i read
and re-read
your poems, over and over
i burn through them like cigarettes
rich, mellow, and solitary
risky, euphoric, and momentary
lots of people think they are bad for you,
ya know, that classic nicotine hate
but there are lots of things everyone does to get thru,
like loving someone in a different state...
but i know a chain smoker who is 82,
and have you seen jessica lange?
she's smokin' up in every frame
and she is not afraid
and he is not afraid
so i am not afraid
but i do smoke an awful lot these days....
and this turkish royal that hangs off my lips
has nothing on the gorgeousness of your semantics;
the genuine complexity of your consciousness
the only difference between you & cigarettes,
is that i'll eventually put smoking to rest
but my love for you? will stay the same
i could puff on your words for days,
and it doesn't even hurt

i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                        especially when there alone.

maybe it's the scuffed floor or ugly upholstery of the chairs,
             or the doctors half-attention,
             or the way everybody stares,
             or the way i try not to....
             or  the way that one guy just needs to ask me what book i'm reading.
"it's... well, it's a book about these writers who are deceived into isolation
    and they write all  these stories of life and desperation"                              
              (he doesn't actually care)
              i hide in my hair.
              at least we tried to have a conversation....
              and then we just sit there,
              until she calls the next patient.
              i hope i'm next.

i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                       especially when there alone.

maybe it's the stale air up against the smell of warm blankets,
             or being fully clothed but feeling totally naked,
             or being wheeled around to some other location,
             or that being wheeled around kind of feels like
             a ****** up vacation....
             (you just get to lay there)
             ((and be numb))
but i think it's the way she rubbed that gel **** all over my tummy
                                                                     and that when i say tummy,
                                                                     i don't feel like a woman i feel like
                                                                     a baby
             and the way those plasticky tools let her see right through me
             and the way men just do not know what to do when
             women are bleeding
the nurse named jeff asks me, "oooh, which palahniuk?"
  "it's... well, it's the one about twelve writers who fall into the clutches of
      this crazy guy who locks them all up! this story's about guts n stuff,"
              "nice," he weirdly smirks,
and thankfully gets back to work.
jeff touches my arm a little too much,
and i didn't really want him to have my blood,
and maybe that's just vain stuff
but the conversation was... good enough...

and i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                            especially­ when there alone.

only got mister palahniuk*
trapped in a purple book,
this paper-bound blood work,
to keep me company.
i lay back with the iv drip next to my bed
as i sweetly surrender to his gory head....
this book, it's called haunted.


*i wish i had chuck's guts ~ literally and figuratively,
he has no ****** and incredible creative bravery.

now it's come to this,
my sweet marijuana miss.
ugh i cannot sleep.

my dear dear  d e a r  boy.... .. . ..

her eyes are pretty
her smile is wide -- & white,
just like yours
she's tall, she's slim, and
she takes good photos of you on her instagram
her small brunette bun is annoying....................ly cute
her little legs & little arms too
i'm sure it looks like something out of a magazine
when they are wrapped around you...

another hip kid from some northeast city
little Connecticutie~
did she know about me?
does she know that you live right down the street?

she hid behind your shoulder
that's how i knew
that she is in love with you, too
& it feels like someone shoved a grenade down my esophagus
and i'm just  w a i t i n g  for it to ******* in a billion bits
so i can just get over this

and then all the dads will bring their little girlies
and all the ladies will raise their strawberry daiquiris
eyeing the loose shards of my dignity
hoping that they could somehow help with their jaded seniority
going,                                  "lesson number one:
                                     love is never  always fun."