if i could just organize
                 my thoughts

        better,
                      be better
bitter biting bulging blips burning buying bullied by
                                  Dark,
                                  the deep down kind
Deeper
                empty space with a single light

                       and it goes out
                         and nothing

Wander acrosst the unfinished bridge, into the forest past.
The night air is cold, sharp, and blue.
Follow the ***** moon dust path, aglow in their strange torches' pale light.
Don't mind the yellow toothed frog.
Find them, the smallish dark-haired inhabitants, and ask for their advice.

They'll chirp enthusiastically and idulge you happily.
I now live by the words they told me,
"Sleep with red-headed women, mind your manners and never eat ill-mannered birds."

It's cold and the only light is a distant point
in a vast ocean of quiet dark.
I see window panes
made from hand-blown glass.
Flawed and warped to only show
a vague impression of
light, color and shifting shapes.
I can tell though, that it is warm inside.
I cough and spit.
I stagger-dance as an interpretation
of my wine-drunk idea of myself.
I want to shoot morphine
and nod to sleep reading a book
that I think might impress you.
I want you to see me as I see myself:
******* my own ****
with a faulkner novel tucked under my arm.
See how honest I am?
How self-deprecating?
Aren't I clever?
This poem is going off the rails,
so let me tie this **** up best as I can.
I'll try to do better next time.
I promise.

Walking with the nosebleeds
everyone screams the same thing,
"I don't know what we should do"

Pack your bags, to stay at home
Come outside, it's cool
Flesh talks at the freeway
Pickup games of basketball
"I don't care where we go"

Striped sun burns pale skin
Bugs flit into windowshields
Great gods, the violent ones
Dogs growl on the sidewalk
No one can say anything,
least of all, me and you
"I'm not sure where we go from here"

Don't know how to get there,
cracks line all the parkways
Diving off from upside down
Summer stroked and back logged
Gaining weight with my mouth shut
Early morning break downs
Ohms and outs on the low down
Curly hair wearing glasses
Cut out and bob toothed
"*******," is what she said

Thanks for that, gray green girl
"Impossible," that's what I say

She looks like a bike worn down
I guess that's what it's there for
More days to hit somewhere
Gut punch in the tree house

Fractured bone in my iced tea
A song looped in the land line
Sleepy headed conspiracies

Nodding out to the melodies
Lucid dreams beget nightmares

It's grey now
In the calm, after the storm
or perhaps in its center
So quiet that I can hear her breathing,
like the last note in a song,
and under it,
at the very edge of hearing:
the soft whispers
of small spirits
in an unfamiliar language
like old cedar woodchimes
on a windy day

Outside is dark,
and rain,
and trees
It's been raining all week
and I hope it won't stop
Maybe, if it doesn't
all the ground will wash away
and I'll finally know
what exactly is under
that odd moss statue,
half buried in sand,
always looking in my window
like I did something wrong

You feel so cold,
against my fever
You're hair,
like a fountain of blood,
flowing down from your face
making two seperate puddles
on the pillow beneath my head

Our home is blue smoke,
and cats crying on carpet
But mostly, it's her
Alone in the foreground,
without competition
So I look to the hazel,
****** glow of her eyes
Always so bright,
skeptical,
and laughing
But now they seem darker,
****** and less green

Her words were all curses,
violent and heavy,
pulled down to the floor
by their own weight,
to make quite the mess
Such lingering filth
is not easy to clean

But I'm ****** and she's pretty,
like a manchineel tree
exhausted of patience
She's looking at me
like I took away,
every good thing,
in all of the world

Blame me,
Or our town:
built on miles of buried *******,
rotting in the dirt
We pretend to be offended, but don't really care
Why should we?
I imagine it's much the same in other places,
with other people
I think that all towns are grey,
just different shades

But her,
she'll stay red forever
in varying shades

Buzzing around town
Nothing to say
But talking

California air pushes me
around state street
The shops all look the same
Cold sea and cool breezes

A heated pool on the mountain side
My daughter laughing in it
Laughing along with her

She can't swim so I hold her
Or she's sixteen and smoking **** with her friends
Or She's older than I am right now
living anywhere but Florida
I hope I see her,
Whenever


Wet Florida air
forcing its way
down my throat
coating me inside
wrapping around
to make me smaller

She lives in it too
and I hope it doesn't cause any lasting damage

Emma,
Go north till you realize how pretty it is
then stand upside down
and purge your lungs of this
****** place

I got sober and bought a bonsai
tree
It came with a beautiful
stone ***,
heavy and painted

I browsed the internet for tips
on how to properly care for
it
I watered it and let it grow
for a year
I bought shears,
to start shaping it

A stranger was in my house
when I got home from the store,
trying to unplug my PS4

I picked up the bonsai tree
and broke the *** over his head,
while his back was turned

