Oh California!
How my heart burns for you,
how beautiful you are!

The greenest trees and the most picturesque beaches.
The soft sands of the desert,
and the rolling slopes of the foothills.
My body, my mind, my spirit, all belong to you, oh Great and Wonderful! California.

Your hills are on fire,
scarring the beauty of your curves.
Your rivers run dry,
suffocating the green into brown.
How my heart cries for you! Oh dry, oh burning, oh how relentless this war against you, oh California! And there is no relief in sight, winter promises no respite, and the summer will be long and tough and dry like the ones before and before and before.

Oh California!
How I tremble, how I shake in awe,
your sun burns a bright orange,
smoke fills your sunsets,
even fire cannot detract from your beauty!
Oh cleansing rains!
Oh cleansing El Niño!
Oh how I beg you to save California!
My California!

My roots go deeper than that of the greatest redwood, California is my home, and not the most fearsome of fires could cause me to leave, not the fiercest and most ruthless of droughts could scare me away!

Oh California!
Let my tears be absorbed by your thirsty soil!
Let my body one day feed your hungry crops!

Oh California! I am yours, to the very last.
God bless California!
God bless the desert and the mountains!
God bless the foothills and the valleys!
God bless the beaches and the forests!
God bless my home and spare it from the relentless.
California is my God, and I hope she hears my prayers!

Long ago,
there lived the most beautiful princess and her name was Ornia. She was loved by her people, and she loved them back. On the day she was to crowned queen a terrible cancer appeared in the heart of the mountain she called home.
She prayed to the Spirit of the Sun and the Spirit told her the mountain is sick, because there is not enough love being returned to it, only love being taken from it.
Ornia, feeling her heart heavy and bursting with love, crawled through many cracks and fissures in the mountain until she reached the center.
There she released her heart from her chest, wove the vessels into the cancerous ones of the mountain and cured it.
Still, silent, she lies there, feeding the mountain love.
The people so loved her and recognized her sacrifice they named the mountain after her: Calif-Ornia.

You're no further away than you were before, but the high tide is in and I accidentally slipped my floaty onto the train with you, and I'm afraid of drowning.

It was so easy to love you and maybe that's why it's so hard now.

Before, thinking of you brought feelings of peace, well being, contentment.
And now, through no fault of yours (rather through the faults of a jealous heart beating in my chess) when I think of you it's always marked with feelings of sadness, anger, and (naturally, I suppose) jealousy.

I'm gasping for breath,
I have no floaty pulling me to the surface.
The shore I left from is a lot closer than the one I wish to reach, and I don't know if I should swim back, keep going, or drown.

I guess my first girlfriend and my mother were right in coloring me a hopeless romantic.

You effect me so deeply,
you're thousands of stone throws away
and I can still feel you choking me.
I miss you
like the low tide misses the beach,
only I don't have the nautical reassurance of knowing I'll see you again.

You're childish, rash, and prone to injuries; physical and otherwise.
You're so many beautiful things and you're a few ugly things and I wouldn't trade you for the greenest grass, the sweetest peach, or the everlasting nothingness of death.
I'd trade my assurance of death for your touch, for your whisperings in my ear, for your hairs in my bed.

I hate myself for feeling like this,
I'm disgusted in myself for writing this.

I wanted to tell you about my day today, it was wonderful, it was magical, it was sober and I did not grieve your absence; in fact, I didn't note it.

The sadness comes in waves.

And everyday I wake up,
take a swig from the big cup.
I know I gotta get ahold of myself,
understand that it's bad for my health
but you know,
you've been down here before,

and you got out,
put some money in your pocket
and decided you didn't owe me a cut.

Don't tell me it's too late
you know I can't wait.
I think it's best that you know
the depths are so far below,
yeah
and you know
nobody wants to go

until it's time to go.

From here on out its Season 2.
None of us really knew what we were doing, how about you?
Under rocks, in fields, along the NID ditch.

Something's gotta give; strung out and hung up to dry, we try and we try.
Rub aloe on my cheeks and I'll try not to cry. Throw me into space and I'll try not to die.

I knew i would have to say goodbye when I said hello and I thought that was painful enough.

I let myself love you,
I had a choice and this was the first time it was difficult to love someone.
Not because of you
but because of your near departure.

I sleep in the same bed, but it's not mine anymore, it's your.
It'll be a few weeks before all your hairs are stripped from the sheets
And it'll be a lot longer before I stop loving you.

You want to believe and I want to believe and I didn't lie the first time I told you I'd see you again and I don't intend on ever lying to you.

