I would let your fingers
into my shirt
to carve pictures
into my back
with your nails,
and I would guess
your drawings
as a game.
You would always veer
from the mole, but
sometimes you
would accidentally
scratch it;
I would
always apologize.

I’ve never
had a bruise
that lasted
more than the
amount of
time it took
for me to
forget how
it got there

I am the liquor store down a forgotten street                                
          that closed long ago,
the "NO-ADMITTANCE " sign still staring out at you
         through blank, dull windows.

                        I've been vandalized.
         My floor stripped bare, shelves broken, bottles strewn about,
    though I've come to quite like
the new graffiti of my soul.

                  All of this done at the hands of drunkards,
                                those who kissed my lips as they stripped me bare.    

               And now here we are, all forgotten.
                                   Perhaps I can only blame myself.

You remark how freely time drains down the bottle.
I wonder if you are out there now,
         measuring your life in beer cans.
If so, I'm jealous. Not of you,
          But of the beer cans.

Have you ever been as drunk from my kiss
     as I am of yours?
                    I hope so. I hope I am not the only one.

Does the sky open up for you when you look into it?
      Have you gazed upon infinity?
                If you have, let me look into your eyes.

      Briefly.

So I can fall into the Dark Forever of your windows.
    So these walls marked by unkind hands
        might know themselves again.

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

Breathing.
You dont realize you do it but then you think
about how you are breathing,
and you realize that you can stop.

normalcy.
the minds attempt
to squeeze
uniform meaning
from the scolding chaos
which permeates
every square inch
of this perceived reality.
corn fed geese, fattened on memes,
fools world constructed, and
happily closing the door
on the prison, built
with our own numb hands.
puppets to nothing, and
to return to nothing
is all that ever is

Normalcy is a noun.
A word we want.
Something special.
Something certain.
A preview, a peek at the past.


Normalcy is
         Narcissism.