We're just 1 mole of inches away,
Just 9,501,262,626,262,624,256 miles away.

I am sickly, weak and broken,
From all the words I leave unspoken.
I am plagued, hurt and deranged,
From the curses I leave unchanged.
I am full of expectations,
I have fully crafted plans.
I have names for operations,
I won't achieve with my own hands.
I walk through worlds and I'm displeased,
But it isn't these lands that are diseased.

A number is a concept,
A song that students sing.
Numbers are illusions,
Quantifying everything.
Addition and subtraction,
Creating to destroy,
Multiplying and dividing
Rise of Caesar, fall of Troy.
Divine hands knit with pi,
Entropy comes ensuant.
Mathematics are a language,
And only God is fluent.

Pavlov got something wrong,
because classical conditioning,
is for the classically trained.
I, meanwhile, live halfway between the operant
and the mountain,
and an iron cast bell.
What he didn't realize is that the dogs
cared more to sink their teeth,
into old Ivan
and buy their freedom for a day.

The flash flood of euphoria,
is swallowed by the thirsty ground,
eternally unquenched.
I will smile,
and fix my eyes on the desert sun.
I will grow roots and bloom,
an endogenous cactus,
while envious drifters lick the sand,
desperate for a drop of rain.

Good never came down to say he exists,
He expects me to find him in miles of mists.
                                              Evil has never whispered in my ear,
                                              If he did, it was always too quiet to hear.
    Both speak in silence, even if you pray,
                                              But the silence expects you to live to obey.
                    What you call a tragedy, I call a song.
                    Nobody told me what's right and what's wrong.

Encumbered by the lunacies of men,
the seed of joy lays in a greater mind.
The breath will draw you closer to the den,
where every answer waits for one to find.
The self blows as the wind through all the sky,
Monsoons and sighs blown from a single Air.
The wanderings of lust begin to die,
New flowers grow from bones without a care.
The flow of water carves the ancient rock,
as cosmic wheels kaleidoscope through time.
A shepherd hunts a wolf to save a flock,
but canine birth remains its only crime.
Release thy worldly ties upon the skin,
Ascend the stony staircase deep within.

One, two, three, four,
I remember life before.
Five, six, seven, eight,
I'm not someone to agitate.
One, two, three, four,
Bring him to me, shut the door,
Five, six, seven eight,
Only death will liberate.
One, two, three, four,
Born to live in times of war.
Five, six, seven, eight,
I was made to mutilate.
One, two, three, four,
Vile and evil at my core.
Five, six, seven, eight,
I need screams to meditate.

Green tea, red fire,
Glowing in the place.
Black screen, white tusk,
A poised trunk with grace.
Pupil-less and empty,
Stare into the soul.
Thick flesh-less life,
Ebony and coal.
Distinctly creepy in its eyes,
But beautiful without.
Distracting from its evil,
With the fountain of its spout.

I wake up in the morning,
with a pit where you should be,
And the air I breathe isn't filtered like it was.
I walk through the day with two broken legs,
And my feet drag along the broken glass.
You say that you're empty, but I'm hollowed out,
And I hate what's left.
I'm innocent, and that's the worst thing I've ever done to myself.

It's funny how God,
Far away as he is,
Plays such a powerful role.
We are God's jilted lovers,
We pray for miracles, those kisses of wonder on our ancestors.
But he has left us, and found a prettier planet to put his coat around.

Night falls upon the sleepless one,
who stares deep into the void.
He cannot yet be overrun,
He shall not be destroyed.
On the precipice of the blank,
He has lost all hope.
The riverside with either bank,
But while on land he cannot cope,
And so the water engulfs him,
He is drowned but still he breathes.
Light without him is now fading,
But within him it still seethes.
Destruction lies upon the sleepless mind,
Until it pounces on the light, resigned.

Darling, we're doomed
to a life of
extraordinary regularity.
Still, smile,
for the world's birthday is today,
and it will die as the moon rises.
The Force bends, lifts us up
from the tedium of madness
into an order of monks
who let their mole hairs grow long,
in order to purify the soul.
I breathe, slowly.
The world hums beneath me,
around me,
and within me,
and I look to you. You tell me,
"Hold me closer,"
and I listen, afraid of what you might do.
Still, I think to myself,
"This is nice," as you agree.
The angels fall over themselves with laughter,
raucous, cruel.

