He drinks, he forgets
Where he is and why he is there.

He begins to lose himself in his darkness,
Begins to erupt from within.

He stops caring,
Or begins to care too much.

He wishes himself born again
in the purifying sunlight of dappled spring mornings, because he wishes to start over again.

He starts to do things harder than ever,
He gives himself over to the mercury of the moment,
He bathes in his own sin,
Finds the wash of it freezingly refreshing
And repulsive all at once.

He stops talking,
Starts wishing to enjoy the ornateness of youth.

Feels he's old at 25,
Starts to change his mind.

Forgets everything he's learned over a quarter century
And goes back to rudderless childhood,
Even worse in adulthood.

This is not a bar
for the optional. This
is not a place for the unknown.
This is a place amongst the fire
and iron. This is the home
of tumbling mongerers
and life-dulled addicts;
of the hope-filled dull
and drone of life.

I have taken the drink of spasm with you,
and tasted the wine of dehydrated breath
and loss.

I, in my hopelessness,
was hopeful
and angry.

We were.

And i've drowned it all, with the racists
and nubients, rednecks,
how I love you *******.

Take my calming down
as love.
Take my Wilding out
as truth,
and hear the scream of my useless crush.

We will sober,
we will long to ****,
we will long to understand,
we will long too long.

This is not a bar
for the optional. This
is not a place for the unknown.
This is a place amongst the fire
and iron. This is the home
of tumbling mongerers
and life-dulled addicts;
of the hope-filled dull
and drone of life.

I have taken the drink of spasm with you,
and tasted the wine of dehydrated breath
and loss.

I, in my hopelessness,
was hopeful
and angry.

We were.

And i've drowned it all, with the racists
and nubients, rednecks,
how I love you *******.

Take my calming down
as love.
Take my Wilding out
as truth,
and hear the scream of my useless crush.

No better woman
than her with ferocious eyes,
And a glow of life.

The impure line
of your 1950s body
is all curves and no nonsense.

No holding back those valleys of flesh
the pools of sweat lambent in your thighs
with the reflections of a thousand firefly's eyes.
No pain in that extra
on your pelvis.

A few pounds more,
is a few roses less, less bulllshit.

Sometimes your lips become chapped,
caked by the dryness of conversation
and the impropriety of self-consciousness
and I like to kiss them,
because mine are chapped,
and i'm so self-conscious,
so worried about that other couple
in the corner.

When we are in the dark room
of each other's arms,
and I could kiss you but don't,
or when I could grab your ***
but won't,
I keep my arms around your waist
and pull you tight, warm, and close,
just to taste the sourness of
stale deodorant,
washed away perfume,
and your old milk breath,
because you're gaining some weight
and I want to savor this heat
for licking away those lambent pools of sweat
on your tiny back,
grand piano waist,
and the crack of your ***.

Ecstasy. Ecstasy. I'm losing it
just thinking about Cosmo burning.

Hello there
gruesome stone,
blood flowing over you,
making you lifelike
once more,
I can see your limbs
escaping your nothingness
like the useless appendix.

Your beautiful thighs,
and loveless algae-green eyes,
your senseless fingertips
and heartless glow,
your tiny brain
with it's one-track philosophy.

Gruesome stone,
you grow from wantoness
and neediness,
fed by the blood of those less fortunate
in love,
you harbor an innate greed
to be found again,
to caress the excellent jest
of unrequited love.

You are an out-of-this-world high
when you speak,
and you are not meant
for the
human heart,
and yet,
you follow the rivers
till they empty into the ocean,
and finally become stone again.

Until the last drop of stolen blood
has been washed away,
you and your beauty and horribleness
taint the very spirit
of love.

Taint the very problems
you intend to solve.

So, gruesome stone
like Dracula,
when there is nothing left,
you remain,
lifeless and pointless
a stone's throw away
from the human heart.

A pebble waiting for the wash of the slightness of a droplet,
to mar the warmth of the heart.

I want to write
a poem,
about myself.

Of death,
and exquisite joy.

Weeks on end
with constant pressure,
small breaks,
and no woman to talk to.

This poem,
this life is filled
with unfulfillment,
and then when it isn't,
it haunts you.

Drinkers drink,
smokers msoke,
most of the time
it goes hand in hand.

Sometimes I hate
being the man
to bear the dead weight.

And no, I am not alone,
but,
because of myself,
I am alone.

Having not seen much,
everyday that I grow
is an explosion,
a catastrophe
and then heaven.

And not always heaven,
never when you expect it,
when you need
it.

But heaven when you're being selfish;
when you is me,
vice versa,
and it washes over and you spend
all week
trying to atone for not fully enjoying it.

How much should I wallow in the peace
that sprung from the muck of deep sin?
how much should I allow myself
to feel lowsy for not
enjoying respite?

How many people push
against themselves,
only to realize they're wrong,
and wrong and wrong?

I am always realzing;
always a realization
of myself, of us
through me. And I am trying to be
less arrogant. But
I know things are right;
I know the evil I have
perpetrated against me,
and you,
and I know that isn't always the case.