He died a week later,
in the hospital

And I've been clean ever since

See the boy walk in orange dunes
Alabaster pillars rising to the red stars
His grey eyes see everything 
in shades of winter
and turn rain to hail

Carcosa lies ever to the west
as far as the boy walks the city floats equal
He prays, to the King in Yellow
"Father, let me home"

The desert sands shift
and neon-lit beetles guide his way to the altar
Obsidian statues of primordial Old Ones 
raise their too long arms to the night sky
lit by five red moons

A whisper to the boy from the Yellow King
sends arctic winds through his small frame
his mop of black hair stands straight up
A word, whispered from Father to Son
From the King in Yellow to the Lost Prince,
"Ish"
Ish, Prince of Carcosa,
gifted with his name,
opens his red cat-eye,
the third
and the Obsidian statues crumble
and the desert sands swirl
and the neon-beetles fall dead
and Ish grins

I want you to see these two
One is clever
and dark
The other is earnest
and bright

These two men struggle
against each other,
for the same goal

Dark and clever, Ish
Earnest and bright, Sen

Sen was always the strongest
They would drink together at the bar
and Sen would always fight strangers in the alley outside
Ish would light a cigarette and watch
pushing his mop of black hair
out of his eyes
and grinning

One night it was raining,
with violence in the air like static
electricity
Sen was drunk and the bar was empty
except for those two

Let's fight
Sen said to Ish
Okay

They went outside, in the rain, with lighting spreading through the concrete

Sen was stronger by far
But Ish was quick and graceful

Sen swung and missed
and again
and again
Ish waited
Eventually Sen slowed
Ish landed one on his jaw
He was so fast
Sen went down,
hard
But Sen didn't quit easy,
He got up and landed one on Ish's nose
It broke, blood flowed like a faucet
Ish took a knee,
and smiled,
Okay

Ish lit a cigarette and Sen helped him up
They walked to the hospital together
On the way Ish noticed that Sen was missing a tooth,

They walked together
each envious of the other
and the rain kept on

A red sky
Bright in the center
silhouette arms
In the foreground
reaching for one another
Or, no wait
They already have hold of each other
No,
One has hold of the other
Yeah,
One has the other by the wrist,
trying to break it,
trying to tear the skin off,
get at the meat and tendons,
to tear them apart and
make it useless

But they're only shadow
after all
The clawing arm can't
keep up with
it's own violence
They lose their forms
and drift upwards
same as all smoke

It's still red
but in a kaleidoscope way
All swirls and no form
Oh, maybe that's a bird?
Yes, a vulture I think
and it's still red

I stare into the light polluted night sky
Three stars shine through
I see their past
Venus is blinking at me,
a storm of acid rain,
that happened years ago
I see it now

A cigarette, and
my lungs are paper bags
Eventually something will tear
Or break open;
Just stop
I don't know how my own body works
But I know it'll break down
I have a headache,
Or an aneurysm

One day I'll be dust in the ground
Or ashes stuck in a ***

One day those stars will burn out
One by one by one
by one
but we'll still see them,
for a long while

Maybe those stars I see now are already dead:
a night sky filled with ghosts

the difference is
the difference
between clean rooms
and a stained carpet;
wine stains and blood spatter,
leftovers
between swimming
and the view of the ocean
from 35 thousand feet in the air,
the sun highlighting the currents
like the pattern of a snake
the difference is
between us,
between Florida winters
and the Cold

The world has a second skin
Under us, a rythm
Close your eyes and listen
It sounds almost like a river,
but thick,
not sludge but,
viscid

And the things that live there,
They look like us,
but they wear masks,
all beautifully carved and painted
Red and white and yellow

they all smoke cigarettes,
they speak only lies,
violent,
clever,
bright,
and beautiful

They don't pretend
to be good
Or smile when they're sad

They know how to
hold a grudge properly

The insects there
grow to inappropriate sizes
and the cicadas never have to burrow
and the moon is always full

I'm drunk and I think you're stupid
and conceited,
egotistical and shallow
A frost colored ****,
slowly creeping around
whichever plant
is unlucky enough to be nearby

"How lucky I am!"
thinks the plant,
"That such a beautiful vine,
chose me to embrace!"
It dies slowly,
and dumb
Dumb, even for a plant

