Everytime...
Every ******* time...
Everytime I look at myself, I don't see a young boy, I see a bag of sadness and misery, tied together by depression and ugliness.

All around me, I see people who look at themselves without making disgusted faces, or people who have others to tell nice things about them to make them smile...

Not me...
I'm all alone, I have to carry this baggage by myself...all by myself.

Summer should be the season in which people are happy, but for me, it's winter all year every year

i want to crawl inside of you,
know all the things you know,
duck in the corners of your mind,
drink your pain and swallow,
slurp every toxic shot down, down,
my throat, lose my inhibitions,
fall down the rabbit hole

i want to dig myself into
your godforsaken bones,
wrap myself around you and blow,
squeeze some life into your eyes,
those blue-black, bottomless holes,
the windows to your battered, ravenous
soul
let me breathe into your mouth,
hot and wet and whole,
until i'm drowning and you've been
sewn, sewn, sewn,
broken heart beating again,
until you've been filled to the brim,
until my body runs dry
and i remember i can't swim,
until i'm a canyon of ruthless
desolate despair,
until i'm just a vessel
that Hades found of use,
bleeding through your fingertips
to scorch me inside out,
and all is dust and ash

sacrifice is such a common theme;
i'm ruined so entirely that it's beyond tragic,
yet even Juliet never looked
quite so **** classic

we are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.
age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know:
her dress upon my arm:
but
they will not
give her back to me.

during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
******
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment

and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.

it's the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here's a ****
and here's a ****
and here's trouble.

only each time
you think
well now I've learned:
I'll let her do that
and I'll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some ***
and only a minor
love.

now I'm waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.

I hope that death contains
less than this.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.