late nights
and hookah coals
headlight horizons
as cars pass
the interstate
onto endless
destinations
unaware of the
brief intersection
of existences
silver corrolla
flashed and gone
deep thought
on life
and existence
causing problems
i'd rather not
resurrect
stick to the
embers of
the coal
the smoke trailing
into everything
or nothing
and the moon's
half lidded stare
all coming
together
some semblance
of harmony
until distant
sounds from the
road
overwhelm
the peace
and it's back
to thoughts
on tomorrow
and the next
and the next
how I am supposed
to survive or ******
or succeed
even just get
home
it's all crazy
all madness
please please
just leave
me
be
for now

The night sky is
staring back at you.
You're checked out.
It's all gone to hell.
Bought a one way ticket
halfway to Shambhala.
The Christmas lights in
the tapestry above flicker
and fade out of conscious
thought. The moon hangs,
slack-jawed and silent,
shaking your shoulders as
you kneel into the pavement.
"Won't you leave me be?"
But no, he's calling the sun
and he's begging for help
"*******, stop it!"
They're driving you crazy.
The pavement is beautiful
against your cheek.
But here comes everything
You're flying on clouds,
and there is lights from the sun
and the moon is there, crying,
"Stop it, stop it!"
All you want is the pavement.
And your mothers screaming
through the glass. And the lights;
white and bright and cruel.
You only hear the pavement,
you only see the night sky;
staring back at you.

We would go on drives
to get away, to see where
it would take us. Flipped a coin
at each intersection; heads for left
tails for right.
We came through a small town,
took a left to a dead end, facing into
a grove of trees right on the bay.
And there, in a clearing through
the trees, there was a battered,
wooden park bench where
we could sit. It had part of
the back missing, but it was nice
to sit and look at the ocean.
It was such random luck that
led me there to that moment
with you that I find it hard to
believe I could ever
be that lucky 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.

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

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

walking across campus
late nights
brings a sort of cool
peace that spreads
through the body
except for the ankle
i turned the night before
drunk somewhere
with someone
doing something
i can't ever seem to stop
doing
the night appears to
be catching up with me
once and for all
and the limp
doesn't help
wish i'd stop drinking
but i can't find a reason
can't find an alternative
without worse consequence
the night is catching
up with me
it seems
and my mind is falling through
it seems
memory lapse and total collapse
don't seem too far off
where self control is a
ill-conceived notion
and these late nights
might be the only
clarity or peace
i get
this life is burying me
using bottles for shovels
and cigarette butts for dirt
i've been living it
too long
and the toll does get paid
eventually

holding
your hand
kicking
our toes into the sand
sun long set
darkness enfolds the beach
a sort of calm has paused
our flow of time

as the moon rises
and the waves crash
their whispered secrets
ceaselessly
into the shore
i realize ive wasted
too much time
looking
for all the wrong things

love isnt a colossal force
calling young men to war
between head and heart
but small, subtle
it lies in the grains of sand
sifting through our feet
it exists in the warmth
caused by our bodies
gently touching
on a cold night
such as this

i faintly hear it
from the waves
feel it
on the breeze
and see it
in your soft brown eyes
looking upwards
at me
at the stars
at everything and nothing

as our gazes collide
your warm smile sends shivers
down my spine
and it begins
to make

sense

I was on my knees, leaning out
of the window in the rain.
The rainwater flooded around the
drains in pools and the fog spread
the lightning across the night sky
in thick bands of bright smoke.
My hair was wet in my eyes.

The rhythmic sounds of
pattering droplets on the pavement
reminded me of being a child.
I had been in this exact spot,
somewhere else.
I could not decide why.

A streetlight let out an old, yellowed light
and large puddles around the gutters
pushed the light back upward.
Lightning struck, the streets were
Smells of fresh water,
of earth and wet grass.
There is a name for that smell.

The phone buzzed a flood warning.
The clock read 1:37 AM.
The apartment was dark except
for the open window, which was
illuminated by the streetlight
and the occasional broad flashes of
lightning in the sky.

