infinity

i stare at the walls for hours on end
and dream about a time when
this box felt like home
and this chipped paint looked like something
other than a reflection of the fist-shaped
holes in my heart from nights
where ****** knuckles were the only
security blankets familiar enough to cradle
against me all night long

the clock keeps ticking,
all day and all night,
like the hands on the glass
that measure the feeble idea of some
meaningless notion from a corpse now
rotting in the same earth he dared to
test the limits of
actually means something
in the big picture

but in the aerial view,
the hands on the clock are all
snapped in two

because *time can't save anybody
from vituperative parents;
from profligate neighbors;
from the entire volatile essence of humanity

time does not, in fact,
heal a broken heart,
or toss aside the muddy rug
with footprints of those who whispered
"i love you"
into the pillow case but never
came back in the morning

time can't protect anyone
from even the most unholy
truth of all:
there is no rapture on the brink
of delivery,
there is no antichrist plotting
a resurrection of hell,
there is no divinity coming
to save you from the darkness
inevitably forcing its way
into this world

people are destroying each other
because humanity is flawed
and no amount of time can
ever find the piece of the puzzle
that would sync us all together in
a symphony of lives untouched by the
execrable blood pumping in the veins
of this earth like a poison

time can't save you from yourself

and so maybe, the hands
on this clock are better off
broken.


*m.k.

My thoughts are turbulent.
Like a clothes dryer, round and round –rumbling.
At night, these thoughts become a hurricane.
Dark clouds congregating within the spectrum of my mind.
A drizzle quickly turns into a heavy downpour,
Engulfing my sanity.
It’s as if I am consumed in flickering flames of orange and yellow.
They are dancing around in my head,
Burning my stability in its path.
Reflections of my life are rippling towards me.
Who I was, who I am…
The floorboards are creaking under the weight of all this pain I am carrying
This carousal ride is continuous,
My mind is spinning and everything is becoming dazed.
My thoughts are turbulent.
Like a clothes dryer, round and round –rumbling.

the sun is too bright
and the ocean is too vast
and the blood in my veins is thicker than it was on the day i still thought the thunder was an echo of god's laugh

i heard a whisper last night that a gallon of bleach will **** the knots in my stomach,
all tangled up in wild passion
and hopeless despair
and a numbing fear of the void
outside of my boxed up world

i'm sick of all the washed up smirks
from mindless teenagers who think their white smiles and slim waists
will open the world at their feet
and aphrodite herself will bow at their reflection in the river
where the narcissus flower finally leans toward
an image of somebody else

the swing sets in the park are aching
for a child's warming touch
and mothers are bringing bouquets of
flowers to their baby's tombstone instead of wedding,
and families are reading suicide obituaries
instead of making a toast to
love and hope and passion;

boys are in a coma for saying
'i love you'
to a man
and nine year old girls are afraid
to walk through the front door because
of the men who stole their world,
and pieces of green paper hold more
value now than integrity and happiness
ever have;
  
and somehow we still think we're evolving

maybe the clash in the sky reminds us all that we're only human,
that hearts break and lives end
and there's nobody on the moon
filled with the magic of eternity,
and maybe that's the only beautiful
thing about this tragic world:
we're all alone together.

i made a deal with the devil last night:
he'll **** the butterflies in my stomach if i surrender my soul,
but what's the harm in that
when god is no more than
an imaginary friend
and people are made of
more evil than good;  
  i know the fluttering will cease eventually
but how much longer can anybody
expect me to keep breathing
when i'm coughing up broken wings
every time i hit a cigarette

there's a raspy voice in my bed late at night
that whispers into my neck
after the fifth or sixth shot
reminding me of the reasons
we'd all be better off  if
nobody woke up tomorrow morning

i guess that's what happens when
we **** the grass beneath our feet
and still expect it to grow all winter long

this place is bleak and colorless
and life is vacant space
and everything is meaningless  
in this washed out
bleached
world

home is where the heart is,
so maybe if i click this glass to my lips
another three times,
i'll find it

*m.k.