I need, remembrance
sac religion
mockery

I need, limitless
forever
bottles of wine
beer spilled in velvet carpets

I need nothing more than a girl
a girl with curly hair
one fragile but unbroken

I want death as much as I want life
I want empty empathy and no hurt feelings

I want causal ***

I want hope

I want something that doesn’t come close to what is here

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.

crawl out of the sheets. your stomach is bulging from the countless bottles you’ve swung down your throat. not swimming, but drowning. in the mirror you stand
repulsed. look at this mess. hair in all directions, uncombed. nails, dark. teeth, yellow. your face is scared with the last mistake you’ve made. turn at a shallow angle and wallow through the door. it’s 7:36 in the morning and the day is already soiled.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

there's ugly in the world
hiding behind the doors of every
beaten path, of every opportunity
there's ugly in the world
deep in the veins of the cute
blonde girl with innocent turquoise eyes
there's ugly in the world
lying in the green meadows of
Yosemite, Yellow Stone, Sequoia
if you listen you can hear it
in between the sounds of violins and
piano keys ringing through the orchestra
if you look hard enough, you can see it
in between the teeth of the priests, bank tellers, liquor store owners, politicians
if you reach far enough, you can even feel it, on the diploma sheets, on the *******, on the empty wine glasses
do not beware the ugly
it's there when you shave, it's there when you drink, it's there when you get the mail, it's there when you sweep the floors,
it's there on Christmas, your wedding, your funeral
there is no escape from it
the sun is shinning, the grass is trimmed, a red checkered picnic cloth lays on the ground, her face looks at yours,
it's no different
do not beware the ugly
simply be aware

after running through terminal after terminal after plane after plane—you grow a certain melancholy love for flying. the pinchers of whiskey and short glances out of the small window really gain appeal. life is fast. new words every week, new lessons every day, new moments every minute. you either learn to enjoy it, or suffer through the nights (perhaps both if you're lucky). bad and good aren't that bad and good. getting drunk at 3pm tastes a lot like a job promotion or a kiss by a lonely girl.

another night spent lying on a flat surface
and an empty wine glass
beside me

the thoughts arrive swiftly and I am
defenseless

nothing at this instant matters more

the lights
the dancing
the nights spent beside you in dark
spaces of gleeful bars filled with dejected patrons

crowds of people, yet you were
there
uniquely
standing quite with a mere smile

the type of smile that makes you believe
in something more than yourself
something more real
than what’s here

the times we’ve shared on
beaches
empty towns
couches

you were provisional
liminal
temporary
subject to exit

and you did one afternoon,
exit

you had reverted back to your
old lover

your true companion

myself, accepting, understanding of the situation
I informed you of my grievances yet paid no attention to the truth
the truth that rotted inside me

now its spoiled, sour and purple

and you come pouring out of me.
and I lay here shivering

how i miss the old days
how i miss the old days

there is no return

only swift thoughts

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.

it's the cold heat of a bedroom that gets you. the bare *** of a ******* a poor beach; the sound of running water. the day is july 8th and i'm hungover in bed at 5pm. i tried to call her—no answer. it's always the wrong girls that appear on my couch, next to my shower curtains, lying in my covers. i think the sink is broken, but i haven't dare tried to fix it. maybe i should take out the trash—it's been piling up for weeks.

like a fish cannot paddle in the opposite direction. they themselves cannot move backwards. they themselves cannot retrace steps and remain content. they themselves cannot love worse from what they’ve loved. a heap of trash, you stand besides her fellow conquests, only to discover, it is you, the one who has lost.

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.

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.

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?

i keep walking up in the same body, but different. turning 90 degrees to match the sun through the window. new day, but nothing new. check my height, same. check my shoe size, same. the mirror tells a similar story. thoughts spray against the walls. slight alterations, not revamped, if anything, sour from expiration. my mind has grown old, i can feel it. the liquids have taken their toll. one day i’ll make sense of it all; however, i’m afraid by then i’ll have succumbed to it’s allure.

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.

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.

spilled beer painted across mismatched tiles on a southern bound local 6. the ride is short. 15 minutes to get to bleecker, then, a transfer. from there it’s two stops on the F, home bound. another night in this. stale breath of nicotine and a sore neck. the air has felt heavy lately, with reason to. there has been a death in the family, but it was not a death, nor was it in the family. activity within the amygdala has risen by a third multiple. soon it will reach full throttle. decelerate, and remain constant before total free fall. there are supposed to be 5 stops on this train, but we have past 50. the 28 minute ride has become an expedition. is this the end? or perhaps, only a transfer..

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.