Love is a frail word,
whispered out by the pressing
of the tongue against
the roof of the mouth,
falling deafly outwards
and with little consequence.
It comes rattling out slowly,
beginning there in the epiglottis,
mulling forward and pressing
against the back of the skull
like the blade on a dull knife;
never quite hard enough
to break the skin.
You hear it in the slightness
of the air, pushed through the
smallest gap between the
front teeth and the lower lip;
forming the mouth in precise
measures.
Somewhere within all of this
movement of air against the
contortions of the mouth,
there is a wonderful lie that
we have created for ourselves.

back in the driver's seat
for the first time in
a long while
cabin doors shut
all clear for takeoff
fasten your seatbelt
ladies and gents

it feels good to
feel good again

you were merely
a passing fancy
a nice bouquet
in the front
window
of a flower shop
I enjoyed you
I employed you
while you
were fresh
while you were new
but wilting is inevitable
even the freshest flower
turns to dust
eventually

and that good side
you told yourself
that you saw in me?
a magnificent lie

so please stop
with the poems
keep me out of it
I don't need the attention

I'm not here to be
your friend
I'm not here to be
a good guy

I'm sorry

the window was open
and upon
looking out
into that
chill
post winter air
with the last
of the post winter
snow on the ground
with spring
waiting to erupt
i saw
the devil and god
work out their
differences
i saw the
stars all bursting
as one
i saw the heavens
and the earth
and everything between
open up and felt
reality burst forth in
color and beauty and love
so many brilliant things
passing before my eyes
amazing and breath taking
i had to pause a moment
had to look away
upon my gazes return
i saw that post winter
snow again
waiting for spring
and i saw you
almighty in your elegance

with all else forgotten
i stared in awe

The fire was stolen.
It was never truly meant
to be ours, though we relished
in the flame. We sat close as
heat rippled off into our chests
and into our souls. You sat
closer than I. The fire was never
meant to be stolen. I couldn’t hide
my inability to contain it. Soon forests
were ablaze with such ferocity you could
barely even cry. I never wanted it.
I thought it would secure us energy
for an eternity of life. It managed us
a cross to bear.

Once caught, I stood awaiting trial
as Jesus of Nazareth,
quiet, unyielding. I apologized to you
but I never can take back what I have
wrought, be it this life or another.
There is little apology to be found here.
There is only guilt, for a flaw that
has held me here, trapped against
the rocks, for centuries. The vulture
pulls at my flesh, night after night
as I strain against the chains.
I thought you might be the
one to break them.
I thought, perhaps love is all that is
necessary. I was proven wrong.
The vultures feed at my flesh
even now, as we squabble over
who shall be
burnt under the fires yet.

I am done with the vulture
eating at insides every night.
I am done with the vulture
casting blame on good intention,
like spilled blood on clean sheets.

This is Prometheus broken free.
Chains cast a hold no longer,
and the flame that once brought
freedom now stifles and chokes
deep within my throat.

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.

Having *** in
a car is the most
dispassionate
of locations.
You drive up late,
wait on the curb
for her to sneak
out past her
overprotective and
well intentioned parents.
She gets in,
keep the music high
and the voices low,
any conversation at
this point is
simply to break
the slight awkwardness
of what you both know
is about to happen.

Park in a
shady lot
with no light posts.
You can see an
elementary school
down the street,
buses and pick up lanes,
in a few hours they
will scamper around
like rats
but tonight there
are no witnesses.
Tonight there is nothing
but the back seat
you climbed into,
music still loud enough
to dissuade
any personalization
of the situation.
It is ***** and cheap.
--a personal
preference--
She is nothing but a
quick fix.
She gets on top,
moans a little
as you slide in.
The seatbelt buckle
digs deep into your
back,
but you don't mind it,
this wasn't meant
to be comfortable.

You just want this over with.
She looks at you
and smiles,
you look away.
All of this
is shameful,
but a necessary evil.
There is a decadent
beauty
that surrounds the
cheapest and
rawest of pleasures,
that glory in the gutter.

*** in a car is the most
dispassionate of locations.
You drop her back off,
don't stick around to see her
caught by her
waiting father.
Her shirt is on wrong
and her hair is ******.
Not your problem.
You head home,
keeping the music up,
thinking about anything else.
You don't even know
who she is,
just some quick fix,
just another wednesday night.

