We are just one
big conflagration.

One hope
for oxygen
as we spread over the earth
in fire
hoping to burn
forever.

Backyard brawls
and sunflower gardens.

Bezzled nights,
twinkling jeweled fireflies,
musky, humid air,
the tickle of rain on your cheeks.

Washed away,
down
the
drain,
youth,
gone and can't be recaptured.

Fistfights
in high school hallways,
tumbling in stairwells
with the beasts of our fear,
and the rolling thunder
of adulthood smashing
against our minds
like tropical waves against
arctic icebergs.

Youth, again;
mother's warm body
cuddling together
in the morning replenishment
on a spring mattress
that is continually sinking down abyssally
where boy and mother
cope with the aftermath
of the brokenness
shrouding their home.

**** drifting up to the ceiling
as we drank our full
of Everclear,
bought by fathers
who's lives had been beaten
down to a depressed mattress
in the corner
of
a garage
speckled by oil slicks
and draped by fiberglass
falling in curtains from the ceiling.

The absent smell of crack in the air.

Sunday breakfasts,
grandma in the kitchen,
mom in the basement,
kids farting around in their rooms.

Mom's curdling yells ripping the house to shreds,
as she sought peace,
in a quiet, and moldy sarcogophous.

There is a place where bombs
and mortars fly,
where a smile is as hard to find
as a mosquito in a desert,
and self-hatred is easy to come by
when regret blankets your mind
with every sand-choked breath.
And in this place, time crawls
by only springing to life when happiness
blooms, and idling when emotions
are sautered, and the search for feeling
is like waiting to get bitten.

But in this place,
there is a garden,
where youth and adulthood
collide, where the sunflowers bloom
once more, and the blood spilt
before the war began, gives life
to the seedlings,
and the soil is not so rotten
as it has grown older and tired.

The mind, finally centered
among the chaos, finding
its concrete horizon in the oasis
of a centered self,
centered finally,
in the midst of this brutal
and beautiful disaster.

I freaked out for
bout
five minutes.

My bottle was gone,
and I couldn't find
it,
and
*******
I'd climb Robert Plant's tongue
to get to heaven
to **** god
if  my bottle was gone.

But it wasn't.

It was at my feet,
and I'd freaked out.

I gotta get warm
in any form,
or else
my stomach
sinks
to my intestines
and my heart
gets a lil weak.

I need WIld Turkey
to keep me going,
I need you to know
that I'm insane
in some ways
and it feels like
nobody
knows what I'm saying.

My brain is stagnant horns,
just fat as Louie Armstrong's cheeks,
and
I'm a sardine
on your tongue
waiting to be spit out
to plastic oceans
instead of
acid chambers.

For the first time,
after the last time,
one feels
independent
and sure.

But this could quickly become a last time
too.

My Marlboro is moving
back against itself,
and as it burns
the smoke it dangles
like a wet string
becomes
a second hand,
and I think that we are constantly ticking
down
until the first is last,
and innocence
is just a matter of time.

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.

There was no time
there was never
enough.

It was hard enough
for me
to sit beside you
and not stroke your leg
like a crystal ball
and feel you beneath
your trembling skin.

It doesn't make sense
to have all this religion
and nothing
resembling
truth.

When you got up to go
to the bathroom
I took notes
on your hips.

How your thighs swayed
against the weight
of a poverty of faith.

Split apart skies
by lightning
bolts from some
jealous gods
seemed to crack
your iris's.

Mistrust from the past
pain kept you
held in a barricade,
a battalion
against your better will
to gather my
unchained love.

When you sat back beside me
I was afraid
that you would look at me
like a stranger
that had studied
every line of your body.

Your lips remain unknown,
and the thunderous crack
of breaking steel
withdrew inside of me
as I wanted
more.

As I wanted to know
what had happened
to make you so vicious.

Vicious love
made for a vicious lover
for a vicious
interpreter
that took notes
on a ****-poor notepad
yearning for a faith
in the spirit
that leapt up against my fingers
underneath your skin.

