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 ******* *******.

This lassitude is a path
I intend to stray from,
go laughing like a madman
off into the wild wild faceless
fade-away until I wake up
in another's afternoon.

Square one is etched in my light-body.

Masks, masks, and masks.

Sad poems stacked somewhere
between our past and the shattered
glass still scattering Saturday sunshine;
I think I've loved life enough, thanks.

"that he should see all the world bloodshot,
the most unhappy man on earth."

I underlined that randomly in some book
I stole from some thrift shop.

the only acceptable political idealogies
are an open mind, a heart as blind as it is boundless,
or a molotov cocktail waiting to shatter
against anything built in opposition of
the first two.

when all the richness within "life"
turns to gleaming misery
will you come nurse a beer and a smile with me
before that altar of the end that howls for a blacker oblivion
than it already tastes on the tongues of those of us
willing to dream it up

that question was meant to be confusing
a wilderness our inner children
can skip off into while we make a home from the horror
bleeding out of the voids they leave behind

i think

my certainty is an empty throne these days

walking to the corner store,
the sky smelled like peppermint in coffee.
I mean,
nothing.

I'm non-local,
slipping temporally,
slipping.
just speak to me sweet;
there is a bird beating it's wings
against my ribs,
dying to escape.

I watched a male cardinal giving
a female a twig in my driveway.

it's gorgeous,
this moment.

slipping.

cheers to sage smoke and the little
bit of sunshine that leaks through
my window.

our halos are made of bleached bone. take from that what you will,
I've always been windblown anyway.

cheers to that **** too.

sometimes
I feel alone
no matter what

that's a response
to someone who
found me face down
in the mud;
I once breathed through bamboo
for 8 days in a rice paddy
just waiting for the chance
to run.

I'm *** spilled on the deck.
it's something,
isn't it?

Every calm that has ever birthed
an epiphany for you was really
sheer ******* chaos you were
too blind to notice.

static on the TV,
magick bleeding out of a dreamy
yesterday,
passion rots as fast as anything;
think of the storms we could've
forced into morning cups of coffee
if we had ignored all the portents
of war and the war itself.

it's fireflies in a willow tree.

when a fire dies in the future...
**** it.
it doesn't matter.

on my back in the dewy grass

is this what sky feels

you can have the wishes a better me would've made

i'm ok with it

all alone in a cheap hotel room
writing "gang gang" on the beige wall
next to the bed,
I've never felt so alive.

your ghost keeps whispering "oh well, dude"
every time I think things would be better
if I didn't say what I did;
I treasure any hell I won't abide in.

no telling when this feeling will fade away,
I'm bleeding out in every street everywhere.

we are all plot devices.

evoke something.
it's all *******.

until it isn't, right?
different lives,
fire flies on a humid night
in the backyard.

mask scars with sunshine,
kind of...

line after line after line after line.
don't mind us.

believing it was something
like a nice early 20th century
restaurant is convenient
now that i’m trying to write
about where “I” was before
the doctors forced me back
into my body the other day
at the hospital.

the clink of silver on porcelain
becoming the relentless beeping
of an ECG is imagery that does
all the heavy lifting.

of course, dissociation does come
easy to my generation.

we all do not wear watches either.

only more problems, right?

air in lungs.
out again.
walls walls walls.
then they crumble.
air in lungs.
out again.

The sky,
now the hue of dead futures,
still reeks of the need
to be photographed.

the pillars holding up
my tranquil sky
started trembling
quite some time ago.

just biding my minutes,
biting my nails.
it's a bad habit
I picked up along the way;
ive got alot of them.

I'm working on that.

when the pillars finally
crumble I hope they transmute
into butterflies before a nimbus
even kisses the dirt.

hopefully.

my heart is a billion moths swirling
beneath a farola fernandina in some
forgotten figment finally drifting
out of the immanence i heard you've been
searching for between drinks and pizza

eyes widen
moon smears across a stagnate pond
i bide my time with learning to disappear at dawn

the revenant has my face

mirror mirror on the everything

stakes

what's lost is lost is god is fog
rolling over the sidewalks
in neighborhoods of darker timelines
i might fall in love with someday

apples and lavender on the altar,
I light candles for all of you.

all of you.

this is a moment for truth,
for poignancy,
but the solitude I chase
erases all of that.

again, I go back to that "all of you".
this self referential **** is only meant
to deepen my ****** narrative.

call that a good use of "meta"

I've been dissolving slowly
this whole time.
I dont know quite how long
that is.

