last week, a black car
appeared out of nowhere
while i was riding my bike
on a busy street.
the headlights burnt my eyes
and my fingers clung to
the handle bar.

i think i died once then.
i passed the initiation.
now, it is time to risk.

this thing with two wheels
is everything i own.
New York is 200 miles away.
i am going to ride the bike
that once brought me to death
to the most golden
point.

the purple dye in my hair
is fading

and i can't help but think
it's taking me with it

seven (7) drafts sitting lonely
seven (7) always was a cursed number

maybe that's why i can't write anything now

maybe i'll keep this in my drafts, too
so i can make it

eight (8)

i want a smoke
to fill all my empty places
(**** there are
so many)

but it can't fill my
arms

so i guess you'll have to come and do that

i don't feel very poetic

and i never thought the ceiling i stare at each night
was worth a poem
because i'm sure you'd rather hear about the star splattered sky
with it's infinite universes that envelop beating hearts
and tear things apart just to make them novelties once more

but the white stucco above my head has constellations of it's own
that have kept every secret i ever told
on nights that i'd rather cut off my hands than write a
single godforsaken word

maybe the ceiling is it's own kind of sky
decorated with daydreams the clouds could never carry
it's not poetic by the usual definitions

but neither am i

i looked into the abyss
so much weight and rot in my pockets
ready to meet the terror that made me
        
but the abyss looked back
so i stayed

my new years resolution
comes out more like a suicide note;
all languid lines and
lists that won't mean anything to the dead

i'd rather swallow it than keep it
i can live with a few scars

Before the crows wake
I'd better collect the light
the moon has left me.