of counting it? It’s not because I care for the welfare of the people I count money for. Au contraire, they have more money than I do and don’t deserve my care. I have a problem. Don’t tell me I’m doing okay because I’ve completed step one of your program, because I’ve admitted that I have a problem. I’ve just said it five times. I knew I’ve had a problem before I got here. That’s not the hard part. I want to care. I want to feel empathy, or at least sympathy. I want be like everyone else. But the hard part, is that I’m not. I’m not like everyone else. And though I’ve recognized my problems they’ll always stay with me regardless of how much you try to push them out of me. You can tell me to go to these therapy sessions til I’m seventy-five, but the only thing that it’ll do is just show you how many more problems I’ve come to discuss.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

dear children.i hope and pray, someday i maylay my troubled weary headon peaceful downy pillowsbut never wake up dead so never follow footstepslearn where others treadbe watchful how they slipnever be misled learn from steel ,coal,iron soulsalways be yourselfnever walk in shadowsalways walk in health live above the groundor dead beneath the flowerseither way appliesmake good the precious hours indulge in all thats freewith happiness and laughtersavour every momentit may be too late after i hope to gaze, up or downone day from heaven or helland watch my children learn, from....where i climbed, and where i fellall my love, dad **