I almost forgot what it felt like.
You see, I avoid coming home as much as I can,
but there's always the blue moon. There's nowhere else to go sometimes.
And this time it happened.
The conversation about how my day was, boring details and all.
And the sounds of crickets, gently chirping in the woods.
The warm light of the chandelier.
A word flits across the dinner table and into the air, and there is sudden silence.
Everyone knows it was a mistake, innocent.
But  I sit at the dinner table and say nothing,
One part glad that it isn't me and one part guilty for the other.
I pretend I can't hear screaming.
I pretend that there isn't this feeling,
I had almost forgotten,
Squatting on the mashed potatoes.
It stares me in the face and whispers through the crackling in the air.
It speaks louder as my little sister says,
"Pass the salt."
It laughs at the irony,
and the illusion of safety sits,
split cleanly in half on the floor,
while the dog, oblivious, licks up the scraps.

The eagle sits above the rafters,
Watching the comings and goings
of the dead.
The dragon growls silently below,
poised for action
that will never come.
And I sit below them both,
noting the things
nobody else would bother with.

I am alone, I am alone,
I am the dead, surrounded by stone.
I am afraid, I am afraid,
I am the darkness concealing the blade.
I am the chemicals telling your brain,
Living correctly is for the insane.
And every time that you listen to me,
You are why I continue to reign.

Red, orange, yellow, white,
Green and blue and purple too,
A thousand supernova hues.
Flames will light, born from the pyre,
Or perhaps from the meeting of flint and stone.
One small spark becomes wildfire.
Destroying homes.
Charring bones.
Fire needs fuel to stay alive,
And when it’s gone,
You can't revive,
That unique orange, every glorious dawn.
Warm as a mother, deadly as a viper
A fire burns inside the hearth.
In the distance, a lonely ******,
Will extinguish you, and ignite the dark.

While I'm being taken,
To a paradise home,
Where all my dreams wander,
And all my friends roam,
She's being held down,
Trapped in a glass room.
She's held there alone,
Because it's her tomb.

One, one, one,
Time to have some fun.
Two, two, two,
No need to subdue.
Three, three, three,
Now you'll never be free.
Four, four, four,
Your pain I'll ignore.
Five, five, five,
STOP BEING ALIVE

When the colors fall,
and the walls shake,
When the babies crawl,
and the old break.
As the light descends,
and darkness screams,
I close my eyes,
and the world dreams.

A floating point value,
Of a test score four-years-old,
Can float away your dreams,
And leave you homeless in the cold.
A floating point value,
Defines the friend's we've built,
Watch them steal the you you were,
And drown in a night of guilt.
A floating point value,
Separates you year from year,
Defines your rights, your days and nights,
Your every sip of beer.
A floating point value,
Separating me from you.
Close your eyes, count to five,
And wake up someone new.

Picking out the pieces of my hair like petals.
She loves me.
She hates me.
I love her.
I hate me.
I know that I could love her if she'd let me,
but she won't
because
She hates me.
I know that she could love me if I'd let her,
but I won't
because
I hate me.
I know that I love her,
even though
I know
She hates me.
I know she loves me,
even though
I know
She hates me.
I know she loves to hate me but she loves me,
though I know
She hates me.
I know she hates to love me but she hates me
though I know
She loves me.

I am tired of love poems.
Every ****** one blends into the same river of broken hearts,
of incomplete souls and endless meaningless metaphors.
Love isn't a glimpse of divinity,
it's not the sun or the moon,
it's not the rain or a kiss.
Love is a glimpse of yourself,
it's the end of reason,
and it is every fool's poetry.
So for all the artists of the world,
I want you to know something.
So long as you try,
love isn't something you will ever understand.
So please, just write about something else...

Our breath is that of Earth,
the forests
mighty lungs.
Our blood is that of gasoline,
of dead ancestors,
and open ocean.
My soul is that of life,
the quintessential
beauty in everything.

Dr. Seuss used to live in my city,
Where the trees are triumphant truphaloos.
Acid rain falls to make you more witty,
and the world shakes with the weight of your dues.
"Still, laugh along with everyone," you'll say,
And the ground will tremble beneath thy hooves
So with that turn to see the palm trees sway,
and chuckle when the sky above you moves.
Yes, Seuss' friends don't wander in the streets
they're far too busy strolling in the woods.
The smells of all Balboa take their seats,
So now, make the exchange, and drop the goods.
I see the world now through a dead man's eyes,
so now upon the world a new sun dies.

When I was young,
I had a dog who followed me everywhere.
We often walked along the sand,
and the waves would drown out the outside world.
Sometimes, I would find a crab,
and toss it to the dog.
Canines crushed its carapace;
an afternoon snack.
Once, though, I caught a big one.
I pulled it from its den,
and held it by its claws above the maw of death.
But I stopped;
and, slowly, I ripped off one claw.
There was no-one around.
I could smell the salt in the air,
and felt the drip of dog saliva.
I pulled off the other claw,
and held this helpless thing in my hand.
The dog whined.
My fingers closed around it;
a child's hand shattered the shell,
and crushed the goop within.

