There's a lot less
Heroes
still alive today.

Again the uneasiness
snuck upon me,
like an empty shadow
on a darken street,
it devoured me.

I was wasting time ,
wasting away.

I sat
parked on some
numbered street with
too many lights and
not enough trees.
I guarded a warm beer
between my legs
and watched
as lost souls haunted  the
city streets in the night.

The car held that  resiny aroma
that only *** can leave behind
in an enclosed area.
I pulled from the beer
and felt the alcohol
wash away a bit
of the plague that insisted
I play host to.

I looked down upon
the pistol,
it laid on the empty
passenger seat wrapped
in a grease stained towel.
It reminded me of a Mexican
baby strapped to its  mothers back,
snug and secure.

That's how I used to feel when I
was alone walking darkened streets
with only the pistol to rely on.
Secure.
I have a hard time remembering
when it was or what it was to
be  secure about anything at all.

Lately my time is spent living
with this sense of dread
accompanied by a nauseating unease.
I turn away from the talking
heads on the programmed box,
I've lived enough horrors,
I don't need to hear their tales.

I looked again to the pistol,
the pistol was bored with me.
I didn't show it enough action,
It laughed at me through the
blackness of the barrel.

In the mornings the
pistol hummed
as I fixed and washed
the nightmares
from my eyes.

And when the sun would set
the pistol would  yawn.
Another mocking gesture
just to show me  how done
with me it had truly become.

There was a
time so long ago
it's as if I was
someone else.

Back when
he was all
of what I had hoped
to become.

Throughout the years
he prospered as a
working man.
Which brought along
the burdens
of becoming a family
man.

As he fell
into the horror that
is "The Domesticated Life",
I was on the
streets doing
what I knew how.
Or surviving beneath the
long gun on a desolate
prison yard amongst
the souls that man
had condemned

As the drum roll
of the life that
is America
played itself
out like a re-run you've
seen too many times.
The working man
he had always been
began to turn
more into a drinking man.

There was nothing
romantic or
exciting about
his drinking.
Nothing good ever came
out of it.
Nothing like
when Hemingway
did it.
Or when Bukowski
took hold of
the bottle,then
mastered it.

His demise
approached like
a slow moving
swell.
Slowly gathering
up all he had
accumulated
throughout
his years
of labor.
Steadily
gathering
the momentum
needed
to fall a man.

And when that
wave of failures
and alcoholism
finally hit
the shores of
his reality.
His will had already
been weakened
and the little bit
of fight he had
left in him refused
to put up
his fists in
defense.

I bore witness
to that which has
to be far more
painful to see than
death.

I watched a man give
into the pull of insanity
as he threw it all away
without even the slightest
hint of grace.

It was all
so magical,
all so other
worldly.

It was in
another time
but the
place was
here.

Then your
face
appeared.
Younger  like
when we
were at
our best.

I became
undone
by the vision
of you.

I awoke with
a cry and
a knife in the heart.

The dream was
over and I
felt better
off when
I looked around
and didn't
see you.

I've had a headache for the last 4 days.

I'm sitting in my room surrounded by mementos I keep meaning to throw away.

Everything I own is covered in dust, this way I can tell when its been touched.

My Cat lays dead in a card board box wrapped in her favorite blanket
while I sit here trying to get as high as I can before burying her in my front yard at midnight.

I have 5 hours until I have to drive over 100 miles before the sun rises all for $26.00 an hour.

Another friend died, a close friend, at one time he was my best friend.

I skipped the last 2 funerals and fought at the last one I went to.

Did I mention my Cat.
She saved my life once.
She was 18 years old and died in my arms.

I've had a headache for the last 4 days and I refuse to take any kind of pills.

I'm still alive but dead on the side you can't see.

I'll count the signs along the highway and pray for someone to hear me.

She invited me to dinner , I haven't gone anywhere but work and the liquor store in years.

I told her I missed her but asked her not to stay.

She longed for the
honeybee,
its nectar filled belly
ready to inject her
with that sweet sting
of temporary love.