I know the good.

So, I am tired
of bone and dry,
and full of milk
and honey.

But even though fatigue
settles,
like dust,
I am fine with
this.

I know that this
is. And I am at home
in
this.

Like pent-up rage,
a demon
in its cage
hungry for
a mouthful
it has not
had in days.

a mouth not
its own filled
to the brim.

worked on

The whole world
is washed out,
the drunks ramble on
far past the point of preminiscence,
to the reaches of ignorance.

We hold on so tight to our jobs,
our jobs,
our jobs,
our humanity is gone,
and I can't mourn.

When the sun sets
on a Saturday,
we crest and valley,
we return and serve,
we hold tight to our own souls
like we feel the skin of the dancer's hips,
in our fingertips,
everything is not really ours,
and yet we believe we can never be wrong
about anything.

The bouncer bounced out all of them
at 2 am.

Even the incoherent,
even the lost,
even the hopeless,
even the wonderlust of a brilliant night
peppered by sodium stars
and ignited moons,
and wonderful galaxies,
and incomparable distances,
it was all not enough.

Why is it never enough,
what bluff are we standing on,
camping out on?

Where is the soldier
who floundered in his backyard?

Amidst the windswept sawgrass,
(Which, by the way,
Cut so hard against his skin)
He felt the sensitivity of his own lost soul,
So on the surface,
that it was hurt by its own feeling.

He, who dipped and swayed,
And felt angry, perverted, and *****,
lonely, now,
He lets his mind wander,
When he's never done that before.

Now he is away,
Careening through space, time,
and *****.

Peicing together destruction,
and how much humanity and evil,
Well up from us
as a reaction to death,
How so frail we are,
How ***** releases a man.

Where the horizon finally finds itself, he has been lifted,
Too heaven,
Among God and Gods and monkeys
and clouds.

Too where gunsmoke rises eternally,
With the heartbeat of man,
A slow, hollow drumming,
emptiest,
The emptiest.

In the brotherhood of the melting sunset,
Where molten horizon simmers overtop the edges of the pines,
And the whole world is finally pure chaos,
sadness and beauty.

He reaches the bottom of his dreams,
and still wandering,
Goes back into the house,
To ******* so much and hard that it hurts,
To sleep.

We have seen
and called for misunderstanding,
But I have seen our future children,
mulatto genearation,
Ticked off,
I am at our confusion,
Foggy like the farts of war,
The bullets continue to fly
even in silence,
From my brother's gun,
*** can you call youreself,
When you hold tight to the chains,
We must let loose,
We must see the sun and its morning fog
As the dew of renewal,
Because I have seen you witb oure
Mulatto children, and you looked at me,
I was a father.

I know you got a lot on your mind
to tell me.

Hell love,
we fell love
in so quickly.

How feelings of shame
rattle up the game and scare the rat
in its cage.

But please,
be mad today.

Tell me what's inside, everything;
your stupid dreams,
dreams of enough, not it all,
but enough to pain the walls,
make this un-sturdy prison fall,
make me happy enough.

I don't want to change personalities
from day to day.

This letter, sent to you
over airwaves; through the gunplay,
past funerals held today;
I hope it revitalizes the feelings
we shared, over moonlight blunts, so loud,
they had us scared.

So, little miss sunshine, wake up from night,
wake up from this place of pain
holding us tight.

No one to hold my fears.
No sanctity for my tears.
When I cry, it goes deep
into my system, lays down
beside my visions; oils my dreams, powers the machine
of my body.

God
allow me the strength to survive,
to strive,
to struggle,
to climb, to love,
to live a breathless life.

Even though I feel
sadness, I know
it wells from a good place
in my soul.

Uncomfortable without my tears.

So,
I may not be a blaster,
or a boxer,
or a firefighter,
but I've learned
to control my explosions,
take my punches when they come,
and let my eyes fall
to water the fires
that lick on all sides.

Little lady,
your comforts are poison,
you never return my love
and I am constantly hurt,
wishing you were here
in the birth of my confusion.

In the midst of a moonlight ****,
I lied to myself,
and said we were making love.

The universe unfurled,
and your body liquified
in the heat of the moment.

Just let me kiss you,
because you said hello
in the first place,
in those plaid leggings
and beautiful greens.

I didn't tell you intimate secrets,
and you didn't shed yours.

But I touched your naked skin,
and shared the same leather,
as our bodies meshed,
and the universe unfolded.

A flower grows through reeds and thickets,
and reaches for the sun,
while being eaten away by fungus.

The sun drops its dress,
and undresses until the flower is wet.

And even in their unknowing of the season,
the flower and the sun share pleasure
and reason.

And even though your mother didn't like it,
I made you wet,
and in the basement,
I regret not kissing every part of your body,
because the moonlight won't let me forget.

