you break and slither
out onto the antiseptic
tile floor
bathing in the
residue of the
the hundreds of billions
that came before you
you **** and spit on
your mother's ****
till you're unhappy
in an underpaying career
with an unloving wife
under your pastor
at 3 am
this is what you've been
programmed for
this is what you get
a world full of
unholy *******
clammering for salvation
with each ******
into your woman's ******
you slipped out a month too soon
they always tell you
--oh, you were just so excited
to meet us! and we were so happy
to have you, my dear--
broke free of the *******
that gave you life
into the ones that
take it away
call it a **** miscarriage
we're all miscarriages
one day or another
some just suffer
and **** a little
more than others
and you want that month back
more than anything
while the reverend is pumping
the holy spirit into the mother
of your nobody children
and this is where we are
this is what we come to
slithering on the tile floor
in the wastes of everyone
else and everyone after
playing patty cake
with the other corpses
till you're home early from work
walking into the guest bedroom
shotgun in hand, just to
split two shells between yourself
and the holy ghost

they say when you
get into the role
it can consume you
drive you crazy
blur the
lines between you
and who you're supposed to be
some roles you never get out of
--they say--
some masks stay on
more and more
it gets harder to tell
while you fight desperately
to remember who sits
at the core of all of these façades
and characters
scratch and claw at
the masks to tear them off
but only skin breaks
and the blood seems to be yours
that mask's still there
still won't come off
time goes on
there's no
you anymore
everything you are is altered
like a warped
chemical reaction

been wearing masks
for years now
fighting with the truth and the
role's I chose to take on
been acting
for years now
and can no
longer tell which
one is
fake
and which one is
really me
anymore

They swore it would rain,
overcast and cold, the grey
permeating every dead blade
of grass, every bare bough,
staggering in the wind,
and every soul beneath,
staggering for other reason
toward some unknown eternity.

The forecast told of rain,
but it is only the terrible,
everywhere grey and the
cold of low clouds and
wind that blows in deprecation
through and above everything,
those buildings leaning in the mist
weighed down by their steel frames,
and myself, inundated beneath it all.

They swore on rain
but there is nothing.
Nothing but the grey
and the cold and
the hangover death
of the soul that exists in
this Spring pre-bloom morning

I hear the woman underneath me.
She’s sore, tired.
Worn out from some
other man, I’m sure.
She croons in my ear.
Make love to me, she whispers,
take it easy, nice and slow.
Not too much, not too much.

And the man at the bar next to mine,
talking to the bartender,
cautiously ordering a drink.
Can’t have too much, he says,
can’t get too drunk, he says.
Not too much, not too much.

It seems everyone is taking
it slow these days. Too much
caution for this shotgun
existence. Too much fear. You can
smell it on them like cigarette stench
from a guilty smoker.
Everyone is rolling up their windows,
staying indoors, under the covers.
No one lives much anymore.
Not too much, not too much.

I down my drink at the bar and
break the man’s nose.
He doesn’t fight back when
he gets up. I spit and walk out.
Home to the woman and
she’s crooning in my ear.
Not too much, not too much.
I am violent and rough and she hates me,
I can see it. Still, when it’s over she leans
towards me and asks if I love her.
She says it with hurt eyes.
“Well, do you!?” she cries.

Not too much, not too much.

Final descent into the city
in the middle of night.

Out on the horizon,
at the right distance,
there is no difference

between the streetlights
and the
stars.

I hope you know I'm losing my ******* mind
copy and pasting myself to an early grave
here's the shovel
here's the gun
here's the bullets
**** that trigger feels awfully nice
ctrl+c
ctrl+v
is this what hell is?
stuck in a cubicle
endless and tedious
doing everything
and accomplishing nothing
ctrl+c
ctrl+v
I can't handle being left
alone with my thoughts
this long
it's no good for the soul
too many mistakes
prancing around
teasing the imagination
showing you every bad decision
and they won't leave you alone
because you know they're right
because you don't sleep at night
because everything is not how
it was supposed to be
all you want is a full night's sleep
instead everything is
copied and pasted
your whole reality
is made up of interactions
copied and pasted
throughout your memories
ctrl+c
ctrl+v
here's the shovel
here's the gun
here's the bullet
you know what to do

poetry is dead
in the venues we
are accustomed
there is no
beat
sitting on stage
preaching
the madness
no
romantics
in stony silence
as the pages turn
we have no
present day
poets
that still
believe in
the written word
and the effect a
line
break
can
have
on a reader
no no no
no more
no one wants
to settle for behind
the scenes
rockstar lifestyles
don't present themselves
to the typists
beating their keyboards
as they do
their wives
but that's how it goes
these are for me
anyways
not you
this is the purging
of every sinful thought
I create
you don't know the
half of it
probably none
at all
but that's how it goes
these lines
all this poetry
isn't made
for kindles
and smart phones
no more
typewriters
or weekly readings
only me
dark in my room
poisoning
the text box
and shivering
guiltily as i
write
one
more
line