You try to believe that
it is better that way.

the woman next to me
never said much
only
excuse me
or god bless you
when I sneezed
--twice in quick
succession--
30,000 feet up
sifting through clouds
with a casual ease

I was sitting window
on a small little jet
from the beach back to the city
no more than fifty people
but this woman
--let me tell you--
she was one in a million
slightly older
and wow did she
look amazing
while I was up
for the first time
from the abuse
I was flying away from

30,000 feet isolated
above the earth
with no one to talk to
just sifting slowly
through the clouds
I don't know if
it was the hangover
perhaps the altitude or
some other intangible
reason
but I'll be ****** if
I didn't fall in love
just for a little while
all the way
up there

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

the heat has gone
with the rain
a fierce humidity
saturating every breath with salt
and hydrogen and oxygen
wet dreary hell
smothering the houses
the people inside
all tucked away
breaking bones and sweat
too much to live these days
too much
hearts don't beat like they used to
the world's gone grey
don't shine like it used to
and its maddening
once again
except now
the roads are empty
and now
the madness is
in the
corners of the
bars and
townhouse basements
where small men
whittle away at
their
shallow pride
beating their
purchased wives
to make up
for the love
its a madness
in the blood
it is a cancer of the soul
or maybe it is
the salvation
can't really tell
hard to see
or think
much of anything
anymore
everyone drowned
by everything
as the world
limps onward
toward winter

And that is what
it was, wasn’t it?
Your heart for a year
of bad times.
you got the short end
of the stick on
that one it seems,
kiddo.
I didn’t mean it.
I walked in thinking
it would be a pretty
even trade;
your soul for mine.
I’m sorry it didn’t
work out so smoothly
for either of us.

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 crushed a fly
against my computer
screen. the smudge
it left was not worth
the effort it took
to
**** it.

so it goes

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

It pains me to know that
you don’t read these anymore.
It is hard for me to write
them to anyone but you,
but they feel fake,
without purpose,
when the only eyes
that will read
are the ones I don’t
care about seeing them.

These come out by the dozen,
such is my disease,
but they come and fall
to ash on the page
like small bits of cigarette,
burning off and away
unto the endlessness of night.
These poems drift
and are lost like letters,
unaddressed and
left at the post,
between the cracks
and forgotten.

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

driving down the street
weaving through cars
and people and cars and people
the **** AC is broken
and the heat is oppressive
melting through reality
down to white lines
on asphalt
and all roads lead toward madness
windows down
the whole world
drags
and *****
in the summertime
some *******
speaks salvation through
tin can speakers
unexpected absolution
nineteen ninety-nine
for a limited time
and the heat makes it Christ
through the static
and the birds don’t sing
it's so **** hot
or maybe they just
want Christ too
the red nissan ahead
billowing with bumper stickers
and *******
brakes too fast
all these ******* people
all these ******* roads
and all roads lead toward madness
the whole world is in on it
sweating and spitting
suckling away at our high octane
addiction
3.69 a gallon
can you feel the buzz
Christ has left the airwaves
and now its life insurance
a happy guarantee
once your gone at least you’ll be
worth something
but probably nothing
on these roads toward madness
the trees bend under the weight
of the sun
stars explode
and no one notices
except the dead
staring forever upwards
and i’m almost there
almost there
men in black ties
woman with car seated children
screaming their own obscenities to the universe
kids blasting music to erase
their own depraved silence
the list of offenses
goes on and on
everyone on the road
got to be somewhere
got to do something
or else nowhere
nothing
with the sun bearing down
closer closer closer
burning our throats
tick ticking towards
that sold out salvation
act now or you’ll miss
1-800-holy-ghost
tick tick tick
the line is busy
the cars arent moving
the heat has gutted my soul
tick tick tick
the dead see it and maybe
the birds see it
but no one else sees it
tick tick tick
as we strugggle inches
down the street
so hot
so incredibly hot
stars explode
all roads lead toward madness
and its hot
Christ is gone again
all roads lead
Christ is gone
toward madness
gone.


tuez-les tous, dieu reconnaitra les siens

I don't know if you ever are awake
late enough to hear it:
the world before it opens it eyes.
If you are able to catch the yawning
echoes of the crickets from
the windowsill where you listen.
There, it is serenity laying in wait.
The silence of nature is never
truly silent.
It hums with the burn
of the not yet risen sun,
shy behind her clouded vision.