The candle,
That burning dispersion.
The wick prespires.
The nitro-oxygen air
eaten up with every breath,
in such commonstance as to be ordinary,
and unrevealing.
But how much do you know
about yourself,
about it?
Can you blame a flame?
Can you truly hurt a fly?
Where are you now?

In some place so stuffy,
that you can only wish
that you were something more,
something stupid enough to live,
and not feel the pangs of your billion needles,
cascading down like a waterfall
of death, disappointment, and disorder.

Driving down the street,
asphalt littered with patches of scattered sunlight,
breeze blowing down my drunk,
sobering up from last night.

I'm
remembering a slurred argument I had with this woman about compassion
I was just yelling over and over:
"How can you know a thing about compassion?
How can you call me brave and noble,
and call me a killer in the same breath?
do you even know what you're saying?
Do you know the real meaning,
behind the words on the veil?"

I'm drunk ****, trying to pick up the peices
of my sanity
as I hurl them across my dashboard
with every chunk of cigarette ash I tap away,
trying to forget and remember last night,
because it's always a dark, damp place inside my soul.

Two long island iced teas, a thousand more coronas,
a couple more useless people blabbering about
their truths and their ideas, and how their right,
and their is no such thing as w r o n g.

Holy ****, this place makes me sick.

So, I get into my car,
angry at the woman I was yelling at,
because she is so happy with herself,
happy with her ideas, how small they've made me feel.

How big she is now.

How insignificant her ideas are as I drive away,
her sweatshirt looks like the inside of an old man's crotch,
a long stain of beer
that she doesn't know about, and I'm just the same.

Somewhere on me there is something I don't know about,
and yet I feel better than you.

Back to this.

And SHE is in my mind,
(not her)
all the time, wherever I go,
wherever I am pretending to be
when I am really not there
at
all. Someplace else.

Pictures of her life
without me,
**** me.

Memories of her disappointment. I was always bad,
or uncontrollable. Too drunk. Too, too, too drunk. And too, too, too, stupid to realize,
that I was hugging her with that stain. Drowning her in my stain.

Flashes of her body and the fever it got going inside of me,
the hot, uncontrollable, ecstasy that poured into my being
with the mere lick of thinking about the stain in her crotch
that I had caused. A yellow, polka dotted sundress stopping just above her
buttermilk kneecaps. I could slip ******* on both sides of the dressstraps,
and slide it down her shoulders--as easy as silk--all the way to her ankles.  God gave me heaven.

And how much grief I get over too much to drink.

Then I met a friend at a pizza bar.
And I'm hammered, slurring, and he sits with me as I find another person,
I'm a magnet for you all. I hate and love what you make me say about myself.
How I reveal and demean.

And we yammer, my friend drinks his beer, the person leaves, we have our pizza.

And SHE is there. In my mind, all the time.

My mind is an imagination zone, and I am guessing that she's with her boyfriend at the beach.

the pain of my imagination is a knife when she's messing around in my heart. always.

And so, now, at this stoplight I'm trying to stop myself from the things that make me forget myself.

I'm back here now. In the present. And I'm ashamed, humbled, content, and I don't want to drink or smoke
anymore.

I want to be a businessman with a wife.

I am
a memory,
like the sweet sugar
of justice.

The tiniest droplets of my presence,
raining down from this frozen sky,
are so insignificant to your tongue,
as to make me important.

And I wish I  was.

Wishing like
a flower,
a seedling underneath the permafrost,
hardened against winter,
harder for summer.

Today is a day,
for nostalgia;

For the reaper to finally and momentarily be
beaten.

Even in all of his infinite wisdom,
in which the past becomes just a laugh,
and the lurid poisons of our love,
have the shallow touch of a feather.

When the snow begins,
we relive all those duldroms,
all those meaningless nothings
seemingly so meaningful and wrong,
long ago.

We retell our stories,
silently,
to ourselves,
feeling less bitter as the words
litter our minds,
powdering the pain,
and covering with joy,
our sorrow.

In dementia,
they say,
our love goes stronger every day.

Grows newer
in old ways.

I hope to be like you someday.

Today,
we will beat the bitter sandpaper of tomorrow,
that which rubs away our definition with every brutal blow,
with the soft tapping of our fingers
against our skulls.

Puzzling over what made us beautiful and purposeful,
instead of what crowds against us like a box,
instead of what destroys us like a skipping cd,
instead of what sings against our mind like a harpy
with it's constant verses of regretfulness
that grow stronger with every fatal flaw
we rehash in ourselves.

once more,
you will be as beautiful to me today,
as that swirling suffocation.

I watch you fall outside my window,
covering each and every lichened rock,
in a linen of newness.

In silence,
I stop listening for the return of your love,
and instead marvel in the present satisfaction,
that you are,
and were.

I revel in your presentness,
in the swiftness of your presentation.

In the delicacy of your touch,
and the humility you drive me too,
as you take me too my knees with
each
quiet
drop.

And yes,
you will melt.

And yes,
I will remember.

And yes,
I will see the snow melt,
driven away by the erosion of the sun.