I saw you,
through rose colored lenses
But now they're just red
So, *******

I'll see you tomorrow

Smoke
     a smell
         of smoke
      smelling smoke
    a smell of smoke and
the view of my backyard with all the broken engines and rusted cars that nobody cared enough about to do anything with and
                           a bluish arm hangs out one of the car windows and I can almost see the cigarette I was smoking
that night out in that husk of a car so my parents wouldn't see,
       I had lived here all of my twelve years in this ivy covered house and I remember
                  the day my brother overdosed and died in his ****** sleep
and
      the night my sister snuck out the window to meet her boyfriend,
cover for me she said
                                           Okay I said
                                          Whatever I said
                                        No, I'm going out
I remember living here and having friends over
             smoking **** for the first time
             playing videogames
             feeling angry
I'm angry now, feels like I've always been,
angry,
anger but feeling it through a curtain
can I feel or touch or,
                                         I need to try
                       my baseball bat
                      here it is
  and I hold it,
it's aluminum but I can't quite feel it
but it doesn't matter cuz I can hold it
and if I can hold it I can use it
I can bash that *******'s head in
    and before I leave I wonder if he could see me
but it doesn't matter
                                          I can see him

It's grey.
It's hard to see through the thick fog,
making even the colossal, ancient trees,
shadows of themselves.
The small dirt path I had been following
had disappeared from under my feet
shortly after the fog made everything...
so grey.

I walked, or wandered,
wishing I could will myself away from this place.
Why had I been here to begin with?
I couldn't remember.
Maybe something about a cat?
Or a rat...

Eventually, after some years,
I came acrosst an odd brick building,
covered in moss.
The ground surrounding it was blackened,
burnt by a fire that hadn't touched the brick building,
for the moss was green and old.
It was the first thing besides trees and fog that I had seen
for hundreds of years.
I considered walking past it, giving it a wide berth.
I went inside instead.

Inside was red and floral carpet and big comfortable furniture and,
under all that,
the smell of woman's hair, the feeling of hazel eyes watching.
Being in that brick house,
I realized for the first time in three centuries how tired I was.
I hadn't slept since the fog rolled in.

I lay down on a big comfy looking couch,
the kind thats good for sleeping on.
I think I fell asleep even before my eyes had shut.

I dreamt of a white haired girl,
making her back arch,
and feeling the peach fuzz in the small of it.
I woke up and, for the first time in a long time,
I felt lonely.

Our new house is still static,
Fuzzy and loose change,
And videogames,
A still image of my daughter

Decorated in style,
With baby spiders,
Looking for the mother
that I crushed under my heel 
last night

Littering the world with my own bad habits
I chain smoke my way
somewhere quiet
with a buzz that isn't nearly strong enough

What I want is bioluminescent,
floaty drunk
and messed up 
in some kind of way
A head kicked in 
and police reports
A private room,

Or, I don't know, something

My eyes smolder to the point of atrophy
as my teeth fall out,
like little yellow pebbles

I worry that I won't be able
to think of anything
clever to say
And I realize that, probably,
I've never said anything clever
in my life

Every night,
the moon withers

The field was vast. Empty except  for a man and the thing he was speaking with.

The man was middle-aged, he wore a black suit and a thin red tie. He sat in a wheelchair. He was handsome, in a careless sort of way. His unruly black hair was streaked with grey. His Hazel eyes breathed a dull sort of fury.

The thing standing before him wore a familiar face.

"Hello old friend," the thing said
"Vincent," the man nodded

A storm of Mana danced around the two
mixing with the wind and
the air
small spirits were summoned
into the storm
they whispered in
ether tongues
as they surrendered to
the storms current

The thing had long pale hair and wore the face of Vincent Sena, an old friend.
He was beautiful, with feminine features. His eyes were the color of glaciers: cold and violent.

"I'm glad you could make it, Isaak."
The thing wore a slight mocking smile.
"It must have been difficult, in your condition."

Isaak shrugged, "I manage. It's been a long time, Vincent."

"People call me Muun now."

"Muun. I'm gonna **** you," Isaak's eyes were a feral dog's. "I'm going to peel off that face you're wearing and shove it down your throat." His tone was casual.

Muun's eyes resigned to bitterness, "let's begin then"

Muun raised his hand and his finger grew sharp and violent.
He ****** it into Isaak's head.
...


I've had trouble sleeping lately,

Oh?

Yeah just the past few weeks

Yeah I have something I take to help me sleep

Whatcha got?

Here, the man grabs a bottle full of purple pills and hands him a handful,
I'd only take two at a time

....
Drunk taking Tylenol
for headaches and nothing really
The batteries are running dry
The dust blanketed,
ruins in the making
and rust
and dried blood
and you're all alone
You'll die alone

then nothing
...
/Vincent was always faster, stronger. Isaak held his own, though./
Young Isaak heard his master speaking and grew colder.

...

Burrowing
A pale finger
searching his thoughts,
picking at his mind
Burrowing
Flashes of light,
a dull headache growing
sharper
Burrowing
Find it
Find the river
Follow the current
Twisting, things with razor teeth swimming in it
Keep going
There
It empties into the ocean
Sunlight

...

