When I'm drunk
I think about you.

Ironic.

I just want to purge you,
but I'm not that masochistic,
because missing you
will never be harder
than not missing you.

It is a black spot
as cancerous and consuming
as those wandering black holes
that squander life
like poachers.

When I return
to heaven
and all those angels stand at the gate,
I hope they've got their magazines
loaded,
because God told me
that depression is when
even pleasure
will seem like my pain,
and I might have to die
with the feeling that bullets create:
fire.
And that fire in my belly will drop
as hope riddles it with all them magazines.

I used to see my death everyday,
when I made it out my door
I was worried,
that I might catch it
quick
while all the remorse I'd stored
would remain.

One time I was tripping shrooms
and it wasn't a bad trip,
but God came down to me
carrying a baby in her arms,
an ugly baby
with big eyes and even bigger ears

God said,
"this is your baby,
it has seen everything
and heard much more."

"All the evil I've done,
seems compounded
by all the good,"
I said.

God said,
"when your heart is compromised
all else
is failure;
hold to your compassion more than anything else
and this child
will grow big and strong,
bigger and stronger
than that tumbleweed
tumbling
through your soul;
so when I come to you like this,
know that this is not the way
that I would have chosen to come."

I've never been into the bible
too many humans with their human endeavors in mind,
but I believe God was giving me
my own personal Jesus,
not a messiah;
just something to make me turn around
and see that the fork in the road
was not that far back.

It's hell down here,
hell in blue lights
and sweaty
bodies
hotter with desperation
than an empty frying pan.

From the frying pan to the club
we burn
and die
to wake up for work
in the morn.

When I come home,
I swear
I saw my mother
in blue and green
walking away from me
pushing a cart
wrapped in garbage bags,
looking cold as hell
and her plastic eyes
were clouded with brown tears.

When
I trip over my ****
drunk
in the middle of the night
and I hear sirens,
I swear,
I see God
doling out peace
while I'm afraid
for what years I have left.

I just want people to know I exist,
to know I existed,
to know that
there's something wrong
and I'm the black tornado
spinning up garbage
and dead bodies
in my mind.

If I die,
and nothing's left,
then you'll know why,
hell is a storm
and God hands out weather reports everyday.

Some girls just like something very traditional. does that make them any less of a woman. can a woman be a traditionalist and still be a feminist? I think so. I think that what we shared in that time was exactly what we wanted, to fall back into structured and secure roles, because we'd been through the centrifuge lately. And that may not have been who the both of us were at heart, but it worked to heal us, to make us both better for the future, and most importantly, less cynical. I think that what is most feminist about any relationship is the ability to choose. I've been in relationships where I'm the dominant one, and others where I'm not. It takes the ability to check your own self and being a pragmatist, because if you love someone you will change for them. You won't change your personality, but you'll change the way you approach a relationship if you care about them enough. I think that's what feminism boils down to. Allowing both partners to choose their roles in the relationship instead of having them chosen for them. So, **** it, my girl wants to be Susie Homemaker; that's her choice and I lay my head on that.

"I will eat your ******* **** off
in your sleep,
this is just disgusting"

We had been conversing proper cleaning methods concerning the latrine.

"Who does that?
Just ****** all over the toilet seat and doesn't clean it."

"Who leaves a ****** ****** in the toilet
and doesn't flush?"

We resolved the situation amicably like adults.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"Blueberry pancakes."

And she got out of bed,
tapped me on the neck with her lips,
a good love tap,
and walked out naked to the kitchen
her *** and quads just bouncing
and beautiful.

I could see her in the kitchen,
all of her,
and i rolled over to her side,
where her pillow was,
took a long drag
of her smell,
and just passed out.

She woke me up
and I dipped blueberries
and fluff into lakes of syrup
and we watched TV and laid together
for a while.

Just close to each other.

I worked on her car the whole day,
changed her oil,
plugged a blown gasket,
and came back in when the streetlights
were starting to flicker on
And that Saturday
I got to lay down with her the rest of the night
and we were realistically happy.

What I really think it was,
was that
our dreams,
when we allowed them to,
coincided
beautifully.