Your hands look good for touching,
I'll feel them with mine.

When, at night, I'm alone with
chapped dryness on my lips
I close my eyes and just imagine
you giving me a Vaseline kiss.

Rose petals in the bathroom trash bin,
fervent phone calls in the morning.
Little bits of lavender stuck to my feet.
Debt. Balancing two lives into one,
sharing.

It's difficult, sure.

Were it easy,
it wouldn't be worth it.

No such thing as perfect.
Even if there was,
I'd still prefer it
the way things are.

She offers me more
than any drug could.
She feeds me her life
through those grey eyes.
I listen her sing and strum,
about how awful she has become
I got to love her in ways
other people would die for.
Now I pray to bigfoot.
Now two thousand four hundred and fifty five miles
just make me smile.
Now I don't know what to say to make her stay.
Now I don't want her to go away.

She breathes fire
but burns quietly.

To get her.
Together.
We're alone together.

Bled it out, one,
one day at a time.

I shouted at you.

You didn't cry.

I don't find none,
none is what I find.

I tried for you.

You didn't try.

Bled it out one day,
one day without time.

I don't like to write.
I write for the likes.
That being said, I don't hate to write either.

So ******* and the horse you rode in on.

So brightly her flame burns for me,
and no one can hold a candle to it.
When she says my name I only seem
to be less and less able to handle it.

Yet still she bathes me in white hot light
and I am relentlessly pulled closer.
Like fascinated moths on a summer's night
stuck inside of a streetlight enclosure.  

I was upon her fire, cast deep into that flame,
illuminated from my old soul to the tip of my brain.

When out stretched for miles my shadow became,
everything I've put behind me, now swaddled in shame.

Out, she reaches,
to touch my hand.
But I'm all dried up
and turned to sand.

In, she breathes, all of those
ridiculously stinky green ounces.
And now I'm lost, I suppose,
in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Were I only a critter
then maybe I could've stayed with her,

forever trapped in a locket
or suffocating deep inside of her pocket.

Mirrors and monitors
cloud my vision
with a dichotomy
between ignorance
and self indulgence.

This is misery
wrapped up in a tasty, flakey
egg roll pastry.

Bite right into me,
see what comes flowing
through your teeth.

This is misery,
we are history,
and we're never coming home.

This is misery it's
not a mystery
how we ended up alone.

It's distracting me
how the distance between
just never seems to shrink
at all.

This is misery,
somber symphony
of a thousand creaking bones.

We're still history,
a book brimming with grief
for what could've been
but now no one will ever know.
What happened to me?
Did I always bounce between
the present and futures unknown?

This is misery,
don't call out for me,
I'm never coming home.

What defines it?
Is there an innate sense
of purpose
grafted into the drywall?
Is it an undefined longing
for solitude,
for a little time?

I'll find it.
Coated with pine needles,
desperate for fresh lumber.
I'll find it buried
beneath seven years of therapy,
slathered in liquid doubt.
Dripping.
I'll find it dripping.

I ain't looking any harder today
than I was yesterday,
but I swear that I'll find it.

If you look hard enough
maybe you'll be able to see
a little bit of your father
deep inside of me.

Or maybe you won't.

But you can still
call me daddy.

Who's here
when I'm not?

Can they read this
as I write it,
does it carry across?

There's something
here
with me,
something that's
not me.

Together but not whole,
just a bifurcated hull
held together with flex tape.

We don't sink.

Ain't need to say it,
I'll let my actions
Speak for themselves.

That's all that really matters anyway.

hahaha

I feel so

compelled

to bash your head in
with my love.

When you're dead,
I'll fashion a paintbrush
from a lock of your hair.

I'll paint you on the ceiling
in violent shades of burgundy.

I'll lick the bristles clean.

I'll paint my taste buds
with the vibrant flavors

of your love.

I'll craft a cradle from your bones,
and wrap it taught with your dermis.

Your

marrow

will seep out,

like the

love

from my heart.

I'll keep you.
Forever.
A shrine.
A memento.
A collectable.

A macabre reminder
of my

love.

Remembering the time you lent me
your heart, underneath the bent tree
in your mother's back yard.

But god, how I'd rather be
your step-father.
And spend my days upon
your mother's front lawn.