the sun had set
as the hours grew
and then diminished
as they tend to
i lay at the typewriter
pretending
late into the night
pitter pattering
fingers like rain
on the keyboard
in a room otherwise
dark and otherwise quiet
but realizing futility
staring at a blank page
and an empty bottle
i retired to my bed
and as i climbed in
the woman
eyes still closed
asked if i was done
and on hearing
my resigned sigh
she smiled
she smiled and
told me to
come to bed
it will all be alright
if the sun
rises again
tomorrow
she said
it'll be alright
she said
i guarantee it
so i laid next to her
and she rubbed my hand
and kissed my knuckles
as she tends to do
in bouts of affection
and i couldn't help but smile
the right woman
can be a miracle
in the darkest hours

Your hands were always cold,
even when you were mad–
even when they were
entwined in my oafish hands.
Oh, and how you would get mad!
I remember how those thin, delicate fingers
would tense up,
long and slender as they were,
and you would press the nail
of your index finger into the
side of your thumb.
You didn’t even notice you would do it.
It got to a point that we fought so often
you had cuts from your own nails.
The most beautiful fingers,
graceful and untouched,
except for those little stress-cuts
dug into the side of the thumbs.
And always cold,
even when you were mad–
even when they were
entwined in my oafish hands.

I am sorry we fought.
I always thought
if I could just keep those hands
warm a little longer,
we would make it through alright.
The fighting and the winters
and the coldness of it all
proved a little too much.
For that, I am sorry.
I hope you found yourself a
warmer hand to hold.

She interrupted me while reading,
"Go **** yourself,"
she said
"You are
nothing, and deserve
nothing, and I hope you die alone with
nothing.
Because you are *****,"
she said,
"***** and terrible
and full of shame.
I cannot look at you
any longer without disgust."

"Ok"
I replied,
dismissing her concern.
"This Hemingway is amazing
and I'd like to return to it."

She took none too
kindly to that,
ripped the novel
from my fingers.
"You are *****,"
she said,
"***** and terrible.
I cannot look at you
without such an anger
at myself for believing
you were something
more than nothing to me,
but now I have realized
and now you are nothing."

I didn't respond,
couldn't.
Such a beautiful anger
deserves no response
that I could give.
So she stormed off
all angry and beautiful
toward some other
man to fall in and out
of debt and love and
everything else with
as she had always done
and would always do.
It took all I had
not to stare in awe
as her silhouette stole
quickly out the door
into the dark,
novel in hand,
to leave me alone
with nothing,
just as I deserve.

the sun was coming
up over the residential buildings
of west philadelphia
I couldn't remember where I was
or how I had gotten there
the bar almost a mile away
from my current location
I was sitting down
afraid of the tumultuous nothing
that clouded the last 6 hours
and the vague scent
of double whiskey's and coke
still on my breath
I couldn't recall how the
night had ended
the dulled flashes
of memory
were frustratingly brief
but no one was awake yet
and the city looked amazing
in the day's nascent glow

my head was ringing
an amazing ache
that spread rapidly downwards
from my skull
and I sat there
for a little while
contemplating the
emptiness
and what exactly I had
done with myself

one beautiful friday morning
on the steps of
Parker's barber shop
I was brought back to life
confused and alone
it was a terrible miracle
to still be alive
with no money in my wallet
as I began the long walk home

I'm digging a knife
into my prosthetic limbs,
imploring my body for a reaction.
--like a prayer;
calling out for an
answer though one
is never expected--
There are these gashes
down my shin, in my mind
I see angry cuts that bleed
out, pouring sweet hemoglobin
onto the tile floor below, coagulating
into a beautiful scar.
It is only a vision; fantasy of the mind.
A quick look downward reveals
only chiseled tendrils of plastic.
Yet I'm still digging.
Knife after knife.
Limb after limb.
--first the left arm,
then the other,
both the legs, soon
up towards the torso--
The knives get larger
now they are serrated,
and sharpened to the death,
begging for a wince of pain,
a drop of blood
to quench that thirst.
Each **** holds new hope;
a magnificent anxiety.
Each knife holds a gleam
of excitement deep in the steel
that draws cursive across
my corpse.
Still, no spillage ensues,
naught a flinch from my tense
anticipating nerves.
But you, my new knife,
are quite exquisite.
Could I, perchance,
entreat you to gut me?
To slit me open?
Dig out my corpse, knife,
find me something worth hurting for.