In a long time,
like a good dream
that just faded away,
and now I relish in its memory
like a ******,
I can't stop holding on to what
so badly needs to let me go,
can't stop tugging you closer,
as he calls your name from that crack
in the front door,
can't stop saying how much I love you,
in how many different ways and shades,
that you can never remember
or never cared enough to in the first place.

Can't say that I've grown,
and become greater than what I was,
a new shoulder for you to rest your head,
new muscle to make you feel comfortable.

Sometimes I wish that I could scream,
at the top of my lungs, just the way a rabbit does in the maw of a lion,
or cry the way the sky is blue,
infinitely, with new meaning everyday.

Sometime I wish that my anger,
could become as ****** to you as anything,
and that it would be as masculine
As everyone of your most embarrassing desires.

Sometimes I try to find things to cry about,
and when I don't, I drink,
feeling emptier than ever, because I can't seem to feel
what everyone else feels everyday,
like I'm missing the big story,
the biggest, brightest explosion ever known to humanity,
the show of God in the light of your eyes.

I wish I could say that the long swish of your brilliant hair,
is it.

Or the tiny crinkle in your mouth, the trickle of a smile,
is it.

Or that hopeless cuteness in your ***** brown eyes,
is it.

I have been overlong,
wanting to understand everything about what I could never be to you,
thinking more about what you were to me.

Each memory a needle against my heart and brain,
trailing across nerves, tickling and destroying,
and all the times I couldn't satisfy your hunger.

But, on the edge of my desperation,
reaching out and holding air,
grasping molecules,
swiping at nothingness,
slapping away feverishly at my own dark emotions,
I keep looking for you,
like the memory of me that you are,
while I'm sifting through the dream of me that you became.

The idea that I couldn't make whole,
the ache I couldn't bend in my favor,
the lie I desperately plied as truth.

I have loved you,
I have loved you.

We revel in the sky,
and dusk,
and eventuality.

Love,
hopelessness,
diaspora.

Moment to moment,
we are the ever-changing aurora.

Our lights and our heat,
in the fading dark
we watch the horizon
where the mountains meet.

The tracers go,
round by round,
beginning at the muzzle in heroic glory
ending in the stomach with epic sorrow.

The sky is large,
the moon is bulging,
the clouds are pastel and burning,
smeared by the wash of darkness.

I am famished, but painless
because pain
is the dim smolder of love and freedom
suffocating deep inside.

That fire has not been stoked,
untouched for a while.

The oven has gone black,
the charcoal tastes mild.

And I have been loved with no freedom.

And lived for freedom with nothing to love.

I have gained wisdom,
and talked to myself.

The sky aches for its reunion with the horizon;
humbles itself, all out of color now,
and hungers for the embrace
of the mountains.

Into the murk,
the tracers go,
round by round,
lighting up that dividing line,
between hungry sky
and famished mountain
creating separation
in a world lost in time.

The tracers go,
round by round,
beginning in heroic glory,
ending in epic sorrow.

you look so good
like a goddess
where's the courage to tell you?

do
I know the right words?

An innocence of love like
a bird in the sky,
in its cerulean heaven,
all its purity
untainted.

all the painters in the world
using all their colors
like ravens and vultures,
and the advertisers
using maroon and crimson
like doves and love,
they just don't know.

How you look in a snapshot,
is better than a mural.

I hate that we can't talk any more,
seems decrepit, I'm so poor,
spoiled by the gift of your lost love,
like a pearl in my mouth,
every gulp of the sea
is a tearjerker.

All I want is love and affection
from the eden of your love,
the juice of your apple
a knowledge
only concerning to gods.

The seed of your body,
a peachtree paradise,
each pod dropping to the body of my death,
like the shroud of renewal.

Each new picture of you:
the destruction of your youth,
and the eruption of your wonderland,
is another nail,
another regretful wish
that I'd seen and understood
everything beautiful about you.

Even in the moontide hours,
when the dawn brawled
and your teeth crawled against the loose skin of my earlobes
as you gripped with pearly whites
my lying flesh,
and my lips touched every truth you'd never known.

Only god could ever know the pain of now.
Only I could ever wish I knew your heaven.

Hello love,
I've been away for a while,
contemplating this degraded earth,
putting different things into place.

I know you've moved on,
but I still think about your lips.

The sweetest joy of an impermanent heaven,
and the messengers of hope.

I took too much time loving you,
too much time holding you.

Our bodies were the worlds
separated by eternity,
your eyes
the distance
I could not bridge.

Wishing I could make you mine
was stupidity
marching in time,
and off-step.

Pearlesque moon played the lighting,
in our drama,
as I held you on top of my car,
lavishing in your plums of delight
and your wettest ******
of ecstasy.

Don't let me go now,
when I've just begun to remember
you.

It's that time of night when i get feverish
in my dreams, ******* girls with **** loaded,
thighs gloating and supple, pressure of *******
in between us, when I hear the thump.

A slamming; a jarring; a catapaulting into never.