Listen:
I say today is a beautiful day to exist.
You're existing;
you're waiting for the bus in the heart of San Fransisco.
You're painting a landscape of Penn Valley.
You're selling hashish in Portland.

What a beautiful existence!

I'm washing my sheets,
I'm smoking a cigarette,
I'm reading The Return of the King,
and I'm about to go to work.

Listen:
The cars on the highway are going somewhere.
There are people in those cares who are existing just as gracefully as you and me.
Listen:
They are existing just as harmoniously as you and me.
Listen:
They have no idea what happens to them when they die.


I jumped off a forty foot cliff into the Yuba River a week ago and my last thought before hitting the water was:
'Either I'll live and that will be one hell of a jumping rock or I'll die and be free from ignorance.'

Listen:
I don't want to die, but I'm excited to.
I'm more excited to live and I get to see you tomorrow! I get to hold your tiny hands in mine, a barista and a norcal gardener (if you know what I mean)

Listen:
I love you and I love you and I love you and I didn't lie, I didn't, I told you I'd see you again and here we are two hundred and thirty seven miles away and tomorrow I will see you.

Listen:
Praise automobiles, praise gasoline,
praise hip hop music and praise hashish, I get to see you tomorrow!

Body

Two bodies,
in a bed,
on a quilt in a field,
in the backseat of an '88 Nissan Pathfinder.

Two bodies,
touching,
squeezing,
caressing,
biting.

Blood,
pooling under the skin,
rushing to the brain,
rushing to the genitals,
sticky/hot.

****** candy,
the curve of lips around a lollipop,
the drinking of whiskey from the bottle,
the burning sensation of MDMA insufflation.

Clothes strewn across your mother's kitchen,
ice cubes traced down spines, *******, *******.
Oral *** with ice cubes in the mouth.



Frequent ******* and a sense of unwellbeing, if you'll allow me this one usage of an unword (I can't help myself)

I have love for every living thing on earth,
and this includes you, I'm sure.

You are fickel and flickering,
like the drugs you use,
and I feel so much love from you regardless.

Regardless of how you're feeling,
regardless of what happened to you on this day,
you have me feeling so incredibly loved
and so incredibly loving

My sister is a fantastic writer.
She started writing as a way to cope.
She misses our grandmother's house,
for quite some time that was all she could write about.
She wrote about the looming, gentle, green pines that swayed over the small pond and the way you could gaze at the water and see not only the pines but also sky, just as blue and white and occasionally yellow and orange and you could could see it just as clearly whether you looked down or up.

Now, she writes about God,
or god, (although I don't think she believes in a 'the God')
she writes about the cold mist from the bay that warms up by midday but there are no pine trees.


My grandma became sick.
She became very sick of mind,
although her heart has never failed,
her memory failed her and anxiety overcame her.
She couldn't live out on the ridge anymore.
She couldn't take care of those twelve acres and the horse and the donkey and the dogs and the very small cat named Po that only came down from the attic very rarely and only to eat. She couldn't take care of these things and herself and my mother and she couldn't have laid a bigger hand into molding my sister and me. Through many an ear yank and many a promise of the wooden spatula (a never kept) she forced and graced upon us respect; for the land and living beings like, love, for the land and living beings alike, and a humbleness before the beauty of the land and living things alike.


My grandmother now lives in a gated community. Her condition has stabilized through trial and error using psychoactive drugs. Her understanding is lower and her anxiety is much higher than when she lived on the ridge but the doctors don't want to make things worse with experimentation and my grandmother doesn't want to either.


My sister's words always bleed of the page and I can see the pond and the trees and our tan bodies and the dry red dirt, and I'm thankful she has this affinity. I'm glad she can play scenes from our childhood out as if from a movie.

his heart poured out of his mouth,
oozing and beating it bounced off his guitar and into the crowd.

blood sprayed from every orifice,
it was in our eyes,
it was soaking our shirts,
it made its way into our hearts.

from one heart to another.

love songs fit for a queen and young jewish girl alike, music transcends.

hail slowed us,
and only two were fed before.
but we made it.
we made it through high school,
wet made it through hard times,
and we made it reno.

the love that was given to us from the mouths of trumpets,
love that was sliced open upon a saw,
heart beats that pounded from a drum,
we returned.
we returned to the stage that which was given to us ten fold.
we spewed it from our mouths, we spewed it from every pore on our legs and arms.

we drowned in love,
we drowned in red, gushing love

and we loved it.

Heat waves and the summer is tangible.
Lazy days
Lazy guitar
Lazy daisy.

You are a daisy,
not mine,
not anyone's.
You belong to sappy heat,
you belong to the Yuba River.