You can follow
the path back
into the woods,
walking
over loose rocks
and balsam firs.
Fallen leaves, thick
with the night’s rain,
line the old
hunting path.
Keeping eyes on
the brush, you might
be lucky enough to
see hint of a deer,
hear the snap
of twigs
away in the dimness—
Not much today,
however.
Not much
but the rocks
and the rain
and the far
off lull of
rustling water
forever over
the riverbed.

Another drink;
spit in the sink shows
red against porcelain,
fleeting concern.

Another drink;
what is there ever
to worry about?
I could make an
argument for nothing
and everything both
alongside one another.

Another drink;
taste the iron alongside
the bitter burn of alcohol,
the body goes more often
than not before the mind does.
It is unfortunate to have it
the other way around.

Another drink;
spit red again,

I am fighting myself
to keep the pace.

Another gray, black-eye sunrise,
******* and insomniac,
awake as the earth spins again onward
into the mutable mass of gas and plasma.
How many of them must there be?
The number will rise up
into the trillions, they say,
as the top continues its turn;
dizzying now and incomprehensible.
The sun bigger and bigger
slowly each time, growing
until this small marble
is overtook by some
dystopian beachballl of fusion
and fission, blistering away with
such anger; imbalance.

Hungover, contemplating ends,
I think the bullet may be alright;
regarded as painless if aimed well.
Imagining split-second blitzkriegs
of neural discomfort prior
to blackness, I dismiss the thought.
The sun is up fully now, stretching.
Red giants, they say are cooler
than their white counterparts,
but larger.

All the fights, from the bar
to the battlefield.
All the love, from the brothel
to the bedroom.
All the life, progress, movement,
everything and nothing;
muted by colliding hydrogen particles
emitting heat.
Is it so terrible to be irrelevant?

the sound of my name
whispered in passion
feel of a new woman
a new world to explore
scent of ***
****** and real
these are truths
I understand
my quantum physics
exists in that woman
lounging on the mattress
confident and cruel
these realities
are tangible
I care not
for einstein
and his descendants
all ******* and spitting
trying to simplify
what is already basic
I care not for
relativities
let space
**** and shimmy
its way
into oblivion
as it
would
unwatched
and let me have my women
angry as forever
as the door opens and closes
come and go
they fight
and they ****
and they flee
and they come again
different names and
faces
but the same truths
I don't need
the higgs *****
or an explanation
of space-time
to figure out
my reality
we gild
our pile of ****
and see it as gold
no thank you
let them rot
in their lab coat
caves
and let me in mine
angry women
and blank pages
all waiting to be filled
a sick
carnal and
unsophisticated
truth

she slept with a lot of
men she had said
most she didn't remember
and didn't care to
love is a complex useless
ugly thing
she had said
but ***?
*** is beautifully simple
absolute physical pleasure
in the purest and dirtiest
ways at the same time
--she loved how ***** it was
said that *** was meant to be
rough and savage--
I slept with her too
a few times and
I can't lie
she knew
her way around
and she made me
more than a little nervous
but I was young
and confident
and eager to please
so I ****** her
and a week or so later
I did again
and soon I agreed
when she said
*** can be perfect
and simple
when left there
and I agreed when she said
it's only love that makes
such an ugly mess of things
and when you have
both love and ***
one normally ruins
the other

but I grew up
and moved away
never had contact
with her
met multiple women
but I was never nervous
like I was with her
I never found that
simplicity

I'll never forget
that *****
and her
utilitarian
****** philosophy
with her ***** but
somehow beautiful mind
and ***** but somehow
beautiful body
I've fallen in and
out of love since
those days
--mostly out--
so it seems that
I only continue to
prove her right
wherever she is

I had been alone
for three months at this point
I hope you know
swerving in and out of
the madness
climbing so high
off pills drugs ***
any cheap fix
only to dive down
so far
into the emptiness
of self pity
and sobriety
three months
with no call
hadn't seen her beautiful
smile
except sometimes when I
closed my eyes
I quit the job
I quit writing
I wasn't hardly living
merely existing
as if by some accident
of fate
but the money ran out
and the drugs ran out
so I took to the street
to find one or the other