Fleeting glimpses of gilded good
amidst **** loads of, well...

This isn't a call for help.
This is sincere.
This is dismantling of style.
This is alive like the rest of it.

Every cigarette I smoke
is the last one I ever will.
Every syllable I ever wrote
is abominable and I love that.

you know that feeling
you get when you know
you have the wrong house?

like that one drink that makes
your body say "we are done".

digging for empathy.

flowers grow from my footprints

hymns drifting out of cracked cathedral doors

I whisper seduction to any and all
stones awaiting the warmth of the
morning to end all R.E.M sleep
everywhere simultaneously

my alarm clock rang itself off
the nightstand a millennia ago

sell me benediction and be done with it

this isn't apathy
this is painting with the most boring black i can find
and calling it "like father like son"

im tired of searching
or better yet
tired of acting as if im tired of searching for providence

so again
sell me benediction and be done with it

bedroom fades back in
groggy eyed perpetual
no need to worry
i whisper to the dust motes
they will all read this how they want
or wont read it at all
so keep dancing
it lends the moment something dead
i can take for granted
as i stumble down the hall
to the bathroom
where i stand and
stare at myself in the mirror
half naked

I want the audience to know that i
show up to any gilded scale with my own dagger and feather
and usually leap into the
gaping maw of the Ammit analog
before the latter is ever placed
in the bowl opposite
my still beating heart

but
something about this go-around feels
a bit different
a bit off
a bit clearer maybe

maybe not

maybe

yea maybe not

and
yet
somehow
another
gaping
maw

no jumping this time

why does everyone have
that poetry voice?

that weird inflection up
to the highest archway
that sits shaking above
some contrived nobility,
you know what I aiming at.

"how does thou" type of ****.
im viruses trying at life
in the air and the water supply.

no I'm not.
I'm dying quick.

I just didn't know what else to write;
half-*** author kind of vibe,
right?

and if i must rip rotten fangs
from the gaping mouth of the day
i will do it in the night hours
where every whisper is a war cry
alone and aflame with regret
the regret of never having the strength
to crack my ribs and carve the names
of every single one of these ghosts
onto my beating heart
and show them smiling like a child
while their's beat too

they dance in my head to the sound of blackened canines
hitting the floor at my feet

at least they are dancing

I learned that fighting
something only made
it stronger when I had
finally come to hate my heroes.

I hear you breathing in
every syllable of that sentence.
I hate it.

in the words of Ceschi Ramos,
"art is dog **** on a wall,
art is magnifying vices.".
subjectivity is the life-blood
of that abominable thing
crawling through the proverbial
landfill that is our collective
understanding.

we dip every angel feather
in the ******* and drool pooling
at our feet because we can't seem to see
the defining line between
shutting the **** up
and screaming "what does it mean?!"
at the top of our lungs.

something like that.

Whose voice echoes down these halls?

Who asks that question more than one
could otherwise stand?

Immune to voids and letting go,
paralysis precedes the fall from grace.

More turns.
More turns.

One could walk while they chase
if they absolutely had to.

somewhere I read
that my fingerprints
we're set in stone
(flesh)
long before I ever
came to hate myself.

before my first breathe.

yea?

I never saw you dance
and in thinking of that
I realize that I never
actually met you.

I would love to meet you.
that has been a constant.

like breathing.
since I met you.

sacrosanct
gold fangs
cracked concrete
black rose
pathos
data flow
ennui
too many ******* commas
my inner dalai lama laments any is to be
wrenched from the grip of mama entropy
rinse repeat
rinse repeat
the bends are **** so im staying under
to swap kisses with whispered history

miss me with the mysterious "here she is amidst the pyramids"
please
im over it

blank stare at blank page
the Pit of Acheron stretching down
pray pray pray with my wretched mouth
for anything that makes me think of your face rising out of it

i still ******* love you

this isnt just feet on the precipice of deepening reverie
this is death of the best of me
please please please let me believe forever that your flesh
still regrets the loss of mine pressed close

my ghost really needs it

doomsday in a two piece suit
asks, "what the **** is a bleeding edge?"

i apologize for my photons going pinball
as long as they probably will.

This is all the narrative
of some disillusioned author
who conceptualized it long before
he started missing his deadlines
and drinking at breakfast.

All of it.

Everything.

