Don't tell me.
You're sorry.
and I'd like to ask you what exactly it is you're
"sorry" for.
For something you did or didn't do,
or for the reaction it got out of me?
You shouldn't have to be sorry.
And to be completely honest,
I am tired of "I'm sorry"s.
You have given me so many,
and I have kept them all.
Tucked neatly in my ear,
left in the folds of my belly.
Held graciously between my two tender thighs
waiting to be replaced with something
better.
Newer.
Different.
Don't give me any more "sorry"s.
Give me more "I love you"s and
"how are you"s and what have yous
and "I'll see you tomorrow"s.
Give me more time and energy,
instead of filling these spaces in between with
I'm sorry's.
You'll find that you're not so sorry.
And that if you came around as often as you'd "like" to,
you would never have to say "sorry"
in the first place.

Not sure if you’ve ever
heard of
Phineas Gage,
but he was a railroad man somewhere
in Vermont
and one day he accidentally blew a
******* iron rod through his
******* think-box and
here’s the kicker:

He
*******
lived.

Now, this big metal cylinder,
on its flight path,
carved a cavern in Gage’s
cerebrum, more specifically
through his frontal lobe
and when the bleeding finally stopped
and they got his left eye all sewn shut
he told the first person he saw,
probably a loved one crowded around his
filthy hospital bed
to kindly
******* and Die.

He got out of that hospital bed,
eventually,
and when he did, he tried his damndest
to go back to work
but he just couldn’t.

What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t
Gage
any more. His personality
had changed.

He didn’t give a **** about
the sunset anymore.
He liked his coffee black and his pancakes
dry.
Which is strange because beforehand
he didn’t drink any coffee
and he didn’t like pancakes much neither.
He also became quite
the drinker,
which is funny considering he hadn’t had
a drop
of alcohol
in his life
before then.

You see I always thought that
personality
was something you couldn’t
touch.
That it was some grand unifying evidence
of the existence of the human
soul.
But here’s Gage,
who just so happens to take
a pole to the dome
and suddenly he’s just
not
Gage.

So maybe it’s true
that we’re all just
machines
and you can pull a man’s
favorite color
or his taste in music
or his eating habits
out of his head
and set them on a sterile tray
right in front of him.

That makes sense.

But everything in me
still wants to
believe.

The summer of sadness is over,
The leaves have changed and part.
The winter freeze blows colder,
But the fire burns my heart.

So tell me where.
But where to start?

The small town symptoms crowd me
They try to push me down
But I know of a secret,
The light to lead me out.

So tell me where,
But where and how?

The waves of doubt are over
The tides now remain calm
The water will run bolder
And I'm ready to move on
My summer of sadness has ended,
My leaves have changed and gone.
The winter; I've befriended,
And the fire keeps me strong.

There’s some comfort
In a Cigarette –
Slack on the lips,
Balanced as a Newton’s cradle,
The smoke rising,
A heavy silver blue
Lifting and settling in the air; a toxic mist,
Emerging – volcanic - from the singed
Yellowing paper.
And the mind clears and
Slows, for a moment and settles as the nicotine infuses
With the brain.
And it feels
Good.
You tap the ash and it falls, dissolving into hot powder –
you take another draw.
Breathe deep.

“Smoking’s bad for the health” someone says.
As the smoke -silver blue –
Travels down the throat, into the lungs; inflating -
Exhale (more refined now)
“I know” you reply.
Give some excuse or other, for the habit –
Needs to be kicked -
Their eyes flash to
Yellowing skin which
reflects the yellowing paper cradling the ash
encasing veins of red.
Smiling, a crooked smile, you take another draw
“the last one.” you say,
“good.” They reply.

And there’s some beauty to be found in
The silver blue smoke pirouetting in the air
A poison, personally selected.
Some assurance in this perpetual act of self-destruction,
Some comfort in knowing what it is that’s killing you –
Though it takes some mystery out of life -
Conducting one’s own mortality can be quite the security.

Inhale again,
Turning the filter,
Ash drops,
The word Marlboro
(If there’s some money in the bank)
Stares back.

A Cigarette is a sin to be shared or taken in private,
A true pleasure which leaves one wholly unsatisfied -
Something in which to partake with others; the rich, the poor, the lame -
Those who would not normally give you a second glance, nor perhaps you them -
“Got a Cigarette I could ***?” they ask
“Sure” you say
As you reach into your pocket,
Pull out the packet,
Weathering,
And hold out an offering.

