To you,
I am the clean yet illusory interweaving of poetry.
A dream made abruptly real,
wreaking havoc and complexity.
To myself, I am lost to a gruesome ******.
I tear apart everything I have built,
because there is no hope
in the act of conservation.
Solace in acceptance is all that there is,
and in between the long breath,
there is a sheer exhilaration of power.
I gift parts of me to people who care so little, they do not remember my name,
just as I do not remember their face.
I do remember the sharp sting
of your flesh against my palm,
and in concentration-
the luxorious scent of your ***.
It is the slow death of an ******.
There is release in giving away
the ****** meat of our life
for little more than a placeholder.
And there is relief
in the thought of taking from you,
whatever I desire.
I speak of emotions,
I barely can feel--
too entrenched in the wild.
This is my father's home,
and it will be my home as well.

It is to the ones we love
that we gift our most intricate torture
devices, tools hand tailored for creating
our own personal horror.
Have you ever bled time?
Slits leaking grains of sand
like salt rolled twixt fingers to fall
on red ****** meat.
I'll sear both sides and watch
you choose your child over me.
A choice taken in a vacuum and
the whirl of dust takes me.
To the precipice of disillusionment,
thirteen years of a desperate person.
The sands of time ripple,
as present reaches his dark hand back
changing everything,
all of you: I ever believed in.
Sizzle pop of meat on iron.

Abscond from thought through journey;
surrender my weary spirit and
endure our eternity in observation.
Transform with me..

I am quiet in front of the ambient lights.
Confronted among these Ambien nights,
with alluvial life, a hot bed of technical idolatry-
It is hard in the valley of the sun
the people who over-extend
self, carry impotence and
a loaded gun-
The land of geriatrics filled with frolicking snowbirds
who cast out their alcoholic offspring
to grind under gears of the economic machine.
Modern man is genuflecting in the sanctimonious pantheon of self.

I'm likely to breath in
diesel fumes on Sunday
than ever the soft efforts
of spoken word saints.
Burnt out eyes from blue lights
and empty coffee cups full
of muddy rings.

Melatonin bleeds out blending
a wasteland of words.
Off season is
oft spent without thought,
gone in subtle joy.
Heavy knee across inhale
in a flesh crush,
so much, so maybe
it is the best moment I've ever had,
or heeded, until tomorrow
is sought for with a fresh smile.
I do have morals regardless of god.
I peel off layers of time,
hot and reeling in exertion.
I'm putting together something and
it just might be me.
As it was the time before,
but each time- a little better,
at least in this moment.
You say live in the now,
as if I should live in fear
of a future gone sour.

I don't fear a loss of power,
of limbs sawn off,
psyche sent scrambling, insane.
We are all in the red rend,
whole and writhing
ripped from lapsing grip.
I rasp that, for now:
it is all mine.

The cause of ignition is inconsequential,
no trigger to let loose the hammer- Only,
I become a passenger, a **** cur.
Softly as a dancer, on swells of change,
undulating to the jangle and clink
of lives being unlaced,
splayed apart  in bitter irony,
displaced into objectivity.
You take it personal,
as if, I am just a faltering piece of personality.
Dropped like salt in the Devils eye,
I'm just over shoulder- needing the fall
into comforting familiarity.
I'm unfeeling, mute and defensive-
peeling self back to where we merge.
At the base I know I am one
but cruelty makes our hands feel like four.
I am my own dark passenger depersonalized,
sloughed off in stress and
bound in unrecognizable life.

It does not matter
if you know
there is no time for this
just- this is all you have
this:
one second.

As snow flurries fall-
the thick memory
of winter, reminds us
that life is the long breath and
every single moment is so precious
I make sure to throw each away-
individually,
carelessly crushing them underfoot
impulsively,
as the small boy does
stepping on flowers beside the beaten path.