Carlos lost his wife, she dipped in the middle of the night
when he'd passed out, she'd slipped out, gripped the kids
over their hidden mouths and whispered something about tipping out,
Pop had gone insane now.

Carlos broke a month later.

Told me and Ash to take everything. Exhaled a marlboro,
shucked his shoulders, ripped open that tiny Celica
and shifted. Gone.

Burns black-eyed into the carpet, bottles on the sill, pacifiers thrown like condoms--
haphazard, but carefully placed.

Now the people living there
throw the girl around,
she cries.

Foolish roiling Krakken,
go back to your basin. old-timer,
No wit, no heart,
just energy enough for that last breach.

Old timer, schemin'
in the swirl,
wrapping those loose arms around me so tight.

It's hungry again, thirsty.

Krakken crackling through
all the fluid in my body
And making my lungs
howl in hatred.

I've seen your eyes in the mirror
again
not to deep below.

Hungry for oxygen.

someone left a letter
for you,
it's at the front door.

it talks and talks about
breaks; beginnings; ends;
beginnings.

you were never comfortable
in the first place.

behind the door
hatred stems
from the pill of ignorance.

the letter was sealed by a tongue
of both
fire and futility:
a big fear that someone wanted you
to be there's,
but you never would.

I make trips to the corner store, at 12 in the morning.

Calling all cars to get the **** out of the road,
I'm swerving.

Calling all lights,
blink and be gone. Streetlights,
stoplights, lamps, lighters,
blunt tips, cigarette butts,
all lights be gone.

Dear Earth, get low in the darkness.

On my first trip,
I was accosted by rabid dogs who drooled shoelaces
and I could tell they were being hounded
by the kilter of their angry maws
and sawed-off minds.

They barked like guns.

And they saw me--completely irrelevant---
popping caps off Lokos
taking sips that could **** up an Orca,
completely swimming.

I had to kick them home.

At work today,
Someone got caught stealing five pesos worth of food,
and got threatened with a felony,
but they've got some lint in their pocket,
and knew how to keep it cool.

My girlfriend operates in ideas.

I've been at work for so long,
that I yell and walk around,
like I'm in the shower.

The ambulances scream all they want.
Sirens wail if they must,
Those sunset colors are killing her.

Let those angels hurtle down the highway
Gripping steering wheels with white knuckles,
screaming on their way to her.

They call out over their cb's
"We're five minutes out!!
Any casualties?!"

I lay sleeping,
In the nonsense of a dream
Thousands of miles away from the scene.

My body could not twitch
with the pain unknown;
My mind could not wretch
In ignorance;
My heart could not wither
Under the cover of nubile darkness.

But you lie there on the highway
a sideshow I feel so horrible about.

I felt no pain, didn't wake from my dream.

midnight tragedy you have taken my mouth.

It begins on those humble mornings,
Where wispy clouds linger in the sky
the color of white oak.

When the leaves collect in the gutters
and are soggy like corn flakes
and their color is markedly indistinct.

A morning for the birds to make
their shrill calls
And enhance the feeling that
you are at a low, cold altitude.

If the coffee is hot, burnt, and stale,
then it is a coronation of this morning.

On the highways
People listen to news radio with the windows cracked
and a ribbon of cold air and sweat on their faces
and know that soon
They will be home.

A quiet kid,
lonely in the rain,
fingers the nickels and pennies
in his pockets, waiting for the bus
to splash around the corner,
so he can get to work.

He lives with a demon of a roommate,
and shares snores with the roaches,
Bathing in the shower of their incontinence.

After college, he lost it and wrecked his mind
in a haze of liquor so foggy it
swallowed the moon for awhile.

He stumbles through pitch black nights
with an ugly soul and redemption on his mind;
The worst kind of late night wanderer.

Coffee and sugar keep him alive--
just like war and famine are the black angel's wives--
bringing him back into this liquid reality.

In the mornings he breathes in this world,
totally sober.

It tastes like sourness
and the milk of ***** entrapped in blue jeans
in 100 degree weather
all day.

It was the worst kind of sobriety.
All the horrors of birth.

He lives many lives:

One for his mother,
where he plants fruitless kisses
on her cheeks.
Little wreaths of future disappointment.

She hugs him so warmly.
It makes him want to suckle his .45.

One for work,
all smiles
and plumb submission.
9-5.
5-2.
12-9.
6-3.
4-12.
And if he's lucky
12-4 on saturdays.

All this in 5 dollar clothes
and a rumplestiltskin attitude;
trying to weave his own ugliness
into truth.

One for his girl,
the one who'd hurl her tongue at Appollo,
puke up her month's sugar intake,
and curl her fingers so tight that she cut the cappillaries,
making a red and white fist like a christmas cinnabon:

If he ever told her who he really was.

His love for her is secret.

One life for himself,
to keep the mirror happy.

This kid.
He's all or nothing.