I don't know if you ever are awake
late enough to taste it:
the world before it opens its mouth.
Before the morning showers.
That delicate smell, just before rain.
That scent of grass alive in the
shimmer of the morning dew,
alight with the purity of creation.

I don't know if you have
ever witnessed these things.
This beautiful magnificence
creeping in before the
alarm clocks.
I don't believe so,
or else there might be
understanding between us.

That sound of morning.
That smell of rain.
The taste and touch
and sight of a world
we don't know, in the
moment untampered by
the one that we do.

Burn it all.

To allow me sleep one more
morning with your hair
careless on my cheek
and the covers handily
in your possession
as I wrap my arm
around you,

burn it all.

sixteen
what was it like
again?
becoming infinite
on that couch
at her parents house
what was her name
again?

lost at sea
look out
behind the aft
is that sixteen?
almost off the horizon now
but this ship don't turn around
no no no
here comes twenty
on track to forever
rough waves and storm
can't remember the calm
no sign of shore

here comes twenty
think I'm seasick
throw me overboard
seasick and sorry
wish it would
slow the **** down
just for a second
look at sixteen
what was it like
again?

He never told you much
about the drugs, or
the kid who got out
the easy way.
He never really told you
how ****** up he'd been,
between highs and lows,
the arrests or the fights,
how he limped his life--
splitting out by
the seams--
into somewhere far away
where he could
stitch it all together
and ignore the scars.

He never told you how badly
his heart got pummeled.
He never told you how he didn't
stop that ******* kid from getting
into that driver's seat.
He never told you how hard
that hit him.
He never told you that it all
came at the wrong time.
He never told you about
the medicine cabinets.
He never told you about
the vultures.

He never told you why
he doesn't get too drunk,
why he's afraid of himself,
the way you are
but for different reasons.
How scared of falling apart he is,
especially now with you around.
Why he puts on that mask;
that face you've grown to hate.
He never told you how
stupid he was,
or how scared he is of you
because the power you hold.

He didn't tell you
a lot of it
because he thought
it seemed too trivial,
seemed too inane,
to give voice to.
He only sat there,
finally far away from home,
sewing and stitching
and smiling,
laughing off any questions.
And now he seems back together,
but still only by thin stitching.
It breaks on occasion,
so he's so glad to have you,
because you see the stitches
and see the scars,
unfortunately,
but don't seem to mind too much,
and he may not say it a lot
but god it was nice to
just be loved,
even if only for a short time.

So thank you, for
sticking around as
long as you did.
Thank you,
on his behalf.

The dress left little to dream, a stained red
her sable hair veiled a porcelain skin.
A body well-toned to beauty's visage,
clinging to its youth in gentle fervor.
She danced with eyes, aloof of the madness
She danced with lips, a smile never faded.

The night felt as if it never faded,
despite that coming sunrise colored red.
With it comes a certain kind of madness:
that furtive creep and crawl under the skin,
that dark attacks all good sense with fervor,
silent beneath a cool and calm visage.

How I gazed on her elegant visage!
How she seemed to glow and never faded!
That way she danced, enthralled in sweet fervor,
twisting, turning hips below a flash of red.
How I wished a taste of that supple skin!
Temptation leading, leaning toward madness.

How hard it may prove to resist madness,
quick, short glances break a stoic visage.
The blood runs warm beneath my pale, clenched skin.
The space around her blurs, faces faded,
till nothing exists but that flaming red.
Hands convulsing in maddening fervor.

The hotel room shakes, same violent fervor,
With naught to do but give in to madness.
The bets are all off when the bull sees red!
Screams painted mute on smile-less visage.
All drowned out, all of everything faded
aside from the taste of porcelain skin.

The sheets peeled off slowly like shedded skin.
Quiet specimen, amidst the fervor,
lays unmoving on the mattress, faded,
left without signs of receding madness.
Sunrise reflected on a still visage:
Smooth porcelain, white now shadowed in red.

