Santa does not visit psych wards. No matter how many times I frequent the hospital around the holidays, St. Nick is nowhere to be found, albeit some nights Jesus Christ's screams fill the halls throughout the night, this baritone of madness slowly becoming a gentle hum that helps me drift off. The chorus in my head sings along to this hymn of psychotic fervor.

The firewood kept beside the fence post was soggy, surly was the evening weather, and Mother Nature was redefining the word torrential

A drop to the eye, rendering it senseless. On one side of the spectrum, a crystal or a rock comes from dirt. Although that other side, the side of the spectrum that enlightens by color. A yellow or a blue or a red are useful.

So by that exploitation will become the
puzzle pieces of which the artist creates. Imagine having a thought cross and be ignored. Saying that, maybe the Earth isn't flat, and maybe a Christmas card is not as commercial as it is ceremonial.

Perception is one side to say, but the gentleman pouring gasoline on a fire is far from the man asking for a drink shaken, not stirred.

When the fire becomes everlasting, water will not quench a thirst for destruction, and that is because there has never been an accident that could ever be everlasting.

The man that knows that does not exit the house with a helmet. He simply raises the proverbial glass and swallows what is in front of him. At times the end brings a sweetness.

The only other times are consumed with a bitterness. One that an artist knows as he takes his shot of whiskey, but not of the man that is readily available to set himself on fire.

That is a drop of rain on your tongue. At the beginning it is too fragile to become a warning, but at the end it is what separates lands and lives. That is why saltwater and tears aren't that much different.

Remember when you told me you forgot your middle name.
And that you didn't remember if you even had one.
That your parents weren't particularly religious; that they forgot God.
And that you've been forgetful lately.
You couldn't
remember
the last time you picked flowers.
Or a president.
Or shot a gun.
Or put a flower in a gun.
And that Vietnam was like Iraq.
And France would bring WWIII.
"What's my middle name?"
You asked.
"Where's the Middle East?"

"Didn't the nukes dropped in the Nevada desert sand create glass?"

"How many windows does this room have? Can you see?"

"The eyes are the windows to the soul."

My eyes feel old
Is what my grandmother would say
when she was tired.
She would play solitaire.
After each game she would
shuffle the deck three ways.
I would always mix them up
scattered on the tabletop.
That's what I remember
from the sixties.

There's no sense in coincidence.
But I found the perfect book for you,
the same day I read your obituary in
the newspaper. These reading materials kept on a locked ward.
You kept buried under ground,
like a secret turmoil your family
could not bear with.
The one you also spoke of.
But that is irony.
Something I do believe in.

"Am I God?"

"I've killed people. I've killed you twice today. Are you God?"

You weren't afraid of your shadow.
But rather the people in the sky.
The peers walking, talking, doing
what they do best.
Dissect the innocent.
Disengage humanity.
Regress until broken,
until shattered,
until sand.

"Am I God?"

You aren't, a ******'s son.
Nietzsche was correct.
God is dead.

At my best.
With a novel in hand,
and one just finished
placed diagonally over
a journal, I can breathe easy.

At my best.
I started drinking again.
It used to be whiskey.
But I've only started with beer
this time around.
The whiskey can wait
till December arrives.

At my best.
Two pills in the morning.
I gave you fair warning.
But you just smiled and
saw trial, not error.

At my best.
You ask me what I'm reading.
Best to be coy, "You've probably
never heard."
But you don't ask, "What's the
meaning of this word?"

At your best.
With me.
During a
transitional
period.
Each of us,
something
in comma.

None of this matters.
My words are stale.
An extended vocabulary is
as pointless as the pencil
this was written with.
My gift of gab may have
made women wet, just as
the ink smeared on my palm,
but dilated pupils do not
read between lines, they only
see yourself in yourself in
yourself. Then you blink.
You blink because an illusion
isn't a fabricated reality as
much as it is a cue from
your damaged brain that has
always reacted faster than
a mouth expelling empty words.
This goes for *** as well.
No matter how many times
you pull out, a disappearing act
doesn't wish away a pregnancy.
Only a pill the morning after can.
And only a ****** is as expendable
as the money left on a bed side table.
Or a mattress without sheets.
Not a man that walks away in
running shoes, not living up
to his full potential.