In that exchange
Alone
Is a bond born, a moment of connection,
some common ground.
You turn away,
“Smoking’s bad for the health.”
Someone says, to them,
“I know.” They reply, give some excuse
And then smile
That crooked smile.

The sheets against my skin
rub me raw
like the ocean
pushing and pulling
upon the sand
that sits along the beach

like the waves
I crash into you
losing myself in the current
that sweeps me
into another world
another place
another time

where you and I
are one and the same

where fishes swim
erratically and freely
like the blood in my veins
as we rise and fall
above the surface of this body
of water

Our faces in the air
barely there
gasping
reaching
for breath
as we try to keep ourselves afloat

with each new wave
our strength weakens
til we fail
and sink
further
and further
down into the depths

where we come to the

last

bit of

air

that we lose

we become suspended
in this wondrous world
for a brief

touch

of a moment

until all is dark.

lithely we fall
into each other
with breathless reverie

smiles of content
rise like the sun
upon the calm of the
ocean waters

the sheets are soaked from our journey
and lay peacefully upon our skin

like the calm waves
I linger to
crash
into you again.

Last night I dreamt I cohabitated with
Two beasts, both loved.
The one, a young lioness
The other a spry lamb
I had raised the both from infancy
But the lioness, who was then entering her adulthood began to size up the lamb.
And it occurred to me that in order to
save
the lamb from the lioness
That I must **** and eat it myself

It is the inescapable nature of a lion to
Hunt and ****
livestock
So while there was no scruple or problem for me to have these two animals,
They could not abide one another.
So I did it.
I slaughtered the lamb and cut it's flank and got at its tender meat
And I cooked it and served it with Marsala sauce and that night the lioness and I dined on the flesh of our old friend.

And I became aware eventually,
Between my ravenous gnawings at the meat
That the lioness was not eating.
She was
Staring fixedly
Directly at me.

She did not blink.

And I stopped feasting on the lamb.
And as I did I saw her eyes dilate
And she pounced across the table
And she gored me with her great claws
And split my gut and spilled my innards
And she ate me bit by bit still screaming
Still covered in Marsala sauce.

Before it was over I had but a breath in me and I cried,
"But why?!"
And I realized that it is the inescapable nature of the lion
To hunt and to ****.
Not just livestock, not just lambs.

She had hunted and killed us both.

For forty days and forty nights I roam a vagrant sea
with no light to guide a man to shore, no beacon summoning.
I see no time: no days, nor months; only moments reckoning
in silence for the one who comes to end my suffering.
On boards of plank, washed red with ***,
that glisten in the morning sun; I lie awake, and await the one
who frees me of my mortal bond.

I promised I would soon return, and yet I yearn, remaining true.
'Cause forty days turn forty years and now my blood runs blue.

Did you hear that
so-and-so
was caught on film ******* into a bucket?
did you see
so-and-so's new
music video?
Have you
seen
those new
Nikes?
Did you hear
that child star
admitted
to doing
drugs?
Oh my god, I love this song it's on the radio all the time!
And the chorus line goes something like
"Up in the club, getting drunk having fun. Spending money like I don't care. All the ******* love me. This is what you want. This is where everyone wants to be. This is the definition if fun"

Is that really the absolute best that life has to offer?
They **** well write about it like it is.
And all the distracted people fall for it.
We humans are
so
good at distracting ourselves from anything of any importance.
Men no longer hunt-
they lift weights
and Women practically objectify themselves.
Art is dead.
Earth is dying.
And the people are perfectly happy
with buying things.
They spend their lives
seeking
sensation
and
feeling
nothing.

To do nothing but rot.
In moments like these
is all I want.
And it's been said I am wasteful.
The truth is distasteful.
Neglecting reflection for sake of your fables.
Living in a dream
built in your head
somewhere between
half asleep and half dead
just
won't
cut
it.
We are not so different, you and I.
Similarly leading separate lives.
Susceptible to the same old repetitive lies,
as the ones we will hear 'til the day we die
like
"I'm sorry"
"I love you"
"It's my fault"
"I didn't mean to"
"I'll try harder than I used to."
or
"One day I'll love you more,"
Well I've heard the score.
Love you better, love you often.
More affection and more talking.
More attention, more gawking.
More time.
You are mine,
and I haven't felt the truth in that.
And it is moments like these when I wonder
what I am doing
at all.