She pleaded with the
tiny cupid
to penetrate her soul
with his compassionate
tipped tiny arrow.

With grey eyes welled
with the tears of frustration
she looked to me and
begged me to assist her
in her quest.

I stared at her porcelain
colored face and seen
the beauty that had
refused to die deep
beneath the hollowed
eyes and unhealthy colored
lips.

Her arms hung between
her bruised bare legs,
the crooks of her arms
were both scarred and
damaged from
too many  years of
false love.

The withering highways
that carried her lifes fuel
leaked red from small
dots where her recent attempts
had failed.

I ****** the Dragon.
Then knelled before her,
like a war torn knight
before his dying Queen.
I had no other
choice but to end
her suffering and
aid her in her need
for renewed ardor.

And when I did,
the moist beads of frustration
above her pale rose colored
lips began to fade.

The tension within
her gazelle like legs
was once again at ease.
Her knotted
bowls
began to loosen.

Her eyes became idle
and slack as the
potion began to work
its hellish magic upon
her soul.

I cleaned her wounds
with a warm wash rag
as she fell in and out
of all of the horrors this
world had presented to her.

Her greasy raven hair
fell in front of her face
as she rose her heavy
head and looked to me
through mascara smeared,
slow heavy
blinks.

She managed a smile
then rested her hand
against my face.
I did nothing but try
to comfort her after
so many had abused her.

She fell into a nod,
I carried her to the bed
and she thanked me
as I laid her down.

And I resented myself
when I heard myself say
"You're welcome".

Photographs taken on glass plated negatives.
Capture moments such as the Hangman
in the town square with the crude cut eye holes
in a dusty burlap executioners hood.

Pictures tell more than just a story.

Magicians meet in secret.
They sit around with their deep hats.
Shirts worn with Mother of Pearl
square cut cuff-links on the
ends of deep sleeved, steam
pressed, thin cotton shirts.

They meet in silence and sit in a pentagon formation
awaiting a secret to be shared.
None ever are yet the meetings are still held.

Men and only Men who all consider themselves
apart from the Lower men with their Lower wives.
Whose children they see as gifts for their Gods.

Small funny hats and small strange
aprons and a long sleeve shirt with mother of pearl
square cut cuff links.
No secrets here are ever revealed.

Young Virgins with innocent white, long skirted dresses
wear Baby's Breath halos atop their combed,
braided hair for protection.
Running through fields of wild honey suckle
brushing the palms of their hands
along the opened flowers.
Spreading pollen as they move across the field.

A ****** faced stranger who wore his
guns hung low across the hips the way killers do,
watches from atop his restless stallion.
Gamebirds stood stone still with the grass
as the stranger fixed his eyes on the plains below.

With his gloved magic hand he feels
his square cut cuff-link through the
gloves worn leather hyde and
prides himself on his patience
before moving in for the ****.

To be Loved
is mostly
temporary and at
times a lie.

But to be missed
to be remembered
lasts as long as
a memory
and is about as
real as it's ever
going to get..

The
hardest
pill to
swallow
is the
one
you
know
you
need

I've long since
kept an
extra
set of friends
in the background.

Its always
good
to have a spare.

Easily replaceable,
daily interchange

Too many
pills can
slow the
heart.

Too much
of a
good thing,
tears that
good
thing all
apart.

There's laughter
slicing through
the
palm fronds .

Drunken laughter,
riding shotgun
in the
night.

Mad
squirrels
dash across
live power
lines.

I'm counting
on all of
the things
I've already done
to get me
through all of
what I won't
do tomorrow.

The louder
the
music.
The quieter
the
screams.

I don't need
you to
Love me
I just need you
to do what
I want.

They call them
brave and they
call them heroes.

As they drop
their bombs
while safely
away from the
battles below.

There is no truth .

It's all a rich mans joke.

To think
I wanted only
you to read
my work.

Can you Imagine
I wanted only
you to take
in all
that I
presented.

Like blood
offerings
atop a
ancient
pyramid,
I sacrificed
great chunks
of me on
paper.