And perhaps we intersect for a reason.
Perhaps our paths cross on a cosmic scale.
And perhaps not.

Laying in the sun,
not a worry in the area,
still, you never met a cooler ***.

And the heat is tangible,
naturally so are your fingers.
You hands were sticky with sweat
and I really didn't mind, I mean it.

I would never lie,
not to you,
not to my mother,
not to god.

Well, mayhaps I would lie to god.
After all, the heat is tangible.

Blue skies
and not a cloud in sight.

and whisperings reach far,
mocked goodbyes
and the scent of pine.

connect
with nature,
disconnect from your heart.
we come from dust and to dust we return.

oh! did you skin your knees?
no? just one?
that's OK, brush it off,
return to dust.

lying beside a fallen tree,
flowers grow from your mouth,
your brain; the perfect nutrient
for a sappling.
return to dust.

feel the dirt in your fingers,
feel the sun on your face,
feel the wind through your shirt,
return to dust.

no rain for California,
no relief from the relentless,
we owe gratitude to the dinosaurs
in this age of gasoline.
return to dust;
fuel the next generation's gasoline driven engines,
return to dust.

On the day of worship the Temple filled.
It had been three years since the Messiah left, and nobody had forgotten.

The Priests of Tek dawned their red robes
and Father John Misty took his place at the altar, his heart heavy yet full of chagrin.

He clears his throat,
my fellow children of yonder Year,
my sisters of Sand,
my brothers of Dust,
my lovers of Greed,
here now what I say,
for I speaketh not.

for now speaks The Shrike,
for now speaks The Lord of Atonement,
your God of Pain,
your mystifying Excellence of Death.

Father Misty reached into his black robe and drew forth a small child.
What life may have been left in the infant was destroyed when Father John Misty stuck the unmoving body onto the red spike protruding from the altar, the spike entering the body through the ****, and reaching an inch from the soft skull.

Father John Misty's voice took on a lower town, yet softer, not forgiving, yet all knowing.

This child has a name.
This child is Jesus Christ.
This child will grow as if alive.
And before the rough congregations eyes the child began to grow on the spire. The limbs first lengthened, than filled out. The child's chest expanded and the head grew bigger. Father Misty then hoisted him off of the spire, and set him, bleeding, before the congregation. The body began to shift, jerky movements before the skin appeared to bubble. A low gutteral sound began to emanate from now full grown man. He lifted his torso and head up and looked at each member of The Temple of Ten individually.

He spoke

I am your savior,
I am unfruitful death,
I am unwarranted pain,
I am money being cheated from the desperate man,
I am the brains taken from a lobotomite,
I am the destruction of a hurricane,
I am as dead as the gasoline you **** for,
I am as dead as you are.

I am Jesus Christ,
this is not the first time you've seen me,
this will not be the last.
You are allowed to die now.

And they did.

I cry by the creek
and it gurgles a reply.
I flick an ant into the water,
I want it to die.

The one I want to die
better him than me.
Today I want to live.
Today I am happy.

I hear the creek.
I find peace by the water.
I was born not a man
but a fisherman's daughter.

I listen to the trees,
for they have a lot to say.
I fall asleep by the creek;
an end to a lovely day.

And I miss you so much
my heart rushes blood to my brain
to tell me it's hurting.

You spent time in a beautiful place today
and I made coffee for hippies and businessmen alike because I am a slave to the man made idea of capitalism.
So are you.

I drank this weekend,
I went to a party and I drank and I let a girl three years younger than me rub her body on mine and when she had to leave I drank some more and I didn't think of you until I woke up.

I didn't help clean up the mess from the party, I went and got steak and eggs with a friend and after that I went back to sleep in my own bed, the one you slept in.

I want to know that you're ok, and I want to know that you're healthy and oh how small my problems and desires are and how massive the distance between us.

I miss the time we spent existing in the same place and I miss you, I miss your soul and the way you said my name and the way you held your coffee cup and the way you rubbed aloe vera lotion on my face.

I miss the hairs I found on my bed after you left. I miss the water bottle you forgot here that I forgot on the metro and I miss the voicemail you sent me, I deleted it believing that nothing is as good as it was the first time, I think I may have been wrong.

I miss remembering the first time we kissed, I have forgotten it. I forgot the last day I spent sober. I miss the way your legs felt on mine under the sheets and I miss the way you held my hand in the car.

I never said I loved you and neither did you and I'm not sure I do and I'm not sure I ever did but you were one hell of a friend, you have been, you've been a blessing on my life, your presence is the build up of all the good karma I've received and then some and then quite a bit more.