She learned
how to fight
from me,
put her gloves
up
on her bed;
red training Everlasts
the foam lasting
forever
even as other
fists made their way
to her heart,
the repeated blows
just gave her a lover's
brow,
a permanent bruise
against
intrusion,
She
learned how to move her
feet
from how I walked away
from her, learned
how to rip
through defenses
just by watching someone's feet,
how they move,
how they react,
how flat-footed they are
all those Converses stacked in a corner
like scalps,
that's why she's always looking
down, away from the eyes
where the most damage is done,
away from the chest
where a good jab can **** you,
to the feet,
always watching against the next move,
preparing herself
to dance away.

"Chris just got kicked out of his house."

We rode over to his house,
and I listened to her sing.

Christ sat on the porch railing
dangling
his legs,
biting his fingernails.

I stood on the grass,
as she walked up to him.

He looked
at her neck.

Yukimi
put her hands on his shoulders
and kissed him on the lips.

Something
could have rose
in me.

But it didn't.

We rode back
and Chris slumped into the couch.

I heard him *******
his fingernails
as me and Yukimi lay in bed.

"Lips can do more than talk,
I can tell
he needed that,
I'm sorry if it weirded you out."

"No,
it really didn't."

"Sometimes I feel haunted,
and I don't know how to tell people,
especially people I'm intimate with."

"It's not really intimacy then."

"I guess your right."

"Do you ever run,
do you want to leave?"

"I usually do,
but now it's different,
I like being here
with you,
I like the way you smell
and touch me
and put on your eyeliner
in the morning
and
you make me feel stupid
without
feeling stupid."

You stare at me,
and staring
has never been
so warm.

Usually fear
would creep in by now
hauling
it's bag with it.

But your stare makes cold things
go away.

"There are stupid things
I love about you,
but even more than that,
there are real things."

Why am I in this month-long
heartbreak?

Why am I starring
down the barrel of a night
the color
of shadows in the sewer?

Because I'm taking shots
at each and every one of them.

But the shadows reach out for my soul,
and their population
grows.

I'm still thinking about her,
for some reason,
realizing how much I cared,
when I used to think
I'd get away from this one
scot-free.

We weren't even together,
but I have these crazy drunk dreams,
and she's walking away
in every one of them.

So I smoke a bowl,
and take sips straight
from the bottle,
and she's still barrelling down on me,
making booms in the night,
making the shadows go boom,
making everything go boom
inside of me.

How much time
have we spent
'staring at the foam
at the bottom of the bottle,
trying to figure out a way
to work that last
****-tasting bit
down?

Leaden stars crossed her eyes,
and she has told me
she will only love him.

I have had a few hidden tears
in that stolen bed of dreams;
and she sleeps with my kisses:
a reminder of betrayal.

It is six in the morning,
here,
and I am lazy drunk.

I get out the bed '
and leave her
krunk
on maddened sadness.

This is crazy,
having to re-define
everything.

What will my mother
think?

My dad already
thinks I'm crazy,
and I don't even stay there.

Sometimes I have black coffee,
and that's it for a day.

When I walk to the ABC store
on bland nights,
I pack
a pack
of Marlboros,
and I leave breadcrumbs of butts.

At night
I suckle
the lick dry,
right down to the bottom
of the breast,
until there is nothing more
it can give me.

During the day,
I work out
haphazardly,
and **** in the toilets,
like a big boy.

I have to learn how to speak again.

I've got a whole new dictionary
and it's got the same word
on
every page.

Can I be human,
with one word?

I told myself,
while we were in the subway
that i wasn't gonna have a beer
or grab a pack of cigarettes.

I had a beer up here

and it ran me 7 dollars.

I bought a pack of Marlboros

and that ran me another 13.


I spent twenty dollars
and didn't even get a good
buzzzzz.



New york is a good place to go sober.

I blew a girl once,
blew her so hard
she tapped me on the shoulder.