All  in
hopes of
reaching
beyond that
frown you wore
in those
final soul
******* days.

I thought
I knew you.
The way I knew
you were smiling
in the dark

The way I
knew the
answers to
those questions
only your
eyes knew how
to ask.

I hoped you
of all people
would
get something
out of
all of this

Understand
how much
of me
these words
take to be.

To think I
didn't share
any of this
with anyone
for years.

Foolish
is the only
word I hear.

The clock ticks away
as another sleepless night
breaks way for another
wasted day.

The ***** ran out hours ago.
I was left to wait out the clock
during that empty part of
the night when the
liquor stores close and
the street walking girls
walk their
final walk of the night.

Too wired to sleep,
mind too full of
memories to do
anything else but try
to **** them all away.
Sat on the toilet and
fixed myself a shot.
***** for breakfast,
two beers I'll call my lunch.
Dinner I'll spend 
with her
in a restaurant,
picking at my
plate while
tossing back the
wine.
Again disappointing
that girl who
still remembers
that guy I used to be.

This day I'll spend like
all the rest,
battling to be me.
The past recedes and
my need to stay numb
grows more with every
deed remembered.

These days don't change,
but most of the faces do.
There aren't too many who will
stick around and watch you
wait on death.

There are those who
remember you
and try there best to
guide you back.
If they could
only hear
the symphony
of screams
within my head.
Or the faces that
flash,dead enemy's
and dead friends.

If just a few of them
could experience
the empty in which I
live in.
Then maybe
they'd bring me a
bottle.
Christen my
voyage like a ******
ship to sea.

Wish me
well  then leave me be
and hold true to those
memories of  
the Who
I used to be..

He stood at the
height of most men's
shoulders.
But grew into the
size of Goliath while
full of wheat barley and ****.

His pale blue eyes
sat peacefully in the center of the
angry blood shot pool
that had once been
as white as the
hair on his head.

He was handy with his
hands but his hands
usually held a bottle.
He drank only at certain
bars,only around those
who had come to
know his rage.

He wasn't allowed home
when ever he had become
one with the ranting
and raving lunatic
who lived deep down
in his soul.

His voice was raspy
from too many cigarettes
and too much
drunken screaming.

He had pains that called
for pills and names he
swore he would ****.

And he drank every time
like it was it his first time
or maybe the last.
Always enough to
awake that
giant within.

I gave into it ,
put down my fighting knife
and succumbed to it.

Like a fallen Palmetto
to the untamed selfish sea,
I fell into it.

Found myself weightless
and dry of tears,
relived of the rush
of the heart.

Veins thick with the
Poppies warmth.
Slack faced towards the heavens
in search of something more.

Saw her face made up of
unnamed stars and canceled out
all other constellations.

It took hold of me,
like the mouth of the wolf
it devoured me.

I was open and couldn't
deny.

That there was nothing of this blood
ruled earth to compare with the beauty
of a star dressed night .

Their world
is based
on
comfort
and
comfort
has
it's own
section
in the
city.

Just like everyone else this one
had its share of glimmering days and
moon kissed nights.

Some of them have even lasted longer
than a dream or a thought.

Its not as dark as it sounds.

Its the idea of it all.
Its the obsession with the need
to be satisfied that causes
the bleakest of times
to outshine all the others.

The lengths some go through
in order to lasso a smile .
The twisted faces made at babies.
The foolish voice that brings a grin.
All of it just to fill that cup
of neediness even when it overflows
with the material things that
shape our world.

One must spend some time in the nothing
with nothing at all to truly
see the greatness in the briefest of moments.

The simplicity of the ocean breeze slicing
through the palm fronds.
That triumphant smile on her tired
face as the point draws red.
The tear that escapes the man
who is once again a free man.

There's that moment that never lasts longer than an instant.
That is what you need to live through to come to this.
To see what this one sees.
And to recognize what it truly is to be happy.

The rich kids never read
Bukowski.
The poor kids all read the
same dog eared copy of
"Women".

The Animal Control guy tries to feel
Nietzsche while parked within
the shade of a drooping
Eucalyptus.
While his frightened captives
**** in their pins and wait on death.