There are those who walk through life,
on eggshells.
And so, more than death, more than the sky, or the open ocean,
They fear
people.
Not the things they'll do or say,
but what they won't.
That they won't
love them.
That they won't
care for them.
And this, is a great historic tragedy my friends.
For at the feet of introversion,
lie a thousand friendships never made,
stories never told,
and lifetimes never lived.

One, two,
Run you through.
Three, four,
Even score.

If ever there was,
It is now, tomorrow, then.
Oh god, when am I?

"Meow," said the deaf cat.
The two humans in the room,
Blink thrice, and agree.

How long is a moment?
A realization, a dream?
How long is a lifetime?
A laugh or a scream?
A boy becomes man,
A reading and dance.
A new tragedy,
And an acid trance.
Another man remains a boy,
Guarded mothers, spoiling men,
Preparing them for lives,
Dominated by them.
Lastly, a young girl,
With a fetus inside,
Will swallow a bottle,
Of pale suicide.

The game stops being fun,
When you spend a night full-throttle,
And can't remember if your headache's,
from a needle or a bottle.
The game stops being cool,
When you throw up in your yard,
When you look inside your mirror,
And behind your eye's you're scarred.
The game stops being fine,
When you start to fear a hug,
Because you almost check their pockets,
For some money, for some drugs.
The game comes to an end,
When you realize what you are,
When you give in to your urges,
And you OD in your car.

It's an original sin, incandescent,
an absolutist's balloon monsoon,
but Eden's air comes in whipped cream cans;
the serpent had no need for names.
Blood hits the ice,
and the dextromethorphan hits too,
and yesterday, tomorrow, a crystal glows
briefly, never to be seen again.
The concrete tunnel is filled with spiders,
chewing at my brain as they suffocate,
beneath the weight of expectation.
And now, beneath this jellied tree,
I see the God I've ignored all these years,
and I bask in the artificial glow of LSD
before I realize my mistake.
Because when homeless men that went to Harvard,
smoke **** with you, hungover,
out of an Apple,
why change a thing?

I sat on the bed, hunched.
If a gargoyle isn't being looked at, does it move?
Silent, hideous celebration of the dark.
All this is well and good.
But statues are made of stone.

Gilead, oh Gilead,
every moment with you is a thrillead.
Roll up a dollar billead,
we'll snort lines till we've had our fillead.
And when the sky begins to spillead,
from the acid we've distilledead,
Go to the spot and we'll refillead,
with vibes at the spot when we chillead.

I remember walking home,
and to myself, at night,
saying:
"Glory glory, hallelujah."
It's new, these fits of religious excitement.
These nights...
one day, they will be the death of me, but
I can't be bothered to worry.
Because today,
I'm young, alive and invincible.
Perhaps I'll pay for this,
but I'm banking on dying first.

Who knew that puzzle pieces could decay,
And leave a stench that never leaves your nose?
Who knew that crimson colors turn to gray?
Where there is scent of blood was scent of rose.
Were we too different or too far apart?
Where you once were is only broken bone.
I guess that's what you'd call a broken heart,
But blood's still pumping through my heart of stone.
I'm made of anger targeted at me,
The slightest move will likely aggravate.
I should be happy, hell, I'm finally free.
But I'm chained down by my own body weight.
I hate this dusk when once there was a dawn,
I want you badly, but the love is gone.

Tick tock, rise and shine, shake the whiskey from your eyes.
Close your mind and count to five, scream yoursELF A LULLABY.

We all have happy places,
Where evil never rears it’s ugly head.
A garden of eden,
Or perhaps a summer camp in the Berkshires.
Or maybe it’s an island with sunsets made of gold,
Or a market with food that tastes like friends, like laughter.
Maybe it is the place you call home,
Or maybe it’s the fear you call death.
We all live life for now.
We laugh, we cry and then we die,
Those we’ve left behind clinging to our pale corpses.
Or maybe they’re clinging to their own memories of us,
The things that they won’t forget until they join us in the void.
Life ends, and then our loved ones end, and so do our happy places.
That summer camp you love?
It’s a filthy landfill.
Your sweet island?
It’s been buried in the waters of former ice caps.
The market that was your refuge?
It’s been nuked, just like New York, Moscow, Paris.
All things end.
All things end.

For a brother, and dad,
for the truest of friends.
Pure of spirit, purely glad,
Journeyman into the bends.
The sun rises in his mind,
As it sets into his heart.
And when the moon rises in TJ,
Civility will fall apart.

I breathe love through my lungs,
where she lives,
in the Olivialvioli.
Sometimes,
she squeezes, and I bleed faster.
"I'm not bleeding," I say.
There is no feeling in my fingers.
Part of me knows I am going to die,
but I'm too afraid to breathe in.

