I looked at him through a haze of Pall Malls
He held me briefly and fiercely in dirt encrusted finger tips.
When he spoke to me it was whiskyed and dry.
I'd writhe in sheets covered in sweat,
marred by too many bodies (only one of which was mine).
But we laughed that hearty laugh that comes from knowing eyes.
We danced with the weight of flesh and bone.
We held no pretense,
and my eyes stung with the knowledge that we were genuinely ****** up.

my eyes
head
and chest hurts.
i have a tooth that needs to be pulled
and a mole that needs looking at.
i can't sleep
and when i stand my knee pops.

i still can't find a job
and my bills are too **** high.
the roof leaks and the
washing machine tears up my clothes.

the dogs don't listen
and there is never any food in the house.
my last pair of jeans is starting rip
and i haven't had a decent
idea to write about for weeks.

i'm tearing through my
***** clothes,
looking for my favorite shirt
and it hits me,
i remember now,
you took it  with you
when you left.
swearing it was yours...


great.
just great.

When the fat ***** spat in my face
and called me a hippie,
I wasn't sure if it was
better or worse
than being called a hipster poser
in the city.

The fat ******,
the ****** poets,
the lesbians,
and the saliva
are all the same.

Pointless plot twists in
a headache of trite storytelling.

And you can ask Plato if his
"is-ness" really meant all that much,
and you can ask Bukowski if he
found the celestial kissing the *******,
and you can ask the drunken Catholic dukers
if the clover has a **** thing to do with it,
and you can ask the caterpillars that
don't want to be butterflies,
and they'll all bark the same interwoven tune:

nobody is right,
God is a coward,
my boss owes me reparations ,
and any dumb dog spouting off superiority
needs a steel muzzle and a molecular transfusion.

The sky is falling...
Raining heavy rhapsodies of rukus and destruction...

Frowning.
Drowning.

Scrub structured stains.
Dump waste down dialated drains.
Repeat regularly.


Such sarcastic symbolism.
Such ******' frustration.

Got nuthin' left to gain.
Out of time, again.
Such wasted wanting...
Such resentment.
Can you feel my pain?

it's been
a slow morning.
the wind started early
sweeping away the small stretches of clouds
and leaving dusty blue
for miles and miles
i watch my neighbors
take out the trash
kiss the wife
leave for work.

the old woman to the left
invites me over for coffee
and we talk about
all those years ago
when she was something.
she tells me her stories
of her trips to india
and her cats chasing the rats
that call our houses homes.

she has things to do
and i understand
lying, i say
so do i.

back at home
i wonder
in those years
when i'm old
and i look back
what will i see?

i'm no one special
never really have been.
never been on a trip
never had a great love.
the only stories i have to tell
are of hearbreak
and hard times.
but i guess
someone has to tell
those kinds of stories
t0o.

This imperfect me
a pleasure machine

a bait for chameleons
liars and a thief

waiting by the phone

waiting by the door
the boy with the skatebooard
like salmon
race against the slant

Pass by a black woman
with her plastic bags
full of empty bottles
plans her drunken feast

the boy with the skateboard
asks me
"what are you waiting for?"
and I have no answer

She´s back now
the bottles are full
she smokes and shakes her ***
like an old worn horse

We will all get drunk
and wash away another year

i open the envelope of night,
*******, the stars have never been so necessary.
with one deep breath i declare genocide on all my worries.
in this late hour, passing pavement is worship,
cigarettes, the Rolling Stones, and left lanes
are the holy trinity.

i'm a righteous man, honey.
you can be righteous too.
what are you doing right now?
nothing?
good.

Buzzed
My brain cells might
As well be
Covered in fuzz
Sluggish and confused

This green is getting
The best of me
Just when I thought
I was done
That I gave it up for
Good

Mary Jane
Comes a'knockin'
On my door again
And you know me,
I could never
Turn a lady down

Shes in my lungs
Infecting my blood
Like a purposeful
Plague

Maybe this is the
Unconditional love
That I've been
Searching for
All along

But then again,
Maybe it's not
Maybe it's only a drug that I
Fall into

To escape
To avoid
The mundane
The boring

I wonder if
My health is
Worth

This feeling of
Disconnection
From the
World
That I long for

The roads I drive to work
are scarred -  all of them
like the people who pass me,
they think themselves important
they all lie
these roads
are patched and worn
and trying to look whole
the lines  scraped away, replaced by
intermittent ******* painted over scars,
mistakes that can’t be hidden
but I feel them
when I cross their grooves and ridges
like malice and envy -
open your eyes dipshits!
don’t be afraid - hell
my whole life is a mistake
without which I wouldn’t have words
slow down and feel the roads you’re living on
or at least look at them-
*******