Eyes burn
gritty paper, sand
tears pool
a room puddles
buckets, oceans pour over
dousing flickering flames
drowning
some letting go
dying
others left
wading

This glass with a stem, filled with brassy liquid, sloshing
It's sweating and dripping down the stem
I imagine a summer day--opposed to a late fall evening
Where this sweating would be more appropriate.

I lift the glass after wiping away the condensation
and tip it elegantly to my lips.
I imagine the glass slipping from my hands and shattering on the floor...
I cringe.

The wine is sweet and feels like a headache,
It warms my throat and stomach.
I look at it in the light and drink again, finishing it.

I will drink five more glasses then run home downhill.
I will wake with aches and bruises and a ****** lip.
I will cry for the mistakes i have made,
although i had a blast making them.

But right now i am enjoying the second glass, and the shape of it.
I can feel a pimple on my chin, and then i can feel the warmth and rush of DRUNK

I stand up after glass 3 and fall into the bathroom door.
I crash on the toilet and laugh at the cold porcelain.
I fall after glass 4 and knock over a chair.
I pick it up quickly and ask for glass number 5.

I don't remember drink number 6,
but the pains in my body say it was not worth remembering.

I’ve always had the narcissistic belief
that I deserved poetry
but I’m starting to realize
that us who live in words
fall for the purity of actions

I was concerned
When friends told me
'Love is blind'

Well, why was I
One to worry?
For what they said in church

They taught to me
'God is love'
I paid attention in math

See, if God is love
and love is blind
then God is blind

Now it makes sense
For so much to pass
Why good don't last

And to why we're flawed
It's clear as glass
For God blinds us all

I've only talked to you once.
We were in the school library.
I was cutting out on Biology and you were working ******* finishing a Chemistry lab write up.
I noticed how beautiful you looked as you walked up to the Librarian's desk and asked for a tissue to blow your nose.
Your dark hair was pulled back and your tights wrapped perfectly around your legs and you lipstick was the perfect shade of red and your boots came a quarter of the way up your shin and I never felt so emotionally detached from the world around me as I did in that moment, watching you blow your nose.

As you walked passed I said in a hush only you could hear "Love is more thicker than forget; more thinner than recall; more seldom than a wave is wet; more frequent than to fail."

And you stopped there, in that moment. You did not turn around but simply said "It is most mad and moonly, and less it shall unbe; than all the sea; which only is deeper than the sea."

And in that moment I never felt so found. I never felt so infinite.
We were connected by the meaning of our recitals
as well as by the soles of our shoes.

And when something is so truly beautiful it is lost.
And it must never be found.
And so we have not spoken again.
Yet we know so much about the other.

1
just watched the news
my morning ritual

2
today’s news, as  I saw it
(today and this week)
as I heard them all interviewees
them politicians, men of God,
holy ones and pure ones
organizers and statesmen and entertainers
and various personalities,
they all used sincerity terms:
“….to be honest,” one said…”to be frank…,” said another
And yet another: “I’ll be frank with you….”
“Well, frankly speaking,” declared one eminent person…

You wish the interviewer
would interrupt and say:
“You mean you haven’t been honest till now?”

3
and yet, frankly speaking,
that’s not news;
that’s old wearied news
for I’ve heard that from 1960’s
since I started watching interviewees,
to be honest

….concerning my adventures in Hell, as others have spoken of theirs in Heaven, and of the extrapolations thereof…



1
All right, you guys
I mean even neurosurgeons
are telling us now how real is Heaven
They’ve been there and back
so I guess you’d believe me
(just me an irreverent poet)
if I told you there’s Hell
for I’ve been there and catapulted back:
I mean trust me, guys

2
So in my nights
I was there in Hell
and the Red Master said:
“You’ve got a choice, buddy
to determine your eternity”
Well I knew straight away I was in Big ****
Should have read my Big Book
when I was on Planet Earth

3
Red Master showed me a room
where the inmates were
up to their necks in ****
and I said:  *“No, I’ll give this the miss”

And so Red Master showed me
the next room where the inmates
were in **** to their noses
and I said, “Pass…let’s move on to the last ”

And sure enough
the third room was comfy –
the inmates were up to their knees in ****
and each enjoying a cup of coffee
And I told the Red Master I could live with this
but then the Red Master screamed at the inmates there:
“ All Right, you pigs! Break Time over!
Back on your heads in your ****!”

4
And it was then I was shot back to Earth
and so whether Heaven or Hell
Neurosurgeon or Poet
you can be certain now
Heaven and Hell exist –
One for the Wise, one for the Fool
It’s your call, buddy -
Big Book or Big ****?

The
worst
time to
have an
existential
crisis is when
you're home, broke
and out of cigarettes.
The smoke can still my
mind and it can clean my
soul. It's funny, the cleaner,
the more sober I get the dirtier
I feel. I think it's because
in these sober moments
I learn more about the
crystal I sniff into my
nose and I learn
more about
myself
and I
learn
more
about
the
world.