That desire for ripe skin, the madness
built in fervor, broke sanity's visage.
Till the smile faded, the dress stained red.

its been a long time
since i've seen you
and perhaps thats
for the best
it feels like
forever ago
when we would
lay in bed
laughing
over something
stupid i had said
perhaps you laughed
out of pity
some extreme
sense of kindness
but i doubt it
it was never
really you
to be kind
anyway

the past
is an amazing thing
and memories
linger long after
feelings fade
perhaps that is
a blessing
you were never
one for sentiment
anyway

and i admired you for it
i saw things in you
you never did
and never will
but perhaps that is
for the best
you may die
and i might too
probably first
and to think
i may never
get a chance
to see your face
with some feeling
instead of just memory
is hard to swallow
but perhaps that is
for the best
you were never good
with goodbyes
anyway

The eyes glowed as she nodded
into the apartment. She’s been out.
She comes and she goes
as Prufrock once lamented;
all of that banal nonsense.
She always has things to do,
she only stays the nights,
worn out and turned on.
She begs it all from me,
the self, the mind...
It is all I can to simply
bend the knee.
I concede as man has
conceded since the first in Eden.

I write late into the night,
but not when her footsteps
echo up the stairs.
Not when she nods in,
eyes glowing,
lips silent and pressed tight,
legs, ears, fingertips;
all of the above moving vividly.
I have nothing to
do but sit. I have nothing to
do but wait.

She drags her mess in
with beautiful disaster
and I with eager anticipation.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
but not this.
I am not even a writer anymore
but a servant, a vassal.
She comes and is gone by morning
and the mess is left,
and the page is empty,
and the door shuts silently
but it keeps me from going back to sleep
all the same.

In the darkness it's like you never left.
Thin masses of black hue
and blend amongst cluttered objects,
blurred curves of the bed frame
rendered indifferent from
the soft length of your leg,
equal and unseen in blackness.

Drawing lines toward the ceiling,
eyes, mouth, lips,
listening to small thoughts
played out against the boundaries
of sight and imagination,
shadows the same amongst
an unknowable darkness.

In the darkness it’s like you never left.
Indentations of shapes tickle
vague reminders of light,
passing hands through it,
settling quickly from the edges
of reality back into an endless
and eager memory.

She put out the cigarette
in the soft part of my leg,
twisting, folding, pressing
ash to puckered skin.
Her eyes never left mine—not for a
moment—no one said a word.
The hairs stood on ends.
The hands clenched in fists.
The cigarette ground from
flame into ash into skin
and the endless smoke
curled up around us,
bodies open and waiting
for a feeling that would not come.

she is getting married
I had no idea
tying the knot
while I can hardly
tie my shoes without
falling over anymore
think back on the nights
I'd lay in her bed
naked and young
while her parents slept
through a thin wall
we would wait
wait wait wait
until we heard the snoring
and then make love
--with serious concern
for the noise level--
always shushing
and snickering
our bitter and dark secret
continuing long after
we had ended
there were times I would
fly into town
and her groom to be
would be out at work
and we would move
to and in her room again
new now
more mature
grown up
picture frames and feng shui
not the pink and black
blankets and posters
that used to surround us
and we would make that
silent love
waiting for the garage door
and then I'd sneak out her window
careful to cover the trigger that
set off her alarm
I know that window
like my own front door
cutting through her
and the neighbor's
yards to where my
car was conveniently
parked
four houses down
I never met the man
he worked all day
always brought
her home something
sweet
--a true class act
i'm sure--
I was the down and out
the one that you don't
bring home to daddy

she is getting married
and I didn't even know
some other man some other problem
oh how things
grow and fall apart
just to grow together again
she'll walk down the aisle
while her daddy and my
missed opportunities
hand her off to a
better man
and I'll come in town
a few years from now perhaps
and make sure
I'm quiet
as to not wake the kids
before fleeing
--quickly and quietly--
out that window
once again

I remember we took a walk most days that
allowed it. In step down the sidewalks,
we might have laughed at something
or another that I had said,
there was plenty of laughter
to go around then—and plenty of sidewalks.
They stretched around the river and
laced up the streets past the gym
where we met towards the house
that became our home.
Walking back, you might have smiled
or playfully slapped away my hand
from the small of your back before
leaning in to kiss my cheek.

