I think of her once in a while, well maybe more than that, but if and what if can be terrible things, so excuse me as I ramble on about things that couldn’t be helped, but they really could have been, and about times that were good but really bad, and decisions made in fear and insecurity that haunt him, her, and me.  My mind’s eye shows the horror flick with the ****** scenes and the terminal ending.  You know the show, rated R, for restricted, and in the end justice prevailing.  The star in her last scene saying, "He won’t hurt me," but as you watch, you know the real ending, the real truth.  You know that the knife is inescapable, cold, true, truer than she or I lived our lives, but the drunken, reckless abandon was freedom in the purest form that I have ever experienced but a false freedom, no conscience.  The only constraint was not getting caught not having that freedom taken away.

with predatory instinct found
under siege, underground
Birch II, my ward, my home
before I leave pages turn to tome

with rehashed food and smuggled items of variety
cigarettes, chew, and paper clips, decaffeinated life

suicide attempt
breeding contempt
smash at walls
scream at captors
claws of raptors

manic I was, manic I remain, new rage, I am insane

line by line by line
empty words of horror’s sound
with LSD’s aftershocks ringing my ears
and feeding my eyes that hate your normalcy
with all the confused dread I can muster

one word, madness
shaking fool, lost cool
tremolo-plastic-breakfast-spoon
lifting bits of sanity to my mouth parts

Freshly-washed ****-head desires the woman
I left in the real anti-world called home

close my eyes and see my last trip
bathroom tiles explode and cover sink, tub, garbage can, mirror, telephone, and leg-arms
bad trip, but it was better than your unreal world

take your meds now

two-******, bipolar, mixed-manic, one-eyed, living, breathing, copulating monster under eternity’s bed

anger pounding at my ******* coming out as a giant, stinking ****

the them that sit behind the desk
regulate lives of poor inmate crazies
eat their meals and take my soul
others play cards, I write, **** time, **** tension, **** myself, with treatment plans, unreasonable demands in ******-babble B. S. words like suicidal ideation, that doesn’t apply to me, does it?

I want my trip back, I want to live in another place with another face
I want my trip back darling
I want to watch the words explode, I want to watch the tiles grow up my legs again
to watch as paper becomes pen, to bathe the tiles off of my inhuman skin
I want my trip back baby
I want to breathe in prism air where nothing and eternity collide
in spectacular displays of sonic-boom, emotional madness
incredibly---------------edible-------------sadness

I see the me looking
from inside LSD’s mirror and want to rejoin
the missing-hated-wasted-rain-forest
blackened by man’s desire
with silk-rose-petal-eye-bomb-shell

LEAVE!
leave me, for what I did or did not do or have or think or say or what

style means nothing more nothing less, you know?

it takes confusion to produce effective illusion
to produce base desires feed the fires
smoky the bear at the demon’s lair
with broken feet suckle the ****
of unused, aggressive, possessive MADNESS!!!!!

natural-organic-popcorn-hulls in rotted-bleeding-tooth-socket-decay-pain
elusive means justify idiot ends, so dig the pick into the hole in my jaw
as I scream the insanity away from my ears and into your eye-ball-socket-hole-skull-spot

clipped fingernail
package in the mail
next time I won’t fail

sleep, sleep won’t be my lover tonight, her arms won’t touch my shoulder
I won’t feel her finger-touch-tip or rub my ***** on her ******
I want my trip back
love me, love me, love me
for love or money, for emotions mistaken, for idiot sensation, for all the things you do for me, for my insanity’s sake

my world slowly fills with unbearable ills, chemical need so deep it erases my soul

feet sore from pacing
door to door to door to door

on and on seconds bleed out minutes, bleed the hours, tears bleed out the poison self-inflicted, pen bleeds ink onto paper

thoughts coagulate and scabrous emotions take

when my mind slips
and my soul rips
memories return
fill the funeral urn
of my wasted life
with the unnecessary strife
angry words
like buffalo herds
come to my lips

some fools talk of giving
one perfect rose
what utter nonsense and stupidity
if the rose were perfect
would it open, then wither, then die
as the feelings we shared bloomed only to wilt?
would the thorns draw the blood from my hand
as my love for you draws the blood from my heart?
would each rose be different and unevenly shaded
as the days we have spent together
each one varied and precious in its own way?
the perfect rose exists only in imagination
perfumed with chemicals
so the smell is the same day after day
if roses were perfect they would mean
nothing at all

chopping the leaves off the onions
scent trailing them into the garbage
the beets stain the hands ****** purple
potatoes and carrots
as the first summer of our togetherness
gives its fruits
to us and to our children
and your child’s unborn child
marching on from the winter of our stony beginnings
and our spring storms of anger and hurt
big cabbage head heavy and firm
like your head on my belly
in the middle of the night
vegetables on the picnic table
and in your tub
clean the potatoes then
give me your love