She gave me my first copy
of Kerouac and made sure she
took it back when she
packed her things and left
for good .

I found Dante half dead
and forgotten in a prison cell.
His Inferno had been stripped of its
jacket and was scarred with graffiti.

I read passed the torn
and missing pages
and when I was done.
I went back and walked
through that
Cold and Confusing Hell
with Dante as my guide.

Over and Over again.

Everything's a lie, everything.
Things are coming to light.
they cant hide it anymore.

Too much information can be exchanged
with little to no effort.

They went to the Moon but threw away the data.
They're driving teslas in space and expect you to believe it.
You're called crazy for questioning their claims.

Everything they teach us is wrong
Everything we thought we knew means nothing at all.

We are born of lies and
die believing in them.

Giants Dragons Titans
Silicone Conduits Straight to the Heavens.

Evidence all lay in stone.
I tried to tell them and they thought I was crazy.

Energy is free and there is truly
nothing new under the Sun.

Airlines charge you for fuel they don't use.
Everything should be free like the energy the
Spires and the Sky Scrapers
gather ,while we dig for coal and bleed.

There should be no homeless anywhere unless that's how they want to be.

Prove to me we are spinning and
I'll speak of the plain no more.

The curses and the man made disease.
Half these things we never need.

There's no such thing as too many people.
Overcrowding what?
Nobody truly knows how much land
there is still unseen.

They made so many of our lives so hard.
Everyone for a very long time
we've all missed out on so much.

The survivors of the Deluge what few there were to be.
Made an oath to keep the knowledge their secret.
They spread out across their new world to rule us.
Those who came after the flood and who knew nothing of the teachings of old.

Good little workers ,consumers that's all we will ever be.
I want something more on my headstone besides
"He was good worker"
" He loved his job"

We've  been given so very little
of what was meant for us all to enjoy .

There's no time for the arts.
No time to create, to enjoy
to truly know what gifts he left for all of us .

The Golden Age they had it, they lived it.
Then they blew it just like we are now.

Except we've never known any other
way that's better than this.

Men and even some Women meet in
over weight and over fragranced,
obnoxious groups.

All wearing the same colors like mutant
cheerleaders or
under achieving private school kids.

The food they eat is greasy and their conversation is
nothing but repeating what their
television screen had already told them .

Men argue over numbers and Women try to still
look cute while dressing in mens
athletic gear looking like fools
with their hair done.

The more Beer they drink the more
screaming they do at two
dimensional people
on a huge television screen
who can't hear them.

And they call this entertainment .
I call it insanity, the worst kind of sickness.
A sickness that no one's aware enough or awake enough,
to ever know they have.

I was raised
on the ways of
the Wolf.
I applied these ways
to the best of
my ability.
Only to be set
loose to live amongst
the sheep.
Where
my ways were
considered savage
and unreasonable.

I turned to
the Poppy
and the *****.
I was insearch
of a temporary
sanctuary from
the  past misdeeds
replaying
themselves
inside my head.

Only at a later
age did I come
to understand
these wounds
that still
bleed leave
trails full of
wasted years,
lost lovers and
forgotten
hopes
and dreams.

I counted the
Black and Whites
as they passed
me by.
I tried to
melt into the
crowd.
The vigilance
and anger in
my heart refused
to walk amongst
the live stock.
For I was raised
as one with
brother Wolf.
I needed to
run on the outside
of their
invisible bindings.

I died everyday
for 3 years .
I pulled
from the *****
then turned to
the poem and
discovered
a new way
to torture
my  mind while
healing the heart.

I dropped
the mask I
had wore
for so many
of these
theatrical
years.

I set about
revealing hearts
blood and fractured
bone.
I ripped the
inside of
me out and
presented it
as treasure.
Only to find
the masses
are indeed
too much
like sheep.
Never
understanding the
manners of
the wolf....

I love it all
I can't get enough.

Inside some street dealers sweaty palm.
Wrapped in a tiny balloon stashed between some nameless guys missing teeth and rotting gums.

