and at the center of all matter, of all material, of all minimums

there is a void left empty,
despondent and dull

succumbed to perpetual boredom, refusing every parcel of hope fed its way

no triviality of life, pseudo-lover, amount of liquor, passionate anger, level of amusement, right of passage,
can suffice its numbing throb

a cavity at the heart of it all,
left vacant

only to remind us again and again of our
inadequacy

the white faces on the screen depress me. as the wine spills over my grip, splattering on the pale skin of my ring finger, as blood is drawn for hospital tests. i am sick. but not as sick as them.

notice—the darkest of days spent in lonely airport bars. the stench of bleak, cold moisture against the hallow wooden walls. leaned up against the counter, you call out an order of the cheapest beer on draft. once the tall is indulged, once the plastic has exchanged hands, once all seems lost, the bartender speaks to you in the most honest tongue you've heard in months.
"take it easy."
you smile and turn.
with that...the day doesn't seem as dark.

if poetry was a blessing, i have been cursed. if poetry was cold rain, i have been buried in a desert. if poetry was a beautiful women, i have been castrated. if poetry was a father, i have been an orphan. if poetry was the truth, i have been a liar.

it's getting dark outside, so come in and listen. there are things i've been meaning to tell you. i hope it's not too late.

nothing makes me believe in god or hope, more than your bare *** blocking my view of the New York City skyline—as the rain droplets race to their death at the bottom of the window.

as a dream—to see your brown hair pouring out onto the white leather seat of the boat. your skin is tan: mahogany. there are sun stained freckles resting below your eyes. you laugh at all the right times. you cry only when it's necessary. you smile every chance you can. my friends tell me that you're a keeper—that you're the one. i believe them, because you're almost to perfect to be real. and it's not until i reach my arm across my empty bed, that i realize you aren't.

i want to scribble meaningless words across my body. i run from meaning—I want wholeness. to be apart of the world. a grain of sand in the Mojave desert, a spec of mud in a running river. i am a  wave in the dead sea, i am a cold car engine in the month of december. a single note, in the symphonies of everything—and nothing.