I ran into her
down by the train station
after three months
with no call
no smile
nothing

she was surprised to see me
as if she had forgotten
I was the one that had
been there when she had
gotten that tattoo right
below her neck
or the high heels she
was wearing
she seemed to have forgotten
our lives had been tangled
together
in a mess of *** and
facetious love for
the better part of
a year
she was catching a train
out west
she said
to marry some man
sitting on 9 acres
of land somewhere
she couldn't handle
the city anymore
and she walked toward
the track and
looked back
for a quick smile

melted my heart
a ******* miracle
a ******* delight to see
I hope you know

With the absence
of Grace
or transcended
human morality
there is silence
so what do you believe
when almighty Jupiter lays
crucified in the caressing arms
of Vishnu
Christ bent
broken over the knees
of Mohammad
what do you believe in
Father?
what do you believe in
Mother?
when Absalom
ascends the throne
and Daniel suffocates
in the lion’s den
what faith holds you
speechless
and chaste
as the stories
twist and burn
to crash together
on the endless palette
of human belief

the needle’s worn the
groove too deep
now the record won't play
all we have to believe in
is silence

let the deity’s roll in
celestial graves
give me human interaction
the touch of lover’s hand
sacraments that bring more absolution
than sorrowed sermons
screaming out just to
break that silence

oh, la musique de nos collisions fabriquer
laissent peu pour la l'âme à faux

Left me in the lobby
of your apartment building
for hours,
drunk--
spitting insults
at the doorman--
till you salvaged
enough pity to
let me in.
You were
getting ready for bed,
I was on the couch,
while you shook
your head
in the sink.
"The worst
relationship with a man
I've ever had,"
you said,
"you don't even
listen to me."
Oh, sweetheart, I do,
I hear every word.
Especially the ones
carved out of that
insurmountable anger
and regret.
I hear them.
I see them etched
into your features,
dipping between
your dimples,
and pouring out
of the tears that
slipped so fiercely
down the drain.
That anger was so
volatile
I thought you'd **** me
then and there.
However, you merely
turned your head
and slammed the door.
And we may make it
through this, but that
anger is still down there
somewhere, waiting.

I never knew how
violent someone
could be just
brushing their teeth.

they always had
something a little off
beautiful women
just always with something
I couldn't get over
I've been finding
flaws in my women
all my life
one a little thin
a few were too fat
too long
too short
too loud
too shy
hands were too big
one that wore
too much makeup
--one with
never enough--
no matter how I tried
I couldn't find that
perfect woman
no matter how
beautiful my friends
assured me they were
I just couldn't be
content
so the flings were short
and soon I'd be fed up
with their hands
too big
or their teeth
too yellow
or their voices
too shrill
got rid of them all
every last one of them
until I realized
that all these women
were fine
all of them
beautiful women
it was I who
had the problem

one day
wake up
realize
wounds that
once crippled
dont sting so bad
and cuts
sworn to bleed out
all have scabbed

the sun has
risen
and its a
new day
for the first time
in eternities
sunlight reaches eyes
and strikes
numb
the pain

body's grown cold
heart's grown old
everything that went wrong
finally
no longer matters
but there is a feeling of
uneasiness
of
uncertainty
emptiness
and looking back
wonder
was it worth it?

une personne me font peur de ce que je suis devenu

i give up
seems like
i've been using
that line more
and more recently
the fight is no fun
anymore
old bones don't move
like a butterfly no more
and it seems the bees keep
swarming
while i've run out of stings
too many blows
to the head and heart
severly concussed
and fading fast
there are
other young bulls
sneaking in the ring
where i wish to escape
let them breathe in
that spotlight
see how many fights
they can win before
they're out cold
wish them the best
i need out
i need out
but it aint easy
you live the ring for so long
you don't know the outside
anymore
where the women aren't
throwing jabs at my head
heart like a punching bag
as i grow older
grace is wasted on the graceful
now i'm nothing
but a beat up old man
with no wife and no lovers
out of the ring and into the freezing cold
a world i can't seem to remember

It seems only a matter of time
days slip into eternity
with no regard
capricious wisps of smoke
frequent this existence
for small seconds
ticks of the clock
as two hands pound
back towards
kingdom come
once again

it's a terrible madness

and I know that we
will go mad once again
with a renewed vigor
spells and sermons
will spill out from our lips
like tongues of flame
like sips of ambrosia
for the afflicted
babbled prophecies
muttered and murmered
in dead ends and
alley ways
discharged to the concrete
and ears that have gone
deaf long ago
I know that
we will go mad
I embrace it
the eyes will roll back
in ecstatic relief
as it
courses through us
down veins like electric
currents toward
some never-ending
hysteria
a beautiful dissonance
we wait for it
lust for it
pray for it

come, madness,
tear us apart
break us down
destroy all that is
so we might find
all that will become

a bird calls morning
already awake
i burn the papered edge
of nicotine and habit
the new day yawns into existence
through drooping clouds
and condensation
rub my eyes
stare from the porch
into the mist
almighty rain
cooling and calming
hides the sun
as his drowsy gaze
echoes back into my soul
perusing my dreams
thoughts
inhibitions

zoom out
see the trout
fighting the river
see the bird whose call
woke the morning
see the wife
resilient in her
bruise beaten love
back to my
silken sorrowed soul
the sun still continues
in its rise
above and apathetic
over the clouds
trees people buildings
looking down on
everything
he looks back at me
and we both
laugh