My prize and maybe my death patiently awaits me.

You can't substitute one for another.
I need more damage and I want pain free consequences that I won't remember.

If it doesn't hurt I can't use it.
If there's a price to pay I'll pay it tomorrow.
Just give me what I came for.

I pass my days with Wine and cigarettes.
Use the  least amount of conversation as possible.

I've used all the Drugs I need something  new.
She chased her pills with Beer and only cursed after *****.

Some come here seeking wealth and fame.
'We were all born here never got nothing else from it but pain .

Pawn shops and cheap motels line the street like  the girls along   Century Blvd.
Mansions and Asian gardeners, middle eastern kids with family money and Mc Donalds straws.

Sunsets end my days.
I'm only alive once the Moon takes control .

I dug a hole for you and my memories.
My hopes are too stubborn to die.
My dreams all turned to memories and there's a hole full of those already.

I doubled up my wake up
just to clear the cob webs away.
Attempted to numb my mind
before it had a chance to
start thinking again.

Waited for the *****
to come before
I brushed my teeth.
What I gave up was
clear mostly air
with a trace of
Orange juice and
stale Bar Peanuts.

I felt less as I
pressed my only good shirt
with too much steam
and not enough starch.

I keep remembering the
last time we talked
but can't seem to
recall how it ended.

I can't help but
be angry.
No saying good bye.
No invite.
No real reason why.

We're all on own when
it comes to our Demons.
There's no second chance
when you play with the
Serpents.

The pain is from knowing
I'm now much more alone.

The tears I released were
those of true sorrow.

You won't see them again.
I cry only once for a friend.

I once spent an
entire summer with
a black eye.
Proving the fact that
I was young and willing to
try.

We drank hard in those
days.
Back when it all was used to
enjoy.
When the alcohol was a social
thing and the
drugs were just a little late
night activity among the
chosen few.

We don't move in packs
like that anymore.
And those of us who still
indulge do it alone
or in order to cope.

I'm trying to pin point
that moment,
that final event,
that final failure that turned it
all so bad.
So destructive.

I'm feeling the effects of the
abuse.
That missing chapter.
The surgeries.
The fact that it took so much
to finally realize
the price I've paid
for my own
self inflicted,
blameless,
foolish
ways.

Those backyard
days when we
lived in the
moment.
The home made
announcements done
in the violent
art of our time.
Always promising
kegged
beer and music.


We piled into
cars loaned
by parents.
Walked drunk
and as one
along the city
blocks of our
town.
All of us
flocking to
hear the voices
of our friends.

We drank hard
like young ones
should.
Smoked what was
available
and expanded our
minds with
sour caps
and toxic cartoon
printed paper tabs.

Contemplated how
things could have been
if we would
have had
D.Boon for just
a little while
longer.

Those Days
for me are
over now,
time
has held true
to its promise.

Some of the
music is still
available
,the art.

Though generations have
passed the time
still shines in
memory.

Some still
think about those
days while
paying only some
of the bills.

Drinking at home.

Doing time in prison.

Burying a friend.

Seeing Watt on his
bike along Pacific Avenue.

Reading Bukowski.

Cruising on Paseo.

Getting high alone.

This life
it ain't no picnic,
it's a history
lesson.
It's the politics
of time.

There's Midnight Ravens
along the telephone
wire.
******* suckers
with deep dark
eyes that
see death
before it comes.
These hosts
of the end
pay me no mind
as I pass beneath
their roost.
They rudely go
about their
Raven buisness,
yelling and
******* their way
into the morning.

An unrelenting
bark drums
on from
behind
a white painted
fence.
An insane sound
like an alarm that
no one will turn
off.

I step over a small
cities worth of
ants who are
scrambling
around a crack
in the
sidewalk
clogged with
more frantic
ants.
The great flood
has arrived
in the form of
a timed sprinkler.
And all of
the soldiers
have abandoned
the Queen.

It's early morning
The air has
yet to be
choked out
by the
diesel fuel
and needless
emissions that will
soon began to
smother the
city
.
The faint smell
of fresh fish
makes its way
up the city
blocks from
the waterfront
below.