In the alcoves I hunt for mystery
and pleasure. Seeking your joy. I hope
to break you to the core,
and make you crumble to all my love.
Id hope your days are perforated silences,
my voice a trickle of whiskey.
I treasure your absence,
thinking to myself, with a cigarette.
I sip down evan williams
Pretending not to hurt,
but with a hurricane
your surge through me.

It is not enough
to stomp on our hearts;
It is worse to stomp
on the ground we find beautiful.

Hectic breakneck of the chopped up music.
beautiful wilt and hungry wither of the hips.
Drunken fingers grasping a drink and shaking so feverishly,
its like the adrenaline of war.
Knowing there is something past the moon,
past darkness. The freshness of sweat.
A black skirted woman dances.
The fabric squirming up her hips
as she drives her thighs,
whipping them back and forth.
Dreams bellow out of hollow bellies,
the bottom of the roar,
a squeak.
The bouncers in bowties and charcoal suits
look nice.
The opaque lights and streamers of brilliantly lit people and huge parade of bodies
washing and bouncing inside are like fruits in the dryer,
Tumbling and tumbling until they are fully juiced and induced.
But you can never find a willing partner
For good rough ***. Or even
love: the canary in the mine.
A pink, throaty croak
Emanating from its black lungs.

I miss the drunks. The y3lling.
The inhalation of beer and cigarettes
Chased down by ego and godlessness.

How many times
hqve I written to this song,
and never heard beauty once?

Like the sweet pinch of a grapefruit,
before the sunset of sweat,
the same sunset that hailed warfare for boys.

I loved you so much once,
I still do, but you are like mist,
and  I am blind.

I miss backstabbers, creeps, catfish,
vampires, crows,
an angel.

When I was young I would screech down the hill
in my toy truck,
plastic chassis a powerhouse,
canary and howling,
I'd crash into the same cherry tree a million times.

Call me Avalanche.

Call me Indisputable.

Call me the Powerhouse.

Call me,
I missed you.

pain
be the body of grace.

horrible grace uttered over
and over a
                  gain
                           ful waste.
you and i told lies for fear.
we were never really there
in love.

but now we're here.

prayer can't stop a thing,
I try bending a knee
or a wish.

but na,
I ain't to religious; so talking to god
becomes addictive too quick.

you have found something new,
I've found the old foundry.

all night pouring cauldrons of liquid hot into a bad cast.

sparks so **** and comforting,
i see them jumping from the window of my belly button.

god,
there's hell in me.

i'm being disposed of as i watch
a new lava
being poured in an old way.

****,
im asleep,
drunk,
tilted,
restful.

i'd suggest you go now.

They said:
"You on a path to get shot."

In the form of a bullet,
straight through my head,
pink mist and all.

How much is a life worth?
or how much does lead weigh?

In forms underlayed with venom,
I have perpetrated goodness.

In ways misunderstood
I have appeared evil,
and maybe this is so.

it's no good,
no good,
no good.

No good for tomorrows,
where coffee's been cold,
tastes like battery acid,
kicks nervous systems up into highest gear--range = infinite.

then kills.

It's no good.

No good for saturday afternoons,
lonely as clear blue sky
on open highway
hurtling through ferocious air.

No good.

Definitely not a monday morning thought:

A day for hangovers,
tightly-capped lips,
****-smelling ****,
and linoleum stained as an old man's scalp.

It's no good for that time.

It's good for moments:
the window open, the tune of hurled air humbling your eardrums. Music loud, but not unbearable.
someone laughing in the back, kicking up their feet on the headrest
and taking the last sip of Wild Turkey.

Asleep in a securely blue bar;
laying your head on the wood paneling;
feeling the hum-drum earthworm of puke
on your tongue: Tasting guacamole and seared steak.

When the cop hurls around, cuts the lights, and hops out the squad
like a monster with a conscience.

You know you're drunk,
but fear doesn't hit you
until everyone involved
has peeled off.

Fear lingers, like shaking a dead man's hand,
but there are other things that wash well.

you and her.

It's good for moments perplexing,
it calms.

It's good for moments of fear,
it throttles you into sanity.

It's good for moments of confidence,
it humbles.

It's good for clarity,
it maintains.

I can’t really tell you
About love,
You.

I’m interested in *******
Till I’m raw, and holding
You like the universe you
Are.

Sometimes I go around
With hoes,
Smoking blunts till we fume
And sing and laugh
And start getting handsy.

Sometimes they have their kids in the other room,
And they yelp and laugh; when I look into these hoes
Eyes, all I see is aggression. I’m not seeing myself.

I’m not saying these things
The way I want them to be sung.

Most of my money
Runs out the door. Like a bandit,
Trouble likes to peep me when I’m at my worst.

The cops have never been so *****
As when they see me, and they ******
Holsters.

I go alone a lot. To a lot of places.

Hoes, Money, Depression, Debt,
Bad Credit, All kinds of Addiction,
****, Alcohol, ****, Codeine, Nicotine,
My brain is a Chemical Frenzy,
Most days I’m hovering like a mote.

I graduated,
Look at my degree: **** Me.