She shook her head,
and I ended up
jerking off
when she fell asleep.

I thought I was a force of nature,
but all that screaming
was her.

My ego was low,
so I woke her up
and told her she had to go,
she didn't want to,
so I started railing
on her religion,
that got her so riled up.

Them clothes flew on her
like God was promising salvation
if she just got in them jeans,
and I was asleep
by the time
she slammed the front door.

There is a bird here
with a broken wing.
It cants off to the left
drooping almost to the ground.
The feathers are oily,
shredding.

He hops around the base
all day, scavenging,
picking up things
here and there,
making a living.

I left for awhile
and came back.

He was still alive.

I thought he would've died
already.
That wing was so ugly.

I asked him how he'd made it.

He raised his head above his shoulders,
just like a king,
as he said to me:

"I am a bird
with a broken wing."


For a minute,
he stared at me,
then hopped off
with that broken wing.

I'm patiently waiting
for a gift
from Satan,
or the heaven's above,
something to get me
through this,
this little pearl
of wisdom
makes me push for it
through self-derision,
so when I say
that
I got the seed
for the next
demon
in my sack,
I'm telling you
that I'm at the lowest
point
of the world,
the deepest
heaven,
a heaven
of pain,
and malicious
thoughts
birthing
something vicious,
I want you to understand,
that I need
a few wishes,
a genie
'needs to start doling
out pearls
instead of blazing palaces
and
some federal loans,
I can do nothing
with the biggest houses; the biggest debt
I have to pay
is my pain
which is boiling underneath
my skin,
and it doesn't feel
like God is listening
or handing out grants
with my name
in gold ink.

Touch me with your love
and I might touch your temples
with a fist
and in its grimy depths
there is salvation
that can get you and me both
out of this
heaven of pain.

love doesn't end
like piano keys
across an array,
the dream of a body
and a mind,
across the spray
of the ocean
and a memory
of kisses
shared in the screen
of a heart's blinding display,
i have hoped for a long time
for a bridging of time,
a feeling of the stomach
and it's dramamine
against hope.

I used to
write, a lot
of lovers do.

My drive:
a cancer creature lovely,
crazy,
uncontainable.

Watched him rip mind
in half, fillet
innards, sew it
all up, hand me
some Evan Will.

For the longest time,
all the best writers--
lovers and creeps, fools
and drunks--nobody's
done this thing better.

Never realized 'til now:
when you fall in love, best
to lose your mind, heart, and
soul, then, get your writing in.

Not when the root is rotten.
the rancid meat you toss in--
the words--just to keep it going.

Battalions of rust
make war
on the Old Ford pick-up.

It becomes a sculpture
of
sunrise.

"You know
what's crazy babe?"

"What?"

"You scare me
with your love."

"That's such a waste,
come here,
I want to tell you something."

You scooch
over to me.

I just want to
know
your sticky skin.

You just breathe close to me,
all night long.

Our words
use our bodies
for mouths.

I'm not ashamed to say
that we really know
how to ****
each other.

And for all you *******
love is so physical
that words
and eternal sentiments
break it down.

Have you had enough,
I'm okay,
the pianos
are in baritone.

I wait on the shores.

I believe that anger
is a result
of intensity.

The heart knows
no
flower
better
than
anger.

So,
I work it,
I put the anger in my belly
and put
whiskey
in there
to dull it.

I have had loves,
but I wake up to you.

I have known
heartbreak
but steel is inside of me.

I could break
because it is inside of me
to break.

But i am not angry
to break over you.

I can pick apart
objective pieces in others,
but the sculpture of you
is too real
to understand.

I could say I love you,
that's a lie,
I need you
in order to become a better me.

Iamstillheartbroken
overyou.
Possiblyi'mnot,
possiblytherearethin­gsambivalentandjumbledandstucktogetherinsideofme
maybeyouareoneof­thestucktogetherthingsinsideofme
comingoutofmebecauseofacoreintur­moil
avolcanotappingfromagiantmagmachamberof
love.

