you find yourself at the bottom of a bottle. uncontrollable. unalterable. undone. wine. the wine has spilt down your shirt. it has fallen onto the carpet as well. flushed, dark and bruised. she sits next to you. no. not her. another. another that won’t make it. and the walls watch, as you attempt to clean up your mess. scrubbing. the rag is an extension of your body, sweeping back and forth like a pendulum. it has to come out. but the wine will not capitulate. it is vigorous. it has embedded itself deep into the fabric. and the polyester of your shirt was ****** from the start. how clumsy. you knew red wine would stain, didn’t you? “soap won’t get that out.” she mutters, half way out the door. “try bleach” the walls suggest.

poems can no longer help. i am sad, i am sad. on and on. it is as sure as day light. as sure as the noon’s missile, which will detonate at max velocity upon night’s pavement. as the local 6 will make him late for work. as the rats will scavenge new york city for chocolate and unsalted tuna. as the lucky ones will remain lucky and the rest will retreat into dismal peril. as the girl alone at the bar will never find the one. i am destined not for greatness, but for emptiness. for warm rooms without windows. for congested cabs without drivers. for unmediated divorces. nameless run over animals on 5th avenue. nothing more than a shell submerged in murky estuaries. contoured as broken shins passed through glass upon fatal impact.

ill foot the bill tonight. it’s been awhile since i’ve amounted to anything.

is it too unoriginal to discuss hangovers in subway trains? i know i’ve always been accompanied by trite ides, but this feels different. a little more fresh. my mind is bleeding, and i’m not sure how to stop it. doctor suggests to stop the cancer rods, the liquids as well. but these are only suggestions. not relevant to the pace that i’m moving at. i’ve heard that creativity should pour out of you like a fountain. hemingway described it as blood on a type writer. shame some of it ended up on the walls instead of on the pages. i’d pray to be different if i believed. but i don’t. and i’m just like the rest of them. just like the rest of them but a little more stale and a lot more unoriginal. i’m a walking cliche. something in accordance to cardboard or perhaps the color yellow. something bland without taste. this hangover is growing worst and when it ends, another will arrive. if i could only do something to stop the bleeding. did i tell you what the doctor suggested?

a disastrous morning. late for the 8-hour and I skipped a meal. the one from last night painted my sheets. claiming her territory? what a spoiled ritual. the other is across a wide spread of land confused why i’ve distanced myself. she wrote me this morning demanding answers. i’m busy now, the other ruined my sheets with metallic fluids. the carpet is stained as well. the one on the phone is sorry she says. wants to know if it’s something she’s done. no. it’s this small screen that’s made me dizzy, not you. it’s this minuscule display of lights that resemble you which have troubled me. seeing your shadow run across the beaches of california. dancing amongst attractive humans. twirling in bars. while i’m here, facing a different ocean, fumbling in my ***** sheets.

days move forward in repetition. the dullness petrifies the human soul to the center. he pushes on, but not quite sure what for.

these marks on my arm are from delinquent behavior and uncaring decisions. for most of my life i’ve hated myself. for most of my life i’ve had reasons to. carousels of faces have spun in and out of these days, and few have remained. you have been on both edges of the fence. a once face, and now a name. you have slipped in and out of these marked arms. and although i grow angry and restless, you still seem to be something better than me. i’ve lost most of my past feelings and there isn’t much left inside of this bag of blood. you mean a lot and i wish i could label this thought. it seems so simple to me now, here, at this moment.

you are kind, and gentle, and i love you for that.

she called this afternoon. you know, the one i’m always writing about. the conversation began slowly, each side curious to know how the other would react. “how are you, it’s been a while?” she says, while the inside of my stomach begins to stir. “i’m fine, nothing new.” we speak for thirteen minutes. she feels that she has grown tiresome of her friends. she believes she is comfortable, but unlike everyone around her. i spew lackluster advice and sympathize with her. lucky for us, we are both saved by her friend who i was told “is walking to the car.” that signaled the end of our conversation, she had to go. we both hang up the phone  unsure if she should of called, and if i should of answered. we will not know, and no understanding will ever be so clear. as i board the next train, i make eye contact with an attractive girl with straight ***** rose colored hair. she doesn’t smile. my shins shiver waiting on the side of the track. something below 10 degrees with a strong wind chill. one of the coldest nights of the year is what i’ve been told. to think of her warm and safe far away, sheltered. she’s probably already forgotten the words that we exchanged on our phone call. all that’s left is a name in a log, adjacent to a time frame delineating the minutes strangers spent discussing any thing that made them feel familiar, but nothing could be found.