I have come home to a confining place,
A spit-swallowing place, full of half-breathed people
And tight-lipped sorrows.  

I can only
go
when it’s convenient
And necessary.

I can only
be
when it’s part of a digression,
Never progression.

Food tastes like paper,
I’ve taken a likening.

Lights are fastened to the sky,
The glue wears, washes my eyes in milk,
The jewels drop,
The world ends.

Then it all snaps back into place, eerily,
So clean I never saw it.

Ask me if I can tell you about love,
When I can remember your body
And
It’s casual thump,
Clothed or not,
Drunk or sober,
Speaking or silent.

Ask me if I can drive home and peel back the sky with my left hand, while steering Earth into oblivion,
As I lean across wind-swept galaxies of dust, ash, and settled nicotine
To kiss Florida Orange lips, sip the nectar of insanity, and
Swerve on universe eyes.

Across town, there’s no across. It’s just the town.

The dogs being fed by master, master toys,
Makes dogs bend, cower, quiver, then shoots dog
Out of the bow. Dog gnaws air through gritted fangs,
Finalizes his stupidity, gives up on his own self-confidence,
And lets it roar with a hand up his ***.

The pigeons coo, cluck, ****, fly,
Coo, cluck, ****, fly,
Coo, cluck, ****, fly.

Foxes run around the yard chasing tails,
Motives based in circles,
Saving slowing down and puking for death
as they Yap like pups.

Master watches from a high gallery
of Windexed windows so clean,
That you can see master’s muscles tightening as master laughs.

happiness and darkness.

Cars, trains, automobiles,
Flying machines, high ideas, fulfillment,
Continuation, carbon and all things irrelevant,
Master loves you.

In town, Pop tells the kids he’s on his way,
Mama shatters into a million brilliant pieces,
And Grandad’s sigh comes out his mouth with the care of a habit.

The kids are corralled into the basement to play,
mess with each others genitals, and put on azalea dresses
And heavy suits with black ties.

With all the venom of moths
They let their little mouths flutter in the dark,
as Mama and Poppa hurl everything they can.

Master gets drunk on equilibrium,
High on acid, perks, dipped bud,
Brushes teeth with alcohol
And spits out his/her teeth in the morning.

Way after the dogs were put to bed to tuck their tails in their legs,
The foxes following suit, the pigeons in the middle of the mess, somewhere.

Mom, Pop, Kids, Grandad, finished talking in low voices around 11:16 pm.

As they shredded the charade, ashamed at all its pieces,
Their mouths watered; I have no hope.

Across town, it’s not a town,
It’s a random house.

Last night, a thump.
A body hurled, third floor.
Second floor doesn’t do that kind of thing.

It’s 2 am.
That time of night when people when wake up anyways.
Blue-dark like antifreeze.

I was hard trying to go to sleep.

My bank account’s been throttled by loans,
Bills, Coronas, Blunts, Girls.

They shut off the water.
I walked to the store and saw a friend.
Ashamed, I laughed,
Said I liked water. “Water like liquor
like Koolaid like fun. “

What I really meant was:
“Water like survival like broke like stupid.”

This girl operates in ideas,
Dances like a ballerina,
Acts like an actress,
And will probably get bored soon.

There’s one across town that knows her way
around a lollipop, calls me sweet,
wears red just the way I like it,
***** **** with both hands
and doubles over to her tiny knees to laugh.

The actress is less sustainable,
but I sustain thoughts about her more.

The thump, it interrupts,
Distorts a globular fantasy into a brilliantly skewed
Pixelated awakening.

Pixels drain out. Room
Clears of smoke. Velvet embalming begins, purple night quickens,
Halogen streetlights invade in battalions.
**** me.

There’s a girl with a rancid *****
I still love.

The electricity thrums.

I’ve never been humble;
Super-conscious.

I can hear second floor:
footsteps light like *** fear,
tipping to the nexus. To the spot
where some hurled
lies,
above even them.

Third floor gets down like that. I can’t be a hero.

I used to think it was second floor.

But they don’t get down like that.

If we shut off the power,
You’ve gotta pay.

I know, I know,
How much?

180.

Carlos used to live on third.
Wife took the kids and dipped,
That elephant footed baby,
And the mouse-footed teen.

Carlos brought all kinds up after that,
Muffin women with huge, roach eyes,
Emaciated blondes with seamounts running their spines,
Thick, buggy black girls with ***** I wanted to stick my **** all the way into.

Then he quit. Broke one day. Told me everything was mine if I went up there,
and he was gone.

Third Floor was there in two days.

Bruh, they caught u stealing.

How much?

Don’t know, they were just talking about it at work today.

****.

I watch way too much ****. Tonight,
I get ***** enough to burn holes in my palms.
Maybe it’s the fear and anger.

Third floor is not my problem.

Even when I think
of you,
I think of you.

The cat
followed me
in the door
last muggy night.

on a return trip
from a beer run,
Kurt heard a yowl
as screaming as any hurt guitar,
and looked under his volvo
into the far dark.