You're learning, you're thinking, you're organizing your thoughts and I should be too. I've been looking at blank walls again.

It happens that quick.

Run down the stairs
(Superfast, and just in time
for breakfast.)

I hadn't been to a party in about a year.
I prefer what I'm comfortable with,
my friends, our routines.

I drank more than I should have.
Bodies
(Sweat)

I watched her shake her ***,
I watched her take off her shirt,
I took a shot.

I felt her heat.
I soaked in our sweat,
we were never under the sheets.


I woke up.
My head hurt,
she was gone.

She was never there

I had a dream about you last night and that's something I never thought would happen.

We were sitting on a couch or agaisnt a wall and there was a blanket over us. You intertwined your legs with mine and buried your face in my neck when I put my around you.

Your skin was warm, as I'd imagine it would be.

This dream unsettles me, in a way.
We would never have worked.
I liked you, I liked you a lot and I think you liked me too.
It's a good thing you told me not to kiss you,
I would have fallen for you and I would have hurt you.
I would have hurt you with my inconsistencies and my inadequacies,
and you don't deserve that.
I would have hurt you with my drugs and my unhealthy diet and the only outcome of our relationship would have been pain for you and warm skin and soft words for me.


You're a wonderful human being,
I look up to you
and I'm happy you found someone to be enamored with. Someone who won't hurt you with drugs and unhealthy diets. Someone who will hurt you with soft words and warm skin

I'm not sure what I'm doing yet within myself I hold supreme faith. I am the only master of my life, and I promise myself it will all work out. And I've been thinking about my doorbell...

I didn't call you back, and you didn't call me a second time. I don't understand what game we're playing, I'd rather be holding you. My actions are mine, and I know we were supposed to go dancing on Friday and I'm not sure why I blew you off, I'm overwhelmed and I got four hours of sleep yesterday afternoon and it isn't raining anymore.

Do it
Do it,
Do it.
Do it!

I know back roads and bonfires.
I know pine trees and rivers.
I know parking lots and cigarettes.
I know trailers and trailblazers.

The day I was born I was wrapped in dust,
it coated my skin and made me sneeze.
I was laid down on a bed of dust and my nose began to bleed, it hasn't stopped.

In school we'd throw a tennis ball against a wall, we'd run through the field, we didn't have swings, we didn't have a soccer ball.
We read from dusty books, we inhaled the words and dust alike.

In high school we drove fast down back roads. We drank beer and started a fire. We swam in the rivers and smoked doobies on the rocks.
These are the things I know.
I know this small town, I know the people in it, I know the trees and I know the back roads.
I don't know heartbreak.
I don't know alcoholism.
I don't know anything that is not covered in dust, I don't know anything beyond this valley.

I spent some time today with two beautiful people.
Together, we did disgusting things; we smoked cigarettes, we spoke about our experiences in abusive relationships, and we tried to spit on cars driving by.

I looked at the clouds and I knew you were upset. I looked at the clouds and I knew I loved you. In that moment and in this moment I love you. I love the boy we were with and I love his father.

Human beings are the only creatures capable of committing evil because we are the only ones who have an idea of what evil is, therefore we are the only creatures who can choose to be evil. Humankind is the only species to ever enslave a living creature. We've done it to every animal on earth and we've done it to our brothers.
A lion mother killing a baby antelope is not evil. The same lion mother ripping the esophagus out of an antelope's neck is not evil.

I think I may be evil. I think I've caused people pain. Pain has been dealt unto me and being a man who respects and strives for fairness, I have dealt pain unto those least deserving. I love you like the moon loves you (as the moon must) and this makes you least deserving of any pain and you're in so much pain, you're in so much pain and I caused you pain two years ago and men continue to cause you pain and I brought you that cassette to try and put a bandaid on a two year old **** that has already healed and I hope it's enough

You left yesterday,
and I found one of your hairs on my pillow this morning.
It was longer than my arm.

I tangled my fingers in your hair
and I whispered in your ear.
Just cheese ball things.

I told you many things
they were almost all true
and they were all cheese.
I told you I'll see you again (that one was true)

Wear a seat belt wild girl,
there are people who care about you.
Sleep well wild girl,
no need to tell me to speak with you tomorrow.

I promised you it'd be OK.
"It" being everything.
I promised you I'd see you again,
and I don't plan on lying to you.
I told you I'd write you ten thousand poems, excuse the inflation but it is true.

((Unfinished))

I said let's do it in the shower.
She said baby, don't you know we're in a drought?

It slipped my mind, the television and the computer distracted me.
There's water coming out of