Old Italian and
Slavic women
stand outside
in their
long day time
night gowns
smoking cigarettes
while watering
the concrete.

I enter the
alley way ,
the smell of
***** diapers,
cheap
laundry detergent
and too
many children
surround an
apartment complex.

As I passed I came
upon the Black Princess
of these streets.
The wisest and
surest of them all
crosses my path.
Her tail held high
and strong,
striding care free,
she looks at me
with her
emerald eyes
and yawns.
She stops near a row
of trashcans that
are lined
up looking like
a modern
day monolith.

She laps at her
paw with slow,
long, lazy
licks as I
pass.
She again fixes me
with those marble green
eyes and lets me
know without
saying a word.
That the alley cat kills
for fun.
Ignores all Gods
by choice
and laughs
at our attempts
to tame it.

It was the form of her
breast that rose
beneath
a paisley print shirt
that caught my attention.
Her blue jeans
hugged at
her hips as if fitted
by the
Gods themselves.

She laughed and
we drank,
she caressed my
arm as if it
was a massive
display of
muscle.

For the slightest
of seconds
the look in her eyes
changed
as she stroked my
skinny arm.
Her eyes said she knew
that my form
was not that of
a muscular man.

She continued
to smile and that
look of disappointment
had gone from her
eyes as she stayed
and played
out the
fantasy anyway.

The cruelty and
the lack of compassion
is what captures
my attention.

Ever see a group
of men
laugh a child's
laughter at the
death of another.

The cold capped face
of the reaper in the tower
whose aim is true.
Whose eyes
are always watching.
Always waiting
for a reason to
test his skills.

Pools of blood,
broken bodies that
lay like discarded
rags are ignored
and at times stepped
over like droppings
left by dogs.

Most flit through
life without ever
witnessing
the rage,the brutal
viscous form
of man that has helped
him become the top
predator he is today.

Once you have
lived with
the ******,
fought with the
sinners and been
apart of the hunt
without losing
your sanity
or  your soul.

Everything else is
digested
with less effort.
Accepted alot easier
and ignored with an
unsettling
kind of ease.

It's scares me
when I talk to people
and hear how
wrapped up they
are in
meaningless *******.

Some say there's nothing
worse than a wasted
life.

Counting the value of your days
in accomplishments.
Things I've lost,
those I've hated,
time spent locked away,
riches squandered.

Holidays help the years
go by,a day to
celebrate when there's
no real reason to
be happy.

Conversations began
and end with,"Remember when?"
Your only mark left on this
world is a name on a headstone.
A name nobody ever
called you by,
a name you didn't choose.

Never wanted to grow
up to be anything but
older.
Tattooed images that at one
time meant everything to you.

Miss dead pets more
than dead  friends.

Leave nothing behind but
a bloodline,
maybe not even that.

Most things crumble with
time,burn with
the flames.

It's not important how long
you'll be remembered.
All memories fade with time,
words lose meaning
and this thing we are living
carries on.
Forgotten.

I leave them all to
their drunken joy
while only I alone
float out the door
on a different high.
Past the blood stained sidewalk
I see only hopelessness,
foolishness.
The winners and the losers
both stained the same red.

My heart has slowed,
my blood as thick as the
gummy *****
that has won its love.
Across Nelson st.
I continue forth.
I stop on the warm black top.
I once seen a photograph of
Bukowski smiling while standing
in this very spot.
I stop and try to feel his joy.

All at once I feel thick hands
pushing me on.
"You won't find it here"
A deep guttural voice says
against the back of my neck.
"Nope not here"
A tired weep escapes me.
"I'm here for you Old Boy"
The original Barfly says to me
as my tears become
the whole of me.
"You're losing"
His beer dressed
breath says into my ear.
"I know its hard but you cant stay here."