I had a lover,
who was beautiful
and kind.

She grabbed the sun out of the sky
and grinded it into a powder.

She blushed her face with it,
and each time she passed
she would turn the flowers.

Her hair was a river,
it flowed for days and days,
and ended in a single teardrop.

Her hair
made the world
wish for more rain.

When she called me,
I answered.
Her voice freed me.

Her pupils
were the nexus.
Her iris'
were a foundry.
When she blinked,
everything darkened
and I wished she would never do it again.

When she slept,
she snored
peacefully.
And I drew her close to me
just to be closer to nirvana.

It is only fair
that such things
cannot be sustained.

That is too much beauty
for only one man
to hold.

She is a gift,
to the earth.

I saw her
walking from the bodega
and it was hotter
than a tick
cradled under my *****,
and from there the fire
spread.

I was listening
to life
after
death,
had that **** on BLAST,
and she was carrying groceries
in the crook of her arms,
plastic bags
swinging
in response to the weight of each other.

Back and forth,
until I thought they might
just get ideas
and run away together.

And right there,
with my windows down;
my eyes on her,
hers on the concrete,
I wanted a forty,
cause forties clear my head
and my conscience
was banging me in the side of my head
like two bags
full of loaded groceries
on
frail arms.

Your fingers manipulating
her hips.

The way her skirt rides
and rides.

Her moving
with you
waiting for you to show her what's next,
to give direction
with your fingertips.

The words of a heavy
heart,
are replaced
by the resplendence
of life.

I think about her
constantly,
but truthfully
you have been my only friend.

I call
and
call.

I place hope on Hermes,
I place hope on my messages
and their ability
to convey
how much I care
over telephone lines
and the truth
of my heart's reminiscent eye.

Sometimes I can't help myself,
I just can't.

It won't go away.

When I try to tell her,
I can't help but see how much
she laughs at what's on TV,
and in the tiny screen
I stare back at myself.

Later, On a bench,
I sit, watching
the fading amber sun
glaze the glinting, tin rooftops. And
the smokers' cherries
glow and subside.

Sirens break the silence,
screaming bells
from
a
distance.

but in my faraway place
they whisper,
an augur of pain.

"Twice
I've turned my back
on you."

Sometimes you scare
me
with your words.

So scared
I dropped my cigarette
twice
on your balcony;
shivering fingers
letting go.

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.

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.

The sun beat down
the earth today.
Beat it down, beat down
the cats stretching and yawning
in the horrible heat,
plopping in the shade lazily.

Fatigue rolled through the desert
a horde laying waste to motivation,
and replacing it with depression.

We shut out all light,
shuttered the windows,
locked ourselves away,
turned off everything real,
delved deep into our laptop
submarines. venturing deep
into nothingness, away from emotion,
away from the beating, burning heat,
away from sunlight and UVs,
away from all that which,
though it beats us down,
strengthens us,
and yet we despise the heat.

Droplets
of rain
on the leaves
make synthesizers
of the earth.

Echoes
begin in the brilliance
of
destruction.

Walking through the morning
in the decreptitude
of missed dreams.

I have been drunker
than any of you;
but you have all hated
yourself
enough
to
think
of
ending it all.

The drunkenesss
of suicide
is enough to understand
my pain.

In the night
you have contemplated
a thousand ways.

High as ****.

E&J; swishing in hot particles
inside of my belly.

My soul


is possibly at the bottom
or top
of
me.

I was hanging out with this girl

I just didn't care.

We were sipping,
I was doing the most of it
so I was drunk then,
and drunker when I said,
"I'm just going to pass out."

"Maybe I'll just leave,"
she said.

Yea whatever.

Her footsteps
were ice on glass,
I didn't even count them
as she broke out.

She left the bottle
she brought over.

So I've still got some business
to finish with this
$9 Evan Williams ****,
but all the ****
in the world
couldn't contain
the boredom
of my lonesome.