Through the narrow window
in my cell I see the
sunset shading everything,
from sky to soil,
the color of watered down
merlot soaking into fresh white linen
and I wonder how much
you've been laughing lately.

Where's the threads,
the vein that runs through it,
the ******* point to it all?

You can't daisy chain clouds
with "I love you" whispered
in abandoned houses
and expect it to rip out hearts.

Patterns, patterns, patterns end.

Nothing matters anyway.

More masks,
less friends.

these words of mine
are a labyrinth

Cherish that being scared of the future feeling.
It’s just one snare hit on the drum track of some wack ****
you slapped together in mom’s basement on a 8 track sold at her estate sale
and bought by a soundcloud rapper who will just delete the ****
to make one of his lame *** songs.

Youth burns like the oil in old lamps.
Only ever slow clap when it’s the most out of place.
Fold up maps and toss them out rental car windows.
Laugh like a savage drinking blood of his cold axe blade.

It will be ok.
This isn't as much of a battlefield as you're painting it out to be.

Although the carrion still circle overhead though so...

the world seems far away
the kind of far away you feel
reading the obituaries in the newspaper

out there
just spinning

i trace the door frame with my thumb

spinning
fire spitting out of open mouths
everywhere but here

all is mind
all is dream
all is all alone

Just a sip from the abyss
and then it's bed time for all of us.

Twisting words around sunshine
is a gun to the head of God
if God wasn't busy with the mystery
hidden in the entropy spilling
out of my pen.

Just a sip, kids.

This is just some **** for you to skip rocks to.

black sun rising behind a pair of bone white pyramids

i don't know why i keep seeing this

the urge to thread my absurd dreams into the naked normal
is overwhelming
and yet
every single morning i dig graves for them behind my eyes

black sun setting
golden sand turned into a mirror meant for the grinning gods
of frenzied denizens of some dim and distant existence

my conviction has always slipped through my fingers

eater of worlds
beseecher of ends hell bent on getting new skin to kick rocks in
constant
unconscious
mach speed
god needs to ******* back to his rabbit out the satin magic act *******
full clips
cool kids pulling
cooler patterns to be enraptured with
slap-dash
dash away faster and faster and faster

heat death

we need silence in each and every vestibule

we seek death like a cheap ticket to a free event we know we wont even show up for

donation boxes overflowing with halfhearted suggestions
futures trading
praise be to praise be to praise be to praise be to
be to
be to
be you
be folklore
be old warrants served to bones beneath floorboards
go towards the morning as well as from where the dirges are drifting out of

incense smoke
the glow of a tv
white noise
no
you know you wont need me
ill float away hoping to find a bright void to anoint with dream-speak
en route to a deep dissent i intend to rent to tourists

you know

for the full experience

Saints in the grass,
snakes in the red inked rice paper,
no stakes.

Paydirt to just dirt,
inertia,
stealing the first buds on your neighbor's rose bush
because you've earned them.

Worth is a burned bridge
glimpsed over a shoulder,
burgeoning burned already
lest we embed flesh in cold earth because to smoulder is a fate worse than rehearsing a death wish
in the cracked mirror of modernity.

Learned behavior.

i jump anyway

everywhere
always
is in the jaws of something

always
is a door to the same place
we have unlearned how to love

we have learned how to run

we have never earned any of this

so this is me digging the graves
of those I will never meet

this is me earning
something
anything
always

this morning you came to me
in a dream,
with your hair dripping wet
and wrapped in a cream
colored bath towel,
looking like the ******* image
of the cosmos collapsing.

right as i felt like God himself
i started crying like a child
alone and lost in some monstrous night.

i never knew i missed you this much.

diamonds fall from my mouth,
blood up there in the mountains somewhere;
something for everybody.
everybody dies,
but everybody tries to forget that.

i'll share a cigarette with you
if you happen to have brought a lighter.

i know,
i always forget something.

last november i found a dead hawk
lying in a ditch while out for a stroll.

i took it home and buried it beneath
the same tree i have buried all my pets under.

we are all so very small.
we always forget that.
i try not to.

looking at the clouds
we see god or dragons or rabbits

looking into the open mouth of someone's heart we see the same.

chains
chains
and more chains

its passion
its ******* irrational
its something to write about at least

its something
at least
its something

I'm threading the narrative.
Barely there, anyway.

ive stood on the threshold
of the need for better
for the better part of a
decade.

ive left "thanks" at the door
more times than I could count.

doubt it if you feel ok
about doing so.

do you though?