as I reach toward twenty
its hard to see past it
don't see much
don't see much past 2 o'clock
no sir no sir
got an exam
then it's the long flight
back home to momma
back home to all those
chirping birds
kicking and screaming
how I love
to tear them apart
how I love
smooth
muffled moves in the dark
cannot wait
mouth watered in anticipation
that sweet love comes quick
cheap and easy
it's the sour one
worth working for
the one that
doesn't talk as much
cold and hard
can't crack that shell
no sir no sir
but it's the challenge
that almighty game
predator and prey
--never know which one's you
till you're chewed up
or ******* up--
no choice
if you don't
you're the sucker
you gotta play it
gotta make the moves
but watch out
she's got claws
like razorblades
and they won't let go
they won't let go
no sir no sir

Paint ourselves a picture:
cold, white winds up against
winter coats and puffs of breath
in dotted lines leaving cursive lips.
Two pink hands held without
gloves, fingers twisted together
despite the cold.

Oils and pastels that blend bright
blue smiles and sharp white-teeth
fences, shaping toward the gilded
hues of a forever sunset that is
never quite ready to go yet.

Colors huddle in thick pools
of a future sketched out in long
ochre strokes on canvas—
a million shades of purple and
orange tell a life that
skipped its ‘if’ and moved
headlong into ‘when.’

A million colors, a million shades.
A sunset, an oak tree turned to autumn,
a crayon drawing on a refrigerator:
two big ones and three little ones,
a slanted red pentagon house,
a yellow scribble of fur.

Paint ourselves a picture: jagged dark lines. Sleepless ink that sits and thinks and can’t quite seem to get through to itself. Dreamless ink that runs down pages in opaque streams and gets nowhere. Thick, blackened tar that covers everything with shadows, covers everything with long stretches of black, a stain:
Hands held in the cold,
Red houses on a hill.

You burn with an incredible passion.
That stubborn pride, that brilliant
anger, all bursting underneath
a strained composure and your
need to be the tough one. It
flares out from your eyes,
those rebellious chocolate
pools reflecting every word
you choke down. I am awed by
the passion you hold, the fire
that drives your every move.
It is what allowed you to love so completely.
--A tactic I could
never seem to comprehend--
However, love and hate burn from
the same flame, and the hate that
now warms your chest is reminiscent
of the love it once was. I do not
blame you for it. I envy you the
opportunity to feel so fully. I envy you
the hatred that burns in your chest.
I envy the love that it once was.
There is no flame here.
No passion to burn. Only the
cold concrete of thought and the faint
memory of a warmth I could never hold.

The house is stone gray
Unpainted walls collage
The morning sun
Ugly and broken
Cracks permeate the tile floors
I lay
In lavished grace
Mattress on the floor
Strewn with stains and mistakes
Reveling in sweet
Disgust
While everything works around us
In order -- in line

From the mattress
A glance to the doorway
Reveals the woman
The alpha and omega
The reason to love life
And to hate it
She isnt unscathed by this
Ugliness
I have surrounded myself with
Bruises and cuts
Past fights
Her own demons to face
Nostrils red and inflamed
From short term relief
She's the queen
The everything
Amidst all of this nothing
No god. No government.
Only the cracked walls
The cockroaches
The rising sun
And her

This is my kingdom

I grab the handle
Of Maker's Mark
That slept with me
And start again anew

It smelled of gasoline.
A lone tire twisted
in protest as the
rest of the Earth stopped.
I felt suddenly tired.
The tired that burns your
lungs to breathe and holds
your hands clenched and
crossed to your chest.
There was a strip mall
across the street, but the
signs were half out, and the
names of the stores were illegible.
The streetlight flickered from
amber, to red, green again.
It smelled of gasoline. Late spring air
thick with new and unwelcome scents.
I felt each breath choke down into me
and looked at the sky, dark with the stars,
none visible in the city light.
There was schrapnel strewn about.
Charred metal fuming atop the street.
It was all one could do to look
at the flickering of the streetlight,
the signs with the names of the shops, the
dimmed sky, all with tired
eyes and clenched fists.
It smelled of gasoline. The light flickered
back to red.
The tire came to a
still and fell over.