Affection was neither of our strong suits
but it was a suit you wore better
than I did.

I remember you wore a black coat on our
first date and shrugged
out of it as we walked up to
the restaurant—baring a lone shoulder
and my first glimpse into your past.
I held the door and you rearranged
your hair, hiding it again.

I remember the scar was barely noticeable then,
me just a stranger and concerned
with so many other things.
How would the food taste?
How would the service be?
Would you like me enough to walk
those sidewalks home for another drink?

It was not until later that I would
find out what a burden that
small slip of flesh truly was.

I remember you had a slight fear of those
sidewalk cellar doors,
just enough to step around them each time
with a bit of a blush on your cheek
as if it were something to be ashamed of.

How strange, these things you remember.

This place to me now is not a city,
but an old ruin full and full of sidewalks
and, like a child with imagined lava,
I fear to touch them for the burn
of what remembrance they might bring.

The birds flew south
early in August and
it meant harsh winter—
your father always
knew to watch the birds.
But young, and ignoring signs,
we stayed in shorts
until the first snow.
Even then, hopped
about in the cold
with fair warning
and wondered what
love could be found
amid the snow.
We watched together
as it melted in the little
fingers and notches
up your spine,
my rough hands careless
as they broke the boundaries
of your back.

The birds flew south early,
years later now, nature proving
herself yet again
as the cold came quick.
Your father was dead by then—
I had seen him buried
where winter could all but touch him.
Still, we thought of him all the same.
Still, the birds left all the same,
with him and without him.
Nature moves curiously and
passes in gray August fog
towards the thick, unseeing winter.

Amongst it once more,
I couldn't help but remember
the fear, steeped in passion,
as he caught us making love
that first time in the old shed
behind the farmhouse.

There are times that
it gets so bad around you
that it fills you with it,
like sea-filled
lungs, like that
last breath of water
before darkness.
There are times that
it sinks in your chest
and your arms and that space
right behind your eyes,
that dull ache.
Death comes slow
amidst the wreckage;
in the chest and
the arms and the
toilet seat, gripped
white knuckles and the
stale, thick burn of acid
in the throat.

There are times that
it gets so bad around you
that it fills you with it.
Death comes slow,
persistent in its march,
and you look upward,
bleary-eyed and shook
to the bone, into its
balanced gaze
knowing, but never truly
able to understand,
how close it really is.

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.

I'm sorry for the
way this is playing out.
It seems like
this road
is all too familiar;
only a matter of time
till we crash and burn
with the rest.
I'm a little scared
we break a little more
with each crash,
each failure,
each missed opportunity.
It isn't easy to keep up.
I wish dearly that it was.
I keep thinking that
it's better to jump ship
then to drown again,
but I keep sailing and sinking,
struggling to stay afloat.
But we get so mad
at each other,
so terribly mad,
and I hate it.
--even though you're
cute when you're angry--
But we yell,
and fight, and say
those terrible things,
and for a moment
I hate you.
I hate you, and all those
words you say,
as cruel and cold as you
can be.
They pile up
and I swear that this is it,
god as my witness.
It's the end.
Then your cute
freckled face
whispers I miss you,
soft into the speakers,
and for some reason,
despite everything else,
I still can't help
but smile.

A turbid river with little current,
a roughened stone half-submerged
and softening in the stream.
There is a contradicting
endlessness to things,
even as everything ebbs
toward nonexistence.
The staid trunk of the oak tree
sits solid on the hillside and
its rings measure the infinite.

Memories that linger are both
yesterday and forever ago.
A turbid river with little current,
a stone sinking in the mud and eroding.
The shadows shift slightly
to the left
forever.

The end of long a long trip,
the endless handshake of time,
candlewax pooling in a tin as
the flame burns out.

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.

