I would feed you crepes
while the city sleeps,
every night,
until I die
or until my whisking arm
gives out.

When I gasp with adrenaline
as you corner the road,
does it drive you crazy,
as you drive me
mad
to buy doughnut holes
at 3 A.M. ?

We share an addiction to lazy behavior,
but differ in our love
for coke,
for coffee.
For what?

When we broke years worth of tension
I thought it would be
more like
snapping a dried, autumn twig,
the crack of a whip
or dropping
a florescent tube light-bulb.

Instead it was that of morphine;
warm and gradual,
if at all.
I'm sorry I made such delusions,
held you high as perfection:
an irretrievable beast.

I thought myself shallow
in thinking
I was finally better than you
at something.

Now I think myself shallow
in thinking
I could do without you
because of your behavior
or lack there of.

I was wrong.
I thought I found
the disappointment
enough to
quench my lust.
But I'm yearning
just as ever,
even knowing what I'm missing.

So I'll sit here,
knowing we crave
the same basics
and differ
in specifics.

I'll sit here writing
as I watch you sleep.
I'll wait
as our ****** tension
slowly grows back,
like a forgotten
perennial ,
once again
making itself evident
and waiting for the
shing
of the garden shears
to snip its stalk
like a taught thread.

you vile of lust,
contained liquid belligerence.
how you instigate my future regrets
in all senses of the term.

burning away boredom at best,
a touch of carelessness and freedom.
and at worst causing obsession
with my failure to pursue desire.

faux self-confidence and heightened hopes.
its just pretend time for adults.
like sliding into dreams
unconsciously without meaning

and while i try to resist
all the impulses and reactions,
it makes me feel natural
like anything can happen

Torn between conflict of facing the truth,
and the urge to ignore such predictions.
Outside perspective, an internal sleuth,
will avoid any sudden afflictions.

"But what," says my mind "if wrong is the right-"
"- and you brush off your soul's obligations?"
Should ignorance fail to conquer the fight,
and instinct: that of keen observation.

New, sharpened blade severs guilt between guilt,
bitter shame sitting right in the center .
If you must know me, then know to the hilt,
that my mind is a crevice you'll enter.

Shed light on masquerade, faces of doubt,
Faces of nothing, if light were without.

where are the broken buses,
and buildings torn to shreds?
the rusted metal frames with springs
that used to hold the beds,

that once belonged to children
now grown to full sized men,
and women who have kids their own
of which they need to tend.

where are all the homeless men,
whose clothes are ripped and tattered?
with bushy beards and ****** beers,
whose lives are worn and shattered?

remnants of the lives well spent
that lay beneath the sun
are breaking down to nothing
unlike how it had begun.

I daydream of dreaming
a dream:
comfortable and surreal.
In it, an antique shop full of character
and the scent of mothballs and dust.
A haphazard maze of dark lit corners
pulls me to its depths,
where nestled in the back,
is a perfectly imperfect piano.
Ironic how the blatantly splintered key
is the most out of tune, no?
In this dream within a daydream,
I sit on a squeaking stool,
foot on a loose damper,
and play all that I know.
In this dream to be,
I know not,
or recognize what I play,
but know it's home
and find peace in knowing.
The name Chopin
would be the faintest
of underlying memories,
but the first upon waking.
All we are is what we are not,
and were I dreaming this dream,
that notion would live in my being;
in the pockets of my marrow
and in the pit of my throat.
No Steinway could produce
such a twang so unimaginably beautiful.
Only the physically appealing use the word ugly,
and only the true understand the word beauty.
In my dream to be,
I watch myself,
but feel the keys
as they disintegrate
after violently being yanked from slumber.
Would I dream,
I would gasp and reach in wake,
grasping nothing,
and yearn again
to live without
vivid self awareness.
Yet when conscious,
I seek lucidity,
despite the comfort
found in effortlessness.
So snap me out of it.
Slap the porcelain saucer
that is my cheek,
for I am no Poe,
and this no "dream within a dream"
but a waltz
with the idea of serendipity.

scumbag:
activate your squirrel *****.
please mom,
i get sidetracked from being sidetracked.
dolphin cheese,
you're on my mind.
**** these days man,
and off to work we go...

Ironic how each loafer lacked a penny,
though I'm sure they cost him a pretty one.
They gleamed meticulously
(aside from the scuff inflicted by his Benz)
and closely resembled his fathers $2,000 humidor.
His father always smelled of cigars and leather,
once you got past the 25 year old scotch.
He was taught that pewter spoons were childs play
and nothing but.
Born to a wealthy accountant and flight attendant of New Hampshire,
he was not accustomed to the word no.
He was a typical, grade A snob,
who looked down a nose so bent out of shape,
it made Owen Wilson cringe.
"That bar exam didn't pass itself."
This was the phrase he had coined
after years of being told
he'd never worked a day in his life
and he cowered behind the truth in knowing
its the only thing he'd ever accomplished.
It may seem pompous at first,
but ultimately,
the phrase reflected his utter worthlessness.
He would never know the meaning
behind that very word,
nor did he care to attempt to understand it.
He made the superiority of his wealth,
in comparison to others,
evident with every chance presented to him.
His selfish attitude was a close second
to the first thing you noticed about him;
his anchor-print, linen button-up,
his gold LeCoultre,
and his khaki Lacoste boating shorts.
Funny how such a pretty boy,
turned out to be
the ugliest person you could ever meet.

