baby,
you don't want
to see what being
in my orbit affords you.

Paris is still on fire.

the word verbosity,
the words for ****'s sake.

those are some words
that come to mind
when I think
about your attempt at trying.

you either **** or **** later.
ivory towers turn
to chalk in the rain.

I'm exhausted with the stakes,
as well,
so don't take any
offence from this.

meanwhile,
drip,
drip,
drip,
it's all good.
this is fine.
the woods are whispering
my name.

my real name.

I love you.

it's the "what" in the meantime
between here and sleep
that fogs up the lens.

that pulse,
pulsing,
in and out,
breath picked apart
like a rabbit on hissing
pavement.
like fig leaves in the
wind.

I see why
punctuation
is
meaningless

flowers reaching for azure,
sun gilding everything;
it's all so ******* gorgeous
and yet,
no matter how much splendor
I manage to choke down
I still think about
killing myself every single
******* day.

grinding my teeth
while the world is ablaze;
I'm asleep, I promise.

like my father grinds his.

he is not really my father.
not really asleep, either.

where does that leave us?

hare Rama, hare Krishna.

I'm rabbits running through
a field of barley swaying in
a breeze that reeks of a
Mcdonalds
on fire.

think dreams,
and not breathing.

I'm stars; screaming my name,
your name, our many names,
all night, every night.

delete me, please

ive been shaking
off a shadow for
most my life;
Ceyx washing up,
rotting,
screaming the loudest.

Alcyone wailing about anything.

Aesop Rock and Freddie Gibbs.

sun through boring blinds,
desert;
I'm blind to it.

mind if I sit and not think
of the next 50 years?
ive been trying to disappear
for years.

blank.
drawn.
page.
somewhere in between is
something sacrosanct;
Shangri la.
(jump)
I'll be the last ghost to fade away.
just take it all a way's away from me;
my days are numbered.
trust me when I tell you
I take the comfort like pain medication.
I'm not saying we face death,
but claiming we were the patron-saints
of anything other than taking vacation
days for vacations never taken
is pretty ******* ridiculous.

just saying.

sacred?
half of that at least.
sanctity was but a raft on a beach
before the tide came.
my mind state is in the wind
pretty much always.

late to all parties,
call it fashion.
balled fists,
call it stalwart or passion.
it all ends the same.
it's all dirt.
that is it's name, right?

spinning,
spinning.

all of this is an abatoir,
all of it,
and all I want to see is
phospenes or the black
of the big sleep.

I'll match the scars
you feel alright about
showing me.

in my head, that is.

in my heart...
well, ive been known to leave
without leaving,
so I would advise trying
the "not knowing me" thing
and seeing how it shakes out.

today, my drive to do anything
is as dead as disco.

earlier, while drinking my coffee,
I heard disco ive never heard
before.

so I dont know.
tomorrow is a new day.

you rush to start,
mad dash to the end of it.

it's your heart.
why are you rushing in?

siegecraft in the key
of lonely in your empty
apartment.

symphonies rise from the traffic
outside your bedroom
and living windows;
all encompassed.

same side of the building.
enough isnt ever enough.

where's the bellows at?
where's the bellows at?

I second the heads spinning,
slipping, still as the pond by
your parent's house
is in winter.
center of the spiral;
my fire is full, thanks.

was that the question?

halfheartedly;
artistry is vacuous.
acquiescence come after ****,
gotta love it though.
everyone is a judge with
not a care in their heads other
than
insurrection's growth.

oh ****
no bliss breathing between here
  and seasons forgotten about.

cattle corralled,
antlers on the raw wood, looming.

Iast on the lists, remember?
Ive never felt ok.
rarer with the hellish day,
agog at the god-head
coming apart like a
house on fire, where's the bellows at?

fade.

those thoughts of yours sure are lofty, huh?
I wouldn't use that word other than
in that instance.

rough draft,
a bit contrived,
pretentious,
flimsy.

I chant hymns in the mirror too.
I exhalt vitriol to the heights of vitriol
and slit my own throat
under full moons
so more full moons will shine
over my *******.

I am the space between the syllables
begging to be an outro.

circling the drain
the worst of it
is the taste of the
rain coming out of
the black cloud above me

tastes like days I'll never
be able to get back
or forget about

lovely

they told me if I didnt
like it here I could leave.