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

I sat there, on the balcony in the middle of winter,
worried about where you were, if you were ok.
I was worried about where I was, if I was ok.
I had no answers. You were gone
and I was in Hell
All of this has become a brutal mutilation of love.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep, anymore.
It was all tightened in my chest like a vice,
like a hand around the throat.
A brutal mutilation of love.
The poorest *******, you and I.
Entangled in a feeling we couldn't feel anymore.

I sat there, on the balcony,
worried about the sky falling down,
about the finality and futility of everything.
You were gone and I was in Hell.
I looked up, it was snowing.
I laughed at the irony and agony of it all.

walking under streetlights
**** drunk and
alone
worried about looks
self
aware
self
conscious
      who am i?

i am young
yet feel old
i am tall
yet feel short
        so it goes

i am old
yet feel young
life is long
then it's not
       so it goes

walking under streetlights
**** drunk and
alone
human interaction
blurred and erratic
kicked
out of bars
****
out of luck
       who am i?

i am an animal
yet feel human
i see god
yet feel nothing
       so it goes

walking under streetlights
debating individualism
and the self
old dean moriarty
that father they never found
wonder
oh what wonders
have we missed
we can't
even know

                                       so it goes

Wax drips out from gently
smiling jaws. Teeth melt.
Tongue unfurls, colliding
out of a gunshot-wound
mouth. Lips slack and empty.
Molars bend, bend, break at the touch,
all brittle and slipping down
a tunneled throat towards
the epiglottis.
Stop the breath
in the lungs, burn the
esophagus, choke down
saliva out of distended glands.
Everything breaking and bursting and
everything falling apart and
The realization that you just
can't say 'I love you'
anymore.

The days blur perilously close
to each other now.
The alcohol does not help;
helps other things.
Blunt force trauma has
swelled and colored
the gulf of skin beneath my eye,
hindering sight.
Disgust awaits the mirror;
a child shading in the
contusions of my face
with the wrong colors;
purples, sickly yellow.
Knowing how it should,
but doesn’t, look.

Faces of friends seem
to slip further away,
this memory failing
as cells burn and pop
atop the frying pan of chemicals
that I have become.
The drugs do not help;
help other things.
A tile floor, a dimming light.

Naked, she is a stranger,
and I am overflown
with nausea, apathy;
some thick welling of revulsion
pitted in the gut that I pray
is only toward her
This hatred does not help;
only any good for the writing,
ironic, unsure if there will
be a writer much longer,
anyway.

The women often leave quietly
and without a fuss.
They have a right to
come and go at their leisure.
There are times, however,
that they leave and
they are loud.
They are louder than
a man can imagine,
or possibly stand,
and they throw their
shoes or their bottles
or their broken hearts
with reckless abandon
towards you.

Those of the last sort
are what hurt
the most, it seems
—although the other objects
do damage, quite the same—
I only smile, smile
with a terrible sadness,
What else is there to do?

The door slams and
the curses echo off
of the thin, plaster
walls of this emptied
apartment, and I am
left to pick up the shards
of glass, broken picture frames,
and pieces of the love
they carelessly
left behind,
smiling, always smiling.
What else is there to do?

My mother brings in the paper
every morning while my father sleeps.
They are in their late fifties now.
When he awakes she is gone.
She goes to the church.
My father never attends although
She begs him every Easter.
My mother doesn’t work any longer since
the money started coming in.
He drinks a cup of coffee and
has two pieces of toast and
goes to work in a tucked in
polo and dry cleaned slacks.

They live terribly happy lives.

My mother spends all her time
at the church now. He works from
eleven to seven before driving home.
They each have their fix.
My father complains about how much
money my mother gives to the church
but does nothing about it because
he enjoys having a consistent topic
to complain about.
My mother complains that my father
works too much but does nothing about it
because she enjoys having the money to spend.

They live terribly consistent lives.

They have worked out the kinks of life.
They have alleviated all inconsistencies
and potential threats. It is all downhill
for them moving forward.
The kids are gone.
The house is paid for.
The hair is graying.

They live terribly faded lives.

I no longer come home to visit.
It makes me sick to see them rotting there.
I love them very much.
I am happy they are happy.
I excite for their desired complacency,
But I refuse to partake in it.

If that is what is to become of me,
I will not make it there.