When I hugged
her I'd always hold
on for a second
too long.

When I made love
to her
I'd take my time,
slowly moving over
every inch of her body,
taking in all she
had to give.

Every kiss and
every smile.
Each time she
made me laugh
or made me sigh with
pleasure was
carefully stowed away
deep within the
cracks
of my memory.

Hidden like
buried treasure
are the
memories I run
to when the
hopelessness
sets in.

She always did her
hair while still *******
in the morning.
We'd part ways
on the porch,
her off to work
and I back onto
the streets.

 I was sure to create good
memories everyday
and to forget the bad
every night.
All this in preparation
for the day when all of the
bad I've done caught up to
me and I'd never be able
to be with her again.

Everything I did
with her I did a little
extra.
When she would sleep
I'd stay up a
little longer,
I'd get high in
the other room
and come back
in and watch her.

That's how life
is lived once
they've reached into
that space that are the
years of a young
mans life.
And ****** them
out like weeds
by the year.

There were good
times.

Sharing all we had
on a hotel bed,
the taste of her lipstick
as we drank warm
Schnapps straight from
the bottle.

I remember
watching her
watching me,
and my not
feeling the need
to flee.
And
my not feeling
so Dam alone.

I wore  
a camouflaged
T-shirt
for the first
7 years of
my life.

I couldn't have
been no more
than 5 or 6
when my father
first put a Mini14
into my small eager
young hands.

I had been raised
on the Ruger and the
20 Gauge.
Both of
which I had
mastered
long before
my ABC's.

He felt I
was ready
and somehow
I knew I was too.

I learned how
to shoot from
the shoulder
before I could
ride a bicycle.
I was dismantling
assault rifles
around the time I
learned how
to swim.



"You're shooting too high"
he'd  say near my face.
That familiar scent of
spearmint  chewing gum
and gunpowder still
lingers along the halls
of my memory.

Where some seen danger
or violence
I found an escape from the
foolish games
I never excelled at as
a short stammering ,
toothless little
boy.

Out here in the open
desert spaces
I am the master of my
weapon, the hunter and
the protector
of these wastelands.

When I take my time
and remember to breath .
The way he taught me to do,
my aim will always ring true.

And this makes him happy.
He praises my skill before
always giving me another lesson
even after I surpassed
his own.

Who would have thought those
steal and paper targets,the clay
pigeons and the
left behind beer bottles
would all one day led up
to all of the choices
that have become.

I was never an
athlete,
never liked sports.
Still don't.
When they cheer over
some ball chasers so
called achievement.
I can't help
but think of
the fact that I
could have hit
that ball in mid
air.
Just like the clay
pigeons I've shattered
by the thousands
as a boy.

Leave me locked
in the loneliness I
don't mind the cold.

Let these years away
and my own
troublesome ways
wear at my bones.

Like cold ,
black mountain
runoff as it
shapes and wears
over ancient
river stones.

I don't allow the
love laced thoughts or the
hollow haunting depression
to pull me from the task at hand.

I'm moving through the
sad crowds and the
clueless children like
a sharp pain chasing the
comfort of your life away.

They hold out for
love and end up longing
for something more
once the love wears thin.

I formed a kinship
with Death.
A promise so true
the Devil now
waits on me.

As I wait
on something close to
Love to pass me
by again.

I'm weighed down.
A **** may soon appear,
for the burden of knowledge
is heavy.

I got teeth falling
out.
Some by force
others from rot,
for the taste of
evil is always sweet
to the mouth.

I've carried years worth
of a lazy monkeys issues.
Spent those dark
years chasing the
Dragon away
like a blurred and tired
vision of the night.

I knew she died
in the
spring time but
I wasn't free enough
to mourn her
until the summers sun
burned little of the
pain away.

I've fallen behind.
Shadows grow taller
as my mind drifts
deeper within.

I'm without a compass,
a wind to sail,
a course to set.
Guided only by these
words that fall.

I've yet to be
silenced by the
darkness nor drowned
by the
tears or the hard falling
rain.

I've turned times alone
into times that stay
with you.

When my heart is
like stone.
And when I'm locked away in
someplace that's nobodies home.
That's when the  
magic decides to appear.
The magic that
sometimes ends up here.

All of which
only comes to be
by turning my heavy hand,
heavy with the weight of me.
Far from the bottle the needle and all
that I choose to use against me.
And gently on
to this.

I felt my heart
slowing,
the hollow
in the chest
grew into
a hole.

I took another
a pill
and then
another just to
chase the
three others
I had taken
only  moments
before.

Again my
thoughts
turned to
all of the
pills I had
eaten.

I counted
my servings
by the
twos and threes.

And yet
somehow I was
still alive.

Suffering and sweating,
while openly
negotiating
with the voices
in my head.

Pills aren't
always meant
to cure.

Most are here to
help you cope
and some can
even provide
a hopeless fool
with foolish  hope.

They're prescribed
by physicians
who'll never
really care.

They'll keep you
breathing
long enough to
medicate
your mind
to pieces.

They should
be called
Magicians for
their ability to
turn your temporary
worries and
momentary
need we all come
across
into a sickness.

It all looks
much better
for you and
more importantly
for them,
on paper.