the siege begins again
as it has and is and always will
stay inside the castle walls
there's no need for this
we shall build and rebuild
the bastion
these walls shall never fall
after the last
swore they
would never be
breached again
swore none would
come close

but here we are

they surround the palisade
they tempt you with gifts
and batter you with armaments
they fly different flags
and different banners
they carry different faces and
different names
but always the
same catapults
the same battering rams
laying siege with their
sharp tongues
and gilded hands
come to burn
come to plunder
come to take everything away

for days and weeks
the siege continues
tearing at these walls
you worked so hard
to build
and rebuild
but you're tired
you are so tired!
of fighting
of tending to the wall
why not let loose the gates
and allow entrance once more
don't let those thoughts consume you
you can't let them in
they'll burn you down
they'll burn you down
they'll steal you away
and ruin you
you can't let them in
you can't
fall for that 
trojan horse
again

don't look them too close in the eye
don't attract their attentions
to excite them is to excite Death
and as He comes, meandering
up the stairs toward you,
so do they, as if one and the same.
don't feed them
don't allow them any emotion
for they slink down hallways
and bars, long tendrils like
glimpses of hope
and passion at those
fingertips
--keep the leash tight!--
don't let them touch you
He finds victims by touch
as do they, the killer
is in the contact
and a beautiful
tragic Death
but Death all the same
and they reap like the harvest
as He comes crawling up
the stairs quick behind
for He knows that as they go
so must He
don't look them too close in the eye
don't attract their attentions
don't fall in love
they strike with quick precision
and then slip quietly out the window
into bars and bedrooms of others
waiting to be reaped
and He meanders up the stairs
toward you

open window
curtains lay adrift
in the thickening
evening air
betraying
dimmed light
bleeding in
from the window

pillow slipped
toward the bed
--in stillness now--
against my
ached hands
which came away
looking red
in dying
sunlight

It is all a little harder
than it looks,
and I'm afraid it will
never work out
—just too different,
you and I--

There is a reason
that the sun and the
moon never touch.
You are just beginning
and I am coming
to a close.

No, you do not want
someone like me.
I am beat up, broken.
Go, find yourself a nice boy
with a plan,
with a trust fund;
someone to rely on.

You don't need
someone like me.
It is much harder
than it looks
and it might very well may
never work out between us.
These open fields are ripe
for the taking,
a pretty little thing like you
could have your pick.

You don't want someone
like me, but that is not easy
to say because all that I want
is you, you, you.
It is not easy at all,
so many trials and
complications,
no, no, no…

It is a little harder than
it looks to love someone.

You can't breathe.
The cold air burning
down your throat,
clenching up like a fist.
There they are,
in the backseat of a '98 Buick,
your mouth is wide open,
but the air won't inhale.
The blood is clotting up
around your brain,
and the the stars in
your vision fuse and form
clusters and galaxies of color.
You fall to the pavement and writhe
in anaerobic agony. The world
falls from blue to black to white
and your heart is clogging your
epiglottis, dead weight in the
back of your throat.
You can't breathe, yet you struggle
up to walk away, still
everywhere you turn
there's a silver '98 Buick LeSabre
and her, painted in
silhouette across
the back window.

I was knee deep
in the trenches
with a good girl
a beautiful girl
smile that struck
like lightning
right to the bone
--you know the ones
I know you do--
the ones that
walk light on
their feet
as if all of
life was a choreography
some beautiful dance
--you know
the ones--
the ones that
look at you
with eyes that
tell more than
any sentence

when she hit me
she hit me hard
I fell in too far
before I could
stop myself

I was knee
deep in the trenches
and this girl was
dancing and
smiling her way
right through me
what is a man
supposed to do?
faced with
a love like that
faced with a threat
like that
to my safety
to my sanity
what is a man supposed
to do?
when a girl can hit like that
when a girl can break
you open
steal your soul
eat you alive
without a word

I was knee deep
in the trenches
with a good girl
fighting off friends
and foes alike
keeping my head low
away from the open
praying to get out
of there alive
but even the mortars
can't hit
like that

She was behind the bar, and her long,
trim fingers managed the glasses with
a dignified grace. There were
burns in her forearms from cigarettes
and her hair was choked into a bun.
Some of the hair didn't stay and instead
hung low over her face.
She was pale, but not unattractively so.
She blushed easily and her face was always
slightly tinged with a reddish complexion.
The skin around her eyes crinkled
when she truly laughed, but
more often than not the smile never
reached her eyes. I came to the conclusion
that she was terribly unhappy, and it hurt
me to think of it.
Many of the men in the town
considered her beautiful and made passes
at her with whims and wits to
subjugate her to their intentions. She paid
them no mind, however.
She had a man. He was
stationed in the war, but she wore
his coat in the winter when it
was cold. I came to know her through the bar, and our conversation
grew friendly over the months passed since
I had moved to the town.
Her man was killed from the war that spring and not long after
she left the bar. I heard
she had moved away from the city
and soon I had moved as well.
It is years later now, and I never told her as much, but like
the one woman from a movie
you saw as a kid and dreamed about, I
don't believe I've ever been as in love
as I was with her there; in that terrible city,
behind that terrible bar, smiling without her eyes.

