i fall asleep at six in the morning on weekends,
but through the weeks i collapse as as soon as
ten.

i think ***** has become my new lover,
he leaves hickeys, caked like dried
paint.
he doesn’t disappoint, slurring in words
heavy and foamy.

you are mad.
(because i no longer need you)
but i will crave you until my insides
**** the earth.

maybe that is why being sober for too long
scares me.
we always preach about never becoming our
parents, yet before we realize it we are talking, eating like them.
my mothers boots are too tight.
i think your fathers fight just right.

you miss me now, because all you have is my ghost.
and i hope she haunts you every step of the way,
because for three years you
haunted
me.
and i still can’t fall asleep without
drowning within
you.
i hate sleeping alone.
i hope you do too.

Dad? Do you believe that past and present meet in a place called destiny?
Or that past and future meet in a place called now?

Dad? Do child and adult, father and son, meet in a place called 'I'?
Do you see me now, Dad and revisit your past's future, your future passed?

Am I your hopes, your dreams, your rival , your mortal destiny, manifest?
Am I your friend, your blood, your child, your son?

And would you fear, if we were each other, as I feared, clawing at the cage of 'how I was taught to be not myself'?
And did you share the pain, when I made myself an island, burning bridges,  
so I could  find  the 'I' in me?

Of course .........you did.............and you quietly, stoically bore the brunt of that pain. And though  I always loved you, Dad, now I am your forever friend............................and your son.

I've learned that happiness
cannot be found in the form of a little
purple capsule.
I've learned that Pisa will have to wait until next time.
I've learned that the third mushroom
held in my sweaty palm was not as
big a deal compared to the other two opening my mind.
I've learned that a part of me
died that night where we ****** in a
room with no furniture.
I've learned that life is work and that
the molotov cocktail of Dubrah and eay mac
that came spewing from me left an orange tang
upon the floor.
I've learned that pain is better than numbness
and that jabbing a sewing needle repeatedly in my arm
was an educated decision.
Most importantly I've learned that together we are better than alone.

The Doll House

I stumble, I tumble into a house of prostitution,
well it is the oldest professional institution.
I stare, I sit and I look around,
suddenly my tongue dropped to the ground.
Had my choice of fifty ******,
each room had curtains for doors.
Plenty of blondes, brunettes and red heads,
laced satin sheets on all the beds.
Fat girls, skinny girls and ugly ones too,
with only twenty dollars my choices were few.
They sent me back into a room,
a blow up doll and a plastic broom.
After an hour, I was very confused,
doll had a smile, but my ******* was bruised.
Walked out of the place with a limp,
dressed up my broom, just like a ****.
I kept the doll free of charge,
ugly desperate men kept me living large.
I charged sixty dollars an hour with the doll,
hundreds of men were giving me a call.
Making thousands of dollars every week,
pretty good for a doll that doesn't speak.
Now I've cornered market on dolls that are inflatable,
one for any occasion, I have available.
Birthday parties for the geeks and nerds,
nothing like ******* who say no words.
Handicapped and retards love my prices,
I even supply them with special devices.
I even get women with their ******* *****'s,
some girls even like to pick my nose.
This went on for many years,
when I retired, millions were in tears.
My doll house is now a famous museum,
I call it the Blow Up Coliseum.