Two canary eyes
leered.

Then,
slinking,
the canary eyes
moved.

And this cat
rubbed its body,
the length of its shivering spine
along my
small shins.

And that cat
followed me
in.

I put you
over my shoulder
like a spooled
rope.

Twisted too many
directions,
a little tug
and you might go
anorexically
thin;

too taut for me
to yank anymore.

And when you come to me
drunk,
a *****
of yelling,
I think of those times
when we sat close together,
barely touching.

In those days,
we were both drunk
and bitter over forever.

Beers chased liquor
over steeples;
we dropped dimes of pain
over smoked ****
and bleeding anger.

Time languored,
and eventually
or anger
stymied.

When you cried
twisted beyond
compare,
I held you close,
sniffed your hair.

People hurt each other because they can,
and we lay
on a mattress of your canned hopes.

I would never be a prince charming,
even when I groped
you;
when we were tossing each other,
fighting like ghosts do:
bad jabs,
quiet knives,
softer moans.

So, I curled you
over me;
beneath my earlobe,
as your whistled tears
drained energy.

Our synergy was syphoning
each other's
pain;
coiling nooses around our hearts
and kicking out the chairs
holding up our underneath souls.

Loves
meek-mongerers,
calls when there's
no alcohol left:
no more balling
today.

****** on you in the morning
and walks out the bathroom
laughing like a pig.

A response
and a beginning,
now in a blanket,
my blood boiled when we were closer.

Had so much fun,
those times,
when love
asked you to stick a lime between
your teeth
and pour salt on her *****.

Cats howling at night, right
outside my window,
and I call and call and call
a whole bunch,
until every single one
asks from the brawling fence:
"you still talking about that ****?"

"get off her."

"she's not the one."

"no need for all of that."

"keep it chill."

And they still--don't know.

Bit down,
****** up tongue.

Little eavesdroppers
run from my windows;
pretentious *****
go vegan
as the world turns;
coffee ***,
cigarette ***,
love ***
all become one;
a lot to say
in the moment 'fore the big bang,
but daddy forgot to pull the trigger,
and
none of us are on the run;
nobody loves me;
nowhere to go,
no-one to be.
Take it.
Be ****** by it.
Love it.

Take that *** of despair,
bite down,
rip away the ******,
and **** up your tongue
on all that up-chuck
because if you don't
you're the one that's getting ****** up.

Night starts
with a drip,
and roaches move your feet.

But when day comes,
it comes.

Fear is
as good as sunshine,
it keeps you lose,
then tight.

The Jamaican bones,
having been ground into
sugar,
are whipped into coffee
and grey goose.

A mouthy mix,
and it seems
to cleanse the whole earth;
cannibals praise the lord
in all of his glory.

And on the way
to the first day
of forever,
the iron in my blood
clings to my gums.

I know you there
on the highway,
as we both drive with our
heads downwards,
our evil hearts
cuddling cowardly innards.

Press your fingers,
dismember what lingers.
Crack those knuckles,
smack those palms
and blow that screaming bone.

Today drunks got up,
on an upended axis.

And wobbled
on driven souls,
driven to ****
and let the hate loose.

A drunk walked in mud
to work,
and his boss sported a smile
of sad pride.

He had done a great job,
and no one knew.

When they were sitting down
on the couch,
cracking the air with laughter,
the country man
looked up
and saw
a daughter of light on the floor,
slitted through the blinds.

He wanted so badly
to cry.
But didn't.

An imp limped
upstairs
and down, back again
to the basement,
and his old ma
heard him sparingly.

So much happened to day,
so beautifully
sad,
clear, and azure,
that the masks
of nails
spiking our faces,
slowly wore down
against steel skin.

When the sun went down,
aching for pain again,
they took the first swig,
then a second.

My teeth feel like plastic,
and I'm
going
hungry.

Today, is the day,
that I become a man.

Don't you know
I'm freaking?

Or did you think
the biggest control
was the one at your knees?

When I finally get out of here,
all the cardboard in the world
couldn't box me.

Punch me Love,
make my nose bleed.

I want to take it;
I need it my brutal valentine;
from you to me
I have nowhere to go;
you are desperate.

We are holy creatures,
and don't even know it.

If the ceilings dripped
liquid metal
and the scratchy rose-print sheets
bit out for our bodies,
we wouldn't know a thing.

If God jumped into bed
and tried to cram in between us,
there wouldn't be enough room.

In the deep night,
all the stars could come down shattering into knife light,
It would be perfect.

All the asteroids
could warp the earth into a bowl
of milk, and splotch
the solar system into a giant cow,
but we could not join in the teet-mashing mayhem;
there's nothing pure here,
and our fingers hunger for bad places,
instead of ushering in the good.

I do not know what we will do,
but the world is falling apart.

She is with him and,
I am here alone,
about to get kicked out
of my house.

He buys her sketchpads drawn
in love, while I weep
in the flourescent night.

I drink
enough to make you hurt
enough.

I'm young
and no one loves me.