Bukowskis ghost takes
hold of my shoulders as I weep.
Pushing me on his
voice becomes harsh.
"God dam it this is how it is!"
He stops me dead center
on Nelson st.
"Didn't you read all that I left for you?"
His shouts are slow and raspy.
"I warned you!I warned all of you!"
I can feel his grip
tighten as my
sobbing shoulders sag
in retreat.
"This is how it is!It hurts!"
His shouts tear into the night
"And the returns are mostly nothing!"

His voice lightens
the smell of cigarettes and
cheap cologne are present.
"Go on now."
His voice now a note above a whisper
"Tend to your own demons.
We and the Gods are with you."

A pat on my right shoulder
then Bukowskis ghost
is pushing me on.
I'm a wreak ,
I don't want them to go.
But I know I cant stay.

I know who
I'm going to see
before
I turn around.
I know whose
hand I felt.
My heart begins to
slowly rip.
My tears run out of
flesh and fall onto
the still warm black top.
Tiny explosions billowing
tiny clouds of steam
erupt as I turn and see
Bukowskis ghost
waving a beefy
hand at me from
the corner of
6th and Nelson st.

Next to him stands
my Grand Father,
the man who
broke my heart
when the Gods
decided to take
him away.
He's smiling,
his malice free eyes
just as welled
as my own.
Bukowski puts
his arm around
my long dead
Grand Father
and comforts him as
he smiles that smile
I still long
for in my dreams.

I fall apart.
Then quietly gather
up what little
that is left of me.
I turn away from
the ghosts on Nelson st.
Focus on the
bright lights of the
Warner's marquee
and without looking
back I continue on.

If I could I'd spend
a little bit of this
forever with her
underneath that
streetlamp.

I'd stand with her
there as she leaned
against me with her
fists clenched together
at her chest.
Her Whiskey dressed
breath warm against
my neck.
The moth shadowed
light enhancing her
cheek bones and
proving to me that
there is indeed artistry
in our creation.

If I could I'd spend
whatever is left with
her drunk and troubled,
broke and incomplete,
in Love and alone.
Together but still longing
for that loneliness that
always seems to make
things right.

If given the choice I'ld
probably pick alone.
Or maybe a moment with
her beneath that streetlamp
on the corner of some
numbered street and
Hell itself.

For now I'll fix whats
left  of my stash.
Pour me a wine.
Then fall into a nod
as my opiated mind flashes
a  memory
of her smiling grenadine
stained teeth.

And when the sun decides
to return,so shall
I continue on my way
without her.
Ill slowly pass these
numbered streets
in this lost and broken form
that I've chosen
for this world to judge.

He has to
drink his
meals,
so I drink
mine to.

I have to
drown his
cells in
nutrients.

I'm
trying
to
keep
someone
alive.

He
has to
drink
his
meals.
So, I
drink
mine
to.

I have
to
drown
his cells
in
nutrients.

I'm
trying
to
keep
someone
alive.

Drug along my gratitude
through the open doors
of wisdom.

Found myself stepping
into a world painted
in blackness.
With only dim city
street lights to dye the
air faded shades of
green,yellow
and red.

Far off in the land
of memory rainbow slicked
Harbor waters lap at ancient
breakwall  stones like slow
rhythmic veiled maidens.

I count the blue lights along
that familiar span across
the fuel laced waters.

Then all at once
I pull myself from
yesterday and back into
the golden light of Nimrods
dawn.

I return to what is no longer
blackness.

It comes to me that another
tomorrow has already arrived
a day worth of hours ago.

I no longer cast blame
upon the choices or
the Poppy.
The pretty painted
ladies,friends who lacked
loyalty or the
black robed Judicial figure
who cast the peoples
sentence upon me.

I've took the oath
and willfully chose
to walk with the
truly hardened souls
whose experience somewhat
mirrors my own.

Drink from the vessel
of this truth spoke the
muse.
Pick at the foggy drug
driven heart broken times
and turn them all into
so much more than
just dead flesh sadness.

I believe I earned
the calling from the
Gods themselves.
So much loss
has now began to
show it's reasons.

And to deprive myself
of the joy this
gift brings
would be a greater loss
than all of what
has led me to this.

So much loss
has now began to
show it's reasons.