Vincent lay dead
Muun was breathed out
with Vincent's last heartbeat
The stink of him laying heavy in the swirl of Mana
Isaak burned that shell
and watched the fire with cold eyes

An alabaster man
stands unmoving in the withered garden,
underneath the hidden stars
and the glow of a blurred half-moon

An age of bitter cold
has cracked His skin,
stolen His right hand

A memory frozen in palestone flesh
For hazel eyes,
and luminescence

If ever they venture close enough,
they hear His whisper,
like running water,
and slink back into the leafless trees,
He had nothing to say after all

I've grown cataracts.
Sitting here, for those hours.
These years.
The world's blurred since then.
I remember the sky wasn't always so dull.
I know the wind used to stagger the trees.
I wasn't always so ******* bored.
When she smiles up at me,
it makes me sick.
It hurts to remember why.

It should be over by now.
Dusted away.
Burned out.
Killed.

Let someone else watch the dumb game.

It rained heavy
earlier

Now it's dark
and all the frogs are cheering
and all the dragonflies are
dead on the ground

It's not
So bad

There are
Compromises

Colder
and raining
The wind blows it
through the pores of my skin
I sigh the last of my warmth
as vapor in the fall

Something is there,
in the dark behind closed doors
and shut eyes
Its waiting as I am,
for what?

A fox bleeds in the snow,
leaking to be warm again
An owl lives through the night

I've been dreaming so long
of being a person
I just want to wake up

Tear to me you cold, apathetic thing
You terrible thing, crooked with deformity
You perfect thing, flawless in design

Fold me under your wing and breathe me a song
as notes of dead, whispering leaves
dance in stagger-form about us

Plant me in the rot of autumn
To grow by the rust-glow of a thousand setting suns
To bathe in the dance of rain
To dance to the rain-songs that patter against window panes and hiss from the neon glow of small-town midnights

Carry me free of self-conscious, critical thought
For to shrug off the hands of my family, and to **** my friends
is the only true form of self-expression

To look in the glazed eyes of every passing stranger,
and see myself reflected in them,
and feel nothing

Oh, you nameless, brilliant thing
I name you
And with the form of your sound filling my mouth,
burning my throat,
rotting my teeth, I summon you
From the aching void of my burnt out mind,
and by the only right not granted to me by the American God,
I summon you
Ours is the last rite of pagan history

Please, hear me
Under the miles of white-static that buzzes like flies
about the stink of my dead-meat brain
Please, hear me
Though my voice is but a gurgle of blood between coughing fits
Please, hear me
Please
I don't want to be alone

Alone, but for the angry thrashing of my dreams
Fragments of stories that come between my twitching limbs
and dull, sweat-drenched headaches
Less than fragments
Syllables of words, strewn in the mud,
that I search out and rinse off and piece together
Only to finish and find that the word is nonsense
Guttural gibberish that offends with its meaningless

I speak in the tongues of my own ****** up cult,
to an empty room
My sermon is plagiarized
A distorted version of better work
The voice of god, twisted and made dumb.
An echo of cliche, a copy of copycats, reflections reflected

You follow the telephone poles,
by their crooked way,
through the small-town rust,
and junk-yard mountains of aluminum soda cans
Past oak trees that grow green despite
the wither about them, and despite the strangling moss that saddens the wood
You follow the telephone poles,
till you come by the railroad track,
like the ones Ayn Rand wrote a thousand pages about,
Though this one is only worth seven, and a tacked-on reference,
and you'll follow it north, north, north
Till the sun sets,
and you can see the growing light,
and step in to me

A neon lit room
Rain on the window panes
On a floor high enough
That if you jumped out
Your thoughts would spill
Harmlessly acrosst the street

Cigarette smoke
A reading red chair
In low light
Empty beer bottles 
More than I thought
Less than I thought of you

****** up
Buzzing drunk
An old Kung Fu movie
On a CRT television
A.V. cables like vines 
Over everything

What's the point 
In non narcotics?
Or reality TV?
And **** parades
And double **** shopping centers
I spin all my clothes
From spider web

And triple **** parades, 
Like really

My nightmare follows me as I wake up
A ghost and a mechanical spider
Bleed from my head
And spill into my bedroom
I breathe them back into me
Like cigarette smoke

A cracked skull
Perfect for self pity
A phantom limb
For shooting up morphine
Or feigned humility

Liar
Why shouldn't I lie?
What would he think?
Why should I be sober?
Okay

Okay, yeah

The skies outside are dark, too grey for you to walk home safely,
I think
The clouds rumble their agreement,
or indifference
It's hard to tell with clouds
My hands are at your waist and outside it starts to rain

Suddenly, I notice that things are heavier.
I blame it on the rain, wetting the trees, weighing them down
Blue cigarette smoke fills the room while I look through my window,
watching you leave
Weaving your way through century old trees

Long legs and a perfect ***, red and green and dark
I'm so hungry
And I really don't mind the rain