photographs become
the saddest things.
and moments are
so special, yes,
but to pervert them
is a form of slavery.

my girlfriend might have cancer and my dog might have cancer.
my cat cant *** and the other one is getting old but still orange.
my other cats, i dont want to think about it.
i used to cry when i thought about it.
i gave up on my life and failed my children.
but met the man im child to.
he sed he would take care of me and my little family then,
and since id given up on me, well how could i say no to that?
but that didnt happen.
of course IM fine. i know where i am. im right here.
computer.
a.c.
beer.
food.
(ill always have food. i could steal the cheese out of your sandwich and you wouldnt skip a bight.)
but my cats?...who knows.
i didnt do then and im not doing now.
because thats wut i do: i sit.
i sit and i watch and i worry and i wait and i drink and i forget and i watch some more,
just to remember what it is that im not doing.
and i continue living while everything around me dies.
as if i have the only gas-mask in chernobyl.
the only vaccine while everyone vomits their virus.
in the bomb shelter with the door welded shut.
i get the last piece of meat from your carcass and cook it.
and i eat like kings.

you leave me alone and i write poetry.
you leave me together and i fall apart.

when i think of dying
my actual moment of death
i cry.
its then that i think of everyone ive ever loved
and all the things ive known.
but when we die
most of us experience pain
and fear
and think of only our continuation.
of our selfish selves.
and our arms flail about and we moan.
and our arms reach for things on nightstands assuming they are more air.
or blood.
or health.
but we agonize.
and we die.
like poisoned spiders.
in a glass filled with smoke.
and that is our world.
and you live there.
and you may be the man
or the child
holding down the glass.

i bought a gun

stick bug hiding
in the tree of life
shaking and
mimicking wind

an insect stole my jacket and
wore it around town
and no one noticed.
i saw him and
crushed him
and no one
cried.

the crazies must grow
tired of their minds.

the way a flower
wants to walk
but can't.

it becomes tired of being beautiful
so it dies.