Love lies on a razor
shoots through the clouds
as a lazor.
Please don't let me down, I look up.
Blink at the raining blossoms.

I convalesce in my self-made imaginary infirmary,
a red sphere floating firm above
a Japanese blotched black ink dove.
Blink up at the raining roses
Squint up at the blinking blossoms.

Love built the cross,
it also built the atom bomb.

Roses rain down in flurries.
Blossoms blink down in a hurry.

It would be sin for us to scurry,
even as the love spoken previous
beams down from heaven, is impossible
for us to bury.
If this is my truth, let it be conjoined, to become our truth.
And,
with outstretched skinny fists protruding out from the clouds above.
I watch as the Rose petals float fluttering down in a
flurry.
I blink up at the rolling, bowling, balling, beautiful blossoms....falling.

As the the is dawning.
As the sun is dawning

I am Immortal
I am Invincible
I am Imemorable
I am the blackness living deep
in the bile ducts of your lungs,
I hear you whisper my name;
and I shiver.

I have neither hero nor god:
I am that I am that I am-
ALIVE
I learned not the word caution
I know not the meaning of a future:
I am where I am where I am-
NOW

The bullet which ricocheted off my right *** cheek and exploded through my left ******* seemed to have its own voice as it whizzed  by, winking, “The truth may set you free young man, but not until it is finished with you.”

I pour myself into you
Who, as an empty basin,
Allowed me to fill you up to the brim,
But kept me from ever overflowing.
I pour myself into you*
Who, as an elegant, yet twisted and cracking vase,
Forced me into the confines of your ****** contours,
Eventually I come dripping out the top, and through the cracks.
I pour myself into you
Who, as three separate bowls,
hold me safely, but compartmentalized from myself,
I long to be whole again.
I poured myself out
Onto, the withered crippled decayed concrete,
Only to wash away at the slightest rain,
away with the refuse
Down Dead Man’s alley.
I poured myself out
Into, my own trembling hands,
Breathlessly hoping to hold my sanity together in outstretched arms to heaven,
Palms cupped trying to cradle myself together,
But, with every bump and misstep I lose a drop of myself to the open air,
Ending, with brittle dry hands holding no moisture.
I poured myself out
And, down my own arrogant throat,
pleasantly drunk on myself, “Cheers! to ******* me,”
Until, I ***** and am up and down the drain.
I pour myself into
My, Father’s fertile soil,
and sit back patiently for harvest.
I cultivate my land, this is my Garden,
mumblings of Voltaire and  l'optimisme,
I watch my flowers bud.

I poured myself out and into you,
but I am still here,
yet here I still stand.

On the mental ward,
there is no "Lord,"
no "Savior."
Only society's leftovers,
shuffled to and fro and
around and around we go.

The Overdose as Artform:
or
A study on Modern Urban Myth

Stand alone, naked, in-front of your bathroom mirror.
Repeat three times fast:
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
My ghost will appear behind you,
carrying syringe and stem.

This will be just one more ****** love poem
to ***
to drugs
to rock n’ roll.

   You think you’re too young to die, huh?
well, everyday my facebook feed
fills with people who were
too young to die.
   Everyday people they loved post
on their walls, memories and pictures,
writing how their hearts ache at the passing
of one too young to die.
   People who the dead disliked or even hated
also post on their walls, RIP, sad to see you go,
etc. empty ******* like “only the good die young,”
please.
   I try to watch from afar, for if I get too close
I fear I am the next to go.
   You think it can never happen to you, until
you wake up in a hospital bed with an IV in your arm and
a head awhirl with Narcan.
   But still, it couldn’t happen to me, because
it’s happening to the people all around me.

The last girl I ****** off of Tinder
I stole thirty dollars from to buy
black tar ****** in Colorado
then saw a **** jam band
play their **** music,
it wasn’t rock n’ roll.

The last girl I had *** with
because I was in love with her
won’t hardly speak with me, anymore,
because ***
because drugs
because rock n’ roll
….That was like four years ago.

I miss the rock n’ roll in ***** Philly basements
that felt punk even when it was folk.
I miss doing drugs without ending up
homeless, broke, and emotionally destitute
immediately after.
I miss the *** that meant something,
but more so miss the idea of *** being related
to love, which was it ever even in the first place?
I don’t know.  
I like the tenants of pop punk music,
example: I like my friends, I remember that time you were drunk and spilled the apple juice in the hall, I like the ideal of that one girl all the Jesse Laceys of the world write about, most importantly I like the thought that none of this is really my fault…when it is.

I had a therapist, more than one, ask me
to write a break up letter to drugs,
I could never get very far with it
because drugs dumped me a long time ago
and had since moved on.
If I was honest I would write, “Take me
back, I can handle you again and
things can go back to how they
were when we first met.”
But, I know this can never be,
as drugs are busy seeing other people.

Do you remember the day the lightning bugs
began to disappear?
Now, in the stead of those tiny glowing insect dots
is only the sense of a faintly felt fear,
of growing old
and
losing our illusion of safety.
Bring back the insects,
bring back the
***
drugs
and
rock n’ roll