Sometimes a girl
makes you bored.

Sometimes
she makes
you think.

That's when you get
apathetic
as hell,
when you're chilling
with a girl made of ice and glass
instead of a girl
that makes you think
about what she's made of;
what you're made of;
what anything certain
is made of.

Sometimes
you end up
with nothing
and cheap liquor
tastes like Robitussin
on ice.

What's better than the heart?
Nothing
can replace
the tree
of ripe fruit.

I can try and write
and say
something
about beauty
and tenderness.

BUT,
I am not that tree
of tenderness
and beauty,
those are your words
and the dictionary
of the heart
falls in soft  and meaty flesh
from you.

I loved you,
in a way that teenagers aren't supposed to love.

I loved you in a hard way.

"I can't be with someone who can just do that to someone else, that isn't love or trust."

And i broke.

I broke like a machine.

Woke up
steel.
Feeling parts
screaming.
Circuits
zapping, zipping
almost
jumping.
Heart
thumping,
then stopping,
thumping.

Your eyes flower
out of the black
into the dark blue
and ice
petals.

I climb the rough stem,
cutting my palms
and bleeding from my cuticles,
just to say to you
that you are beautiful
up there
in the night.

'Night babe
are what my lips
say to your eyelashes.

'Night babe of the black womb,
tiny body,
and hair like hydrogen fusion,
I hope that I have not said anything
that will make you blot your eyes
and stifle your lips
and enlightenment
from me
forever.

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.

"In my life
things are built on
and compounded
on and
I like to think
I'm pretty deep because of it."

Black eyes bore holes
taking
core samples.

"And I like to think
that when people hear me
sing,
they feel a little hole forming
inside themselves."

I say stupidly:
"Water needs holes to fill."

a man like me
needs you
because his heart
is broken.

Sometimes
I like to think,
that what we had
was part of
a dream.

I just want to hold you
even though
you've travelled across
broken bridges
before.

I like to come back to you
in the swirling clay
of night.

When purple clouds
make my pain
seem all right.

So, I drink
to you
constantly,
because if I don't
I'll forget me
in place of the breeze
that rustles
over my rattling lungs.

I could never sing
you a song,
and I could never
drink
for
so
long.

Oh,
touch me once more,
let me feel your tiny hands,
those black fingernails
and their jaundiced
finales.

So much smoke
was wasted
over
our love.

And it makes one
go crazy.

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

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.

There is a melancholy
piano,
with a whole bunch of dust
like a film
of fear
in your corner,
that you like to play
every night
in the purple dark.

But I sleep,
holding you,
and I don't seem fragile
or under
some
formal demand.

Maybe
there can be
two types of will,
one for fear
and
one for
contentment.

You win the day,
with your ability
to will
certain things
into being.

Purple dark
ravishes.

We lay on the bed
and I can smell your hair
not fragile at all.

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.

Maybe
it's *******.

maybe
I'm
confused.

Maybe moving onward
and upward to the next one,
is just a way
for me
to hurt
gracefully.

To feel nothing
as I have felt
so many times before.

Because I've had girls before
that went back to old boyfriends,
and it's easier for me to say
WELL, **** IT THEN,
and **** HER TOO,
SHE NEVER CARED.

Instead of uttering,
I care too much
over too much coffee
and too much Evan Williams.

Stay away girl of the Eagles,
find a new one,
a one
that will
love you
as beautifully
as I did,
but didn't say.

I was afraid
you'd run
away
if I told you
I think
about you
constantly,
because I'd wake up
at
four
in the morning
and still tipsy
mourning
over
if
I can
be of service
to your heart.

I thought you'd leave
and I'd be stuck here
with a licquor heart.

I'd be stuck here
as I am.

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?

I miss you
girl
with the hair that smells
like sweet beer
and
breath
like iron.

I am anemic
and brutal
without you.

Sometimes
the wind screams;
you whistle
away.

Teach me someday.