I'm still waiting
on the plane ticket.

feigned interest
in the same/different
dispensation of grace
from a safe distance
just to save the visage
of what I couldn't
articulate to you
on a good day.

technically,
it's the same rain everywhere.

it's been a really good day.
feigned ignorance.

Samsara on it's head.
my kind of victory
is a wine glass
on it's side
rolling through
cheap cabernet
and then off the table.

Freddie Freeloader
blaring,
filling the room
with an air that feels like
a hundred frightened rabbits.

wine glass shatters,
no rabbits running;
the cabernet
and my feet
tap tap tapping
the floor.

if you ever want to talk
about Baudelaire
or greenhouses
then I'm your man.

I've clenched my fist enough
in this life.

so have you.

even sorrow solemnly
follows the solace seeking
masses;
I'm last on every list,
ever.

is that enough?
is that the rough of it?

whispers disappear into
the sound of the shower.

"council house and violent"
is the the greatest line
ive ever felt shudder up
my hollow spine.

might mix the midland
with wilting.
silk screen a t-shirt or two,
features are diffused;
streetlights through rush-hour windshields.

but hollow spines though.

sidewalks;
the blood stretching from
my open chest to
Port-au-Prince
and back again.

I fractal out under the
afternoon moon.

born dead,
I leave it at lore on
a doorstep;
force left me in the street.

I need this;
promises.
homage paid
to the whole
"ostrich with it's head
in the sand" motif.

I hope grief remembers my name.

ephemera,
éphémère,
let's talk it out.
its chalk outlines looking
like milk in the rain, remember?

I'm here.
my flesh searing on
a grill more alabaster
than aluminum.

I'm used to "done" as a theme.
keep that to yourself.

"though the most simple creatures"
in black gloss Ironlak
on the back wall of the gas station
I was told to stay away from.

I didn't do it,
I promise.

my promises are matches struck
by a nervous mom.

you get it.

lost friends,
lost teeth,
always another cigarette;
bees on bouncing lavender.

isn't that beauty enough?

I had an infinitely more horrible
time than I care to remember.

so I'm writing about it,
cheers Mr. Vonnegut,
so it goes.

so I go slowly slipping
through scenes of me
being a ******* *******
or prose I wrote
after a few-too-many.

ask(no),
act old so I can embody
the loss of life more
efficiently.

I'm a ******* *******.

why do you think
I tried burning that particular
house down,
out of all the houses
on our street?

loaded questions.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
the "I" of now hates himself
for all of it.

every question is loaded;
fun house mirrors.

birds are a theme of mine;
I pick up feathers off the street.

they finally settle on my altar
in a 87 cent vase
only big enough for a dandelion
or two.
or feathers.

hawk, turkey vulture,
raven, bluejay, mockingbird,
hummingbird.

however they lost them,
they play bouquet for love now.

like me,
finally.

crowns for beasts,
mouths for feasts.
clouds are the breeze
and the breeze is you
dancing in my dreams;
a ballerina in a music box.

snarling kings
lead the man in me
to seek apotheosis.

don't you know this
by now?

I am a child.
always.

in love's first winter
I lost my ******* mind twice;
ground is still bleeding.

thinking over years,
I slowly fall forever.
we were happy there.

we were never that.
leverage fact somewhere else.
we were never that.

probably so.

last two cigarettes,
a lot more beer,
I didn't buy more of the former
because the corner store
is too ******* high;
I'm at a bodega and I remember everything.

half right.
half-life,
half light;
I laugh in reverse sometimes.

you said,
"we're just carbon, man".
carbon smiled at that.

carbon says we are just dust motes
dancing in saturday sun rays shining
through ugly beige blinds.

carbon belly laughs.
carbon hasn't done that
in a very long time.

carbon has been here
a very long time.
carbon smiled at that too.

disrobing disbelief
as if it were a lover
just as drunk as I am
got me nothing
but more disbelief.

so now I sleep alone,
clothed,
with fantasy.

"tell me a story,
any story,
about anything",
I whisper
to tobacco stained wallpaper
my vulnerability
breeds like
rats behind.

doubt is a cage.

dont you refrain
from anything
in this whole world
if nobody gets hurt
when you do it.
or if youre the only one
that can get hurt;
do it.

or don't and say you
did it anyway.

either way,
they'll doubt you even did it.

doubt is a cage.