I don't know if
you remember
as vividly as I do
find it hard to believe
that you would
you're off in another
life
another world
and ******* the
grass
seems greener
over there

I don't know if you
remember any of it
but I do
--an ability that
has proved to be
as much curse as blessing--

I don't know if you remember
or just laugh and smile
and play along
when I bring up the past
a past that seems more and
more one-sided as the years
grow longer
a past where I believed in things
as vain or valiant as love
or war
or peace
we made the first two
on several occasions
--never could grasp the third--

I was young
you were smart
and I was exactly what you needed
for the time you needed me
that's that
everything after has been
ripples in the pond
growing smaller and further
from the initial splash
with every touch

I don't know if you remember
like I do
maybe you still think about it
sometimes
when he's gone
off on some trip
leaving you alone with
ghosts
maybe not
it's all a new world now
I'm not so young anymore
but you're still smarter
over there
in that new life

I swear that grass looks greener
everyday

been running a lot recently
and got a nice girl
in a nice place
she keeps me warm at night
in these harsh winter
snows
but I've been running
to stay in shape
to outrun anything
that's coming
and the girl is great
a real gem
she deals with my
******* with
minimal complaint
handles it very well
but doesn't really understand
why I run
she's a ******* saint
but I still run every day
feels good for the soul
and the girl
she tells me she loves me
tells me she's so glad we
can stay together
so happy in love
and I keep running

I dream I'm back
out in the
dusty plains
of el paso
where the air
is crisp and sweet
nothing around
but that burnt
orange landscape
shimmering in
illusion from the
sun
the scalding heat
sending shivers
through
blackening skin
the air dry
as I light a
cigarette
feels like the
whole world might
catch on fire
and then it does
spreading out past the horizon
the whole world burning
burnt orange turns
to fire red and
eventually all is ash
and quiet
as it should be
the sun starts setting
a cool breeze
breaks through the
tawny plains
it's a peace you
couldn't understand
but it never lasts
I wake up
back in the north
I need out
I need out
you've suffocated me
long enough

Dawn is breaking like bones
against the clenched fist horizon
and the thrill recedes backwards,
thwarted and cornered
by the coming light.

It is the curse of those who
walk the alleys barefoot and
bruised to see such beauty while
in the thralls of unseen demons.

Hues of blood red and ochre
bleed through the vision as tangible
warmth creeps upwards across the
city, sick with its secrets.

I walk amongst them like a
minefield, choosing wisely
as often as not.
I watch the sun rise
over the anarchy of the night
and am confused by it.

People awake, conformed
by the coming morning.
I see a man with a shiner
walk in his suit towards the
bus stop. Those that let
control slide from tenuous
grips as the dark encircles quickly
reemerge as the professionals
they promised they would
never become.

It saddens me to see them.
Needing anything and anyone
to forget the lives they carved
out from the canvas we have
created. It saddens me
to see them, with the dawn
burning upwards and the
fevers of the evening dwindle
and smolder into the cold,
calculated face of the day.

I stare into the sky and
wonder why it is
so hard to truly
become crazy.

Not much like this high.
Your brain about fifteen seconds in
advance of your body. Staring around
at your friends. Blood dripping
from your nose. They don't tell
you about the nosebleeds. They don't
tell you about the burn that guts you out
right behind the eyes. The ache in
your chest as your lips curl and your
eyes roll back. Not much like this
high, boys and girls, not much.
Chopped and cut; a one way ticket
to El Dorado. Your spine breaks as you
attempt to stand. Your legs buckle. Time passes.
You're on the porch, knee deep in the pool,
******* it feels good. Time passes.
You can't eat. You can't drink. You can't blink
Not much like this high. It don't last long though.
Here comes the tide rolling in. Here comes
the Downs. Down down down. Killing yourself
is too much to pass up on these days. Too much
going on not to take a trip. Get up. Get away.
Haven't eaten in days, just crank. Chop up.
***** up. Line up. Inhale. Don't forget to breathe.
Saved a hundred dollar bill for the occasion.
Break it in. Go go go. Quick, before the
Downs come. Go go go. Screaming from
the inside out. What have we gotten
ourselves into? Vicious cycles and
bad habits that won't break.
Vicious war within ourselves; broken bones,
nosebleeds, and all of everything burnt out.
Our souls turn to ash as we lean in closer,
and laugh because we know we shouldn't.