The good ache, resonates.
I like the pain of a long day's work
and I like sharing yawns with you.
Blurry eyed and smiling, come give me a kiss
because baby I missed you today.
It was warm, but misty with rain,
and my boots slipped in the mud.
I tweaked my ankle a bit, but it's a good pain.
The kind of ache you get from working
hard for someone you love.

Turn all the lights off,
I want to read your skin
like braille.

so dull my tongue
with your sandpaper ears

and now that we're older
maybe the difference in years
just won't matter

because I don't care anymore
and you should've seen that
from the other side of the door

The voice of logic screams in pain
at the sight of my toothy, idiotic grin.
Heart beats drill into my brain
with a percussive pounding maintained
onward deep into the night and
following my thoughts throughout the day.

So sometimes reasoning goes away
when love is dripping from my face.

We wade and wait through the daily hate to
practice our fractured love each night.
We make and mate once it gets late, just
to have a day's worth of material to write.

Now you're the wet dreams
slowly rusting away my mettle,
and I just smile, nod, and
paint you a ****** portrait.

In the silence between dry heaves,
while waiting for my gorge to settle,
I pray to the porcelain god and
spit on my reflection in the toilet.

I venture outside then to choke on a smoke
and I **** your name into snowy leaves.

Can't afford a deathbed, I'm so ******* broke,
please just **** me on the loveseat.

I fancy the fierce fog,
backlit by the morning sun.

Burn off, slowly.
The day has just begun.

It's like a dream.

Only I'm not sure
If I'm fast asleep,

Or

If I just woke up.

Broken lips, I smile inwardly,
watching you amongst the books.
Wanting you.

Internally, I ridicule my fascination for you,
I mock my lust.
I see the other men just like me.
I see them everywhere, all wanting you.
I hate relating to them.
I hate wanting you.

You posses a designer desire,
like ******* you is all the rage.

Everyday we all see your face
in every newsstand, on every front page,
but only because we all look.
Only because we all want.

And it's me crawling in the dirt like a worm,
it's me licking the doorknobs of every bar in town,
shoving fistfuls of knotted hair down my own throat
from every shower drain in every filthy run down
apartment complex covering this ******* city.

And it's me still wanting you,
sick with the want,
driven mad with the want,
dying wanting.

Poor from the late fees
for books I just can't
bring myself to return.

every pair of headlights
in the rear-view mirror
follow me endlessly

and I swear
I SWEAR
I hear footsteps downstairs

A concrete island
Adrift upon the asphalt sea.

Come and sit with me
In drunken reverie.

I'm ingenuine.
Disingenuous.
...whatever.

Diner.
Dinerettes.
Grace me,
I'm your
favorite.

Serve me, I tip well.
Now show me your *****,
I won't tell.

God I want
To taste it,
to dip
into you.

Blue
and green
and purple and pink.
Tight
and loose
and acutely obtuse.

Be mine,
do you have
the time
to complete
me?

Or are you busy
being
you?

More than a trope,
still I'm roped
in.

Deserving,
no,
demanding
of more
than just
being something
to adore.

The coffee ***'s braying invaded my daydream
so I snapped out of it and fixed myself a cup.
I sat back down at the kitchen table and
focused on the twirls and curls of steam.
Seeing the water join my atmosphere made
me think of prospective goals and my future.

Positive thinking, you know.

Such thoughts were like admiration for someone
who hates themselves; pointless and unwanted.
My eyes drifted to the sliding glass door and
I took a gulp, shuddering at the caffeine fixation.
I wasn't looking at the birds on the powerlines,
or the morning fog lingering under overcast skies.
Just at the two panes of glass and the cross-hatched
pattern of plastic supports that existed between them,
like expression caught inside of idealistic traditions.

Like seeing house pets kept in a cage.

At some point in my unfocused gazing my
thoughts shifted from the future to the past, and
I felt a hollow remnant of ex-lovers sitting with me.
They sat looking at me sip cooling coffee,
seeing me look at the sliding glass door.

Like an egotistical mirror manic with vanity and pride,
the reflection of the door showed myself watching me
and I liked what I saw inside.

****, how many shots was it?
I think, looking down at the ashtray,
7... 8... 9 BUTTS?*
I smoke a cigarette
every time I take a shot.

Well ****, no wonder then.
Oh ****,
who are you again?

I don't write for me

I write for you to see

Because it's how I please

Myself.

Sometimes
people
end up
alone.

Sometimes
It's by
choice.

Other times
it's because
they're fat,
or ugly.