My mind is a tangled string that has lost its tone
No matter what note I try to play
It resonates a sad,  dark tune that only you can take away
It keeps wandering in the hopes of falling back into the simpler blissful times when the entire world existed in the cocooned comfort of your stretched arms,
Sanity lied in the pillow of your soft *****
When I found God somewhere deep in the paradise between your legs Creating waves that our entire existence depended on
Every inch of your body was poetry
The subtle curves of your waist that put every piece of art to shame
The music with every word that came out of your angelic lips that still plays in my ears sometimes,
My mind is a tangled string
No matter which end I pull it leads to a painful knot that binds me to the memories we shared
The ones we swore would always last
Time has moved on
You have moved on
But my tangled heart refuses to let go
It keeps dragging me back
To our tangled up past
(2/16/2016, Buffalo, NY)

I wandered blackout drunk lost
trading cigarettes for directions
from crustpunks who took swigs
from bottles of cheap plasticsugar alcohol

Muttering to myself in selfdefense
sublimating the toxic fire in my eyes
into soundwave echoes
bouncing off of plywood windows
and abandoned stolen cars

Angry limping at breakleg pace
down the heroinblessed streets
of yet another vibrant American slum.

this sort of rattling,
battling
in my chest
i did not ask for it,
they did not say
the trembling would start
in my veins, would start
driving me insane, would leave me
begging for pain, begging
for any feeling that made
me feel the same,

the way i did
last year.

who knows if the moon’s
a baloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their baloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
            it’s
                   Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves

augustine, what have you done to me?
i should feel wildfires without guilt
i should tremble on the cusp between
wishing i could be entirely consumed
and wishing i could erupt.
we should shiver without fear
of melting retribution.
god can hold the candle that drips
hot wax on my nape,
i don't believe they hate what they create.
augustine, you've made me unclean.
we spend hours smearing acid between two
bodies, don't we erode our impurities?

i want you to know
when you don't write back
i fill in the blank pages myself
and you say terrible things.
i write 'til white paper turns black and
every word drips with the vindictive
spit that rolls right off your tongue
like it's natural. like you're filled to the brim
with venom, and it spills from the tip
of your fountain pen.
and then i remember when
i receive a letter that isn't laced with
my insecurities, there's not a bad bone
in your body. i see you smiling
and all the venom drains from your teeth.
i remember why i'm so scared
of losing touch.
write back soon.

i can't live in my head
anymore, the clutter, the
cataclysmic canvas of my mind
all around me, pasting
red letters on my retinas,
leaving pomegranate ulcers
on my tongue,
                           demanding i put it
                                               to rest.