some of them are
prettier than the others
and some hurt more than
the others
some of them
stick around too long
and others never
long enough
but they all leave
eventually
and when that door closes
I'm back here again
spitting poison
at an empty page
hoping my loneliness
will at least
get me rich
someday

the writing and the women
tend to conflict
there is a solemnity
to the poetics
that the women don't
appear to understand
they curl their paws
under my door like
cats scratching to
get in
to get me out
to play
but all I want to
do is finish this novel
to enjoy a quiet evening
without having to
burden myself with
any other's emotions
how did Byron do it?
he played the game quite well
balancing the pen and the act
keeping smiles up for the vultures
till he could write all about them
behind closed doors
how did you do it?
didn't they just drag
on you like nails
on a chalkboard?
didn't they talk and talk
and feast on your attentions
like vultures to fresh ****?
I can't stand it
how did you do it, Lord?
so hard to resist
yet so hard to put up with
Lord Byron, I envy
your balancing act

I hope you know
I'm losing my ******* mind
slowly
steadily
--what's that they say
about the turtle
and that
******* rabbit?--
been racing too long
where's that finish line
where's that light
that one they say
ends the tunnel
I'm exhausted
I hear it in the back
that turtle
whispers
as he catches up
I hear it in the back
of my head
he's coming for
my sanity
he knows I know
we aren't *******
idiots
that madness is coming
he is coming
and he will not wait
he will not stop
free fall is great
oh the jump is a beautiful thing
but the rocks still hurt
and they look bigger
every *******
second

they're off on
the last lap
the young rabbit
far in the lead
but woah
there goes that
******* turtle
coming round the
final turn
catching up
and everyone knows
this isn't a race
I can win

It is OK to hurt over things lost,
or things time has changed and
separated from what it was
you once knew.
In fact, it is productive to do so.
It is wrong– detrimental, even,
to believe one must run from
hurt such as this.
Memory and mistake often come
one wrapped within the other,
thus to grow and learn
one must take them both in hand
and embrace them as old friends.

Throughout life, the list of memories
and the list of mistakes grow.
Acquaint yourself with them.
Look backwards and wave fondly
at each as you strive further and
further up the path
away from them.

I think I could be a good writer
if I stopped and focused
for a period of time
if I could withdraw
from the streetlights
and the biting cold
that burns the veins
I try sometimes
to put out something
that someone may find
worthy of something
not sure what
but I try
and the words
sputter and choke
and all you see
on the page
is spittle
and small drawls
of a *****
waning man
who
not even twenty
can't keep to the course
he wants to walk
instead
dragged willingly off
by the women that
would eat his skin
and internals
laugh
in depravity
with teeth and tongue
much too sharp
I dont notice
another drink
another drink
I don't notice
all I see is legs
almighty
legs and
smiles that could
break satan's heart
another drink
another drink
I don't see anything
but the feeling
cuts through
the nothingness
of intoxication
and curls the neck
into tense relief
such leg
such smile
I am a sitting duck
ready and willing
such teeth
such tongue
they feast on me
like dogs to bone
can't focus
epic poems
escape
my tendered hands
inches from closure
as the teeth
and tongue
and leg and smile
pull me back
another drink
another drink
what was
I talking about
again?

Sometimes you find that it is gone,
and you look
and you think
and you feel
that it is gone.

And, gone from it, you can
breathe again— as if soft hands
pressed tightly to a neck
were relieved— the breath
comes freely and often
but irritated skin rubs
red, inflamed memories
playing out

like diamonds on some
bruised necklace:
hurts less, less, less,
never fades.

There is an incredible sadness
that sits upon the city like
a dense fog,
if you look close enough to see it.
It tastes sweet in coughed breath
and in the early, endless night
you can see it there, stagnant
through the windows and
the trees.
There is an incredible sadness
that sits in this city,
corrupting slowly and fully
and without mistake.
The people sometimes know it
and can do nothing,
others embrace it,
most do not know it as it
leans and sits about them.
An old man leans his dark
head against the railing
of the Wanamaker building
steps, coughs twice, a
gloved hand covering cracked lips.
Walk past, breathe in
the sweet stagnation of a
fire that no longer has any
wick to uphold it.
There is a sadness here,
If you look close enough.

there was an old woman
who stood waiting
for her husband
of 52 years to pick her up
by the bus stop that I used
close to where I lived
in Philadelphia
she worked as a teacher at
the elementary school
a few blocks away
we would chat as
I waited for the 3:35 bus
even if it rained she would
stand their with her
blue umbrella and
her blue rain boots
and she had this wonderful
smile
the ones reserved for old ladies
who saw everyone younger
as grandchildren of their own
and the husband would meander
up the road in his '97 Lincoln
as I'd be getting on the bus
and I would watch him kiss her
on the cheek like he'd done
for 52 years and
she would smile as
I rode away

one rainy day
I came down
but the old lady
must have been picked
up by her loving husband
already because I didn't see
her by the stop
I got on the bus
and there she was
sitting