Up is down and down is up,
Covering with their makeup.
Right is left and left is right,
Cower, run, before the light.

"I'm sorry," I remembered saying.
"I'm having a hard time with words right now."
My brother nods his head,
unsurprised and worried.
"I'm going to go get another drink," he says,
and I understand that much,
before words lose all meaning
again.

Walk along the sunlit street, and listen to the birds.
Listen to the angels and their softly spoken words.
Listen to the sound of wind across a grassy knoll,
But don't listen to the hole.
It's time to smell the roses, and the little daffodils,
It's time to smell the smell of your dad's burger on the grill.
Why don't you go outside and enjoy a pleasant stroll?
Just don't listen to the hole.
Because the closer that you get, to this hole inside the ground,
The more that you will hear the most horrific of all sound,
It's the sound of every evil thing that lives inside your soul,
So don't listen to the hole, please don't listen to the hole.

I believe that tomorrow, we will all die.
Flaming hail will burn down everything we love,
our schools, our homes, our friends,
the hospitals with old women with cancer and young men with broken bones.
Everything we know and love is going to be destroyed sooner or later, and there is nothing we can do to stop it. Nothing.
We are a quark, in a proton, in a hydrogen atom in a water molecule in an endless, finite sea.
Nothing that he or she, you or me will ever do will matter.
We are blowing through the winds of time,
like dust.
Just as we were once.
Just as we will be.
We are all trapped underground, knowing only darkness all our lives.
We will never see the even a fraction of the light that exists, because it all runs from zero to infinity.
I believe we are all blind, trapped, stupid little creatures,
who scream at the walls of their cage they call existence.
I believe we are cruel, pathetic, beautiful little specks,
who are taught that they are pure, and strong and proud.
I believe mankind is plagued by it's own nature,
self-imposing an endless series of limitations, if only not to be alone.
We call this prison our identity, and we will **** before we are free.
I believe humans are the greatest hypocrites of all time,
a pure and unfettered arrogance across them all.
I believe that the world is no better or worse than it was when we arrived.
It is all just the same, a blend of good and evil that is indescribable.
I believe that to believe in God is a blind man dreaming color,
and if he ever sees the light he will gouge his eyes again.
It is better to see a God who is just than one who is indifferent,
who recognizes your meaninglessness.
I believe that everything I've just said is wrong, because I only know that I know nothing.
And maybe that's wrong too.
Maybe I know everything, and everyone else is wrong, and human understanding truly does reach God.
But then again, what are the odds of that?
Either way, let's make the most of the moment we have on this ugly, beautiful rock.

A roaring city shadowed by moon,
Saltwater laps the shore.
In a million years, a simple sand dune,
And a land that knows not war.
We worship artificial gods, designed to entertain;
Music, movies and TV.
We enjoy away our brains.
We’ve never been able to see beyond sight.
We scoff at our own rebirth.
Our arrogance fuels our final flight,
Our wings char, and we fall to earth.

I am the last of a dying breed,
The shrinking group of people who can say,
They know me.
Not my name,
Nor my stories.
Hell, half of them are lies.
I am alone with my thoughts, and actions, and mind,
And I can tell you for sure,
That we are all alone, together.
We are not how we're seen, or how we see ourselves;
I am every ****** thing I have ever done,
And if somebody knew,
They would weep for the part of me that still gives a ****.
Thankfully, I know what they do not.
That this part of me does not exist.

The world is shattered.
I can hardly see the truth.
But is it enough?

"Excuse me sir, do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ?"
For a moment, I almost tell him that I was born Jewish.
Or that I don't really believe in a God at all.

I almost tell him, "No."
But I look at his too-thin, pathetic face,
And at his cross necklace.
I notice his red shirt,
The blazing white shoes,
faded jeans without a belt.

I almost tell him, "No."
Then I remember that old trick I used to play.
knock knock knock. The door opens.
"Excuse me sir, do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ?"
The same look I'm giving him now, and the door closes again.
I rob the neighbor visiting his daughter in New Mexico instead.

I almost tell him, "No.
I don't have the time because I can't be redeemed, so *******."
I almost tell him, "Your God is a lie that your parents made up to keep you a ******."
I almost flip him off and say, "White America can *******."

I almost tell him, "No."
But I hesitate, because I marvel at his capacity to believe.

I almost tell him, "No."
But I hesitate. I look him in the eyes.
"No," I say, and I slam the door in his face.

I was reminded,
in the hush of existence
Of fire, and blood,
and the terrible screams.
And I? Responsible.
But in my moment of complete failure,
I resolved to something strong,
and died.
Now, in another life,
or mine still, I suppose,
I think to myself
"It's such a beautiful day."
and decide, in silence, within and without, to go for a walk.