have a brew on me...
for nothing makes me as happy
as watching the pleasure
you endure with ale dripping from your chin

let me smoke you down
so we may share the common feelings
of being comfortable and amused
as we aimlessly walk through our hometown trees

lay in my bed, but don't be tempted
for i know you know how plush it is.
the bed i mean, of course.
so rest, you enticing scoundrel.

and i'll allow myself to watch you
without worry of your wonder
"why does she look at me so?"
and soak in all your exemplary features

there was a time when i could give two ***** less about the temperature of the bathroom floor;
when the simple things were black and white and shone with simplicity and thoughtless wisdom.

there was a time when i would draw til my eyes dried up and turned red despite the ****;
when i could still feel pain and live vividly without constantly questioning reality.

and there was a time when you got me higher than ever
when i was new to what was and how to be unique in a world of opinion-less humans.

i spent the afternoon thinking about that one night.
the night you told me who you would be
and all the things you'd do. all your plans.
i admire everything about you.
i cant stop thinking
about the smell of your breath
and the way your iris resembled crisp craters,
but the color of ice.
i've never smoked a **** so old.
25 years of instigating emotions.
with the sound of blues in our ears
and the taste of whiskey on our tongues,
we're fading fast.
half asleep on the couch,
and unsure of which subject to speak,
you accompany me upstairs.
dusk struggles to find its way through your enormous window
clothes go from the hangers of bodies to piles on the floor.
long awkward silence as  we both pretend to sleep,
neither knowing why.
tension calmly breaks in an instant
and this time,
the moment is stretched
into one long sigh of relief.
"slow" barely escapes your shuddering, pre-occupied lips;
your voice makes me crave every part of your being
both physical and unseen

I shan't let myself type, write, or udder
the word that the oh, so shallow misuse.
The term that hopeful, gutter ****** mutter;
but empty (should it, a hallow abuse).

Confused is the callow boy full of thirst,
due to courtesans words, so misleading.
The harlots fight over who will be first
to devour his heart, warm and bleeding.

Fleeting is usually how I define
ones faux and improper use of the word.
If down pours the rain, and water is wine,
then wet lushes slur convictions: absurd.

You'll never know what you've got til its dawn,
and out comes the word, all consciousness gone.

if you could back and meet your 5 year old self...
what would you say?
would you tell them who you are?
would you give advice, assuming you wouldn't jeopardize the final product that is you?
or would you let it be...
would you simply observe,
take their perspective into consideration
and try to learn from a simpler,
transparently benevolent state of mind?
the word naive instantly puts forth
the thought of an unintelligent point of view.
but i think to have a mind set,
that of a less-experienced self,
may in fact help a more exposed psyche.
the world is so full, in the sense that,
we learn so much by the time
we are old enough to deem ourselves intelligent,
that we forget to think of things more simply.
we base everything off of mass, habitual tendencies:
the way we are used to thinking instead of
what is right,
or what is logical,
or makes makes sense based off of fact
and not emotion
or instinct of habit.
at the age,
although me may feel it effortless to imagine a sense of self,
we dont do so.
we feel less self conscious
but never think of ourselves from anothers perspective,
not to say we are selfish
but we are reactive in a much more intelligent way
than our minds slowly evolve to be.

if i were to say
i resembled a bruise,
would you think me black
or caucasian with blues?

tried to wipe that smirk off
and put you into perspective
but its so difficult
to see you as you truly are.

how could you fool me
into thinking of you
as so...
dimensionless.

however you do deceive
when you feel so close
so powerful
yet unattainable

the biggest tease
ive ever met
and yet i'm somehow
still compelled

Shes so bi-polar, the way that she acts;
so full of love and then so full of hate.
****-grinned, she sees how my body reacts.
Sometimes I wonder just how we relate.

I ask nothing of her, but good intent,
and she will rarely provide nothing less.
She'll usually cause my joy to relent
After which leaving my mind but a mess.

The skeptic then scoffed,"Too good to be true."
Looking back, he was undoubtedly right
Someone so loving and vivid as you,
could not endure such a night without spite.

So I will cling onto my sanity,
as you get a grip on your vanity.

I wear the pants you gave me
on all the days I miss you.
They weren't torn or faded,
and barely even misused.

Its funny I remember
the night you said "Just have 'em".
Whats funnier is I never thought,
or even really fathomed;

that out of blue you took them off
and said "They're yours to own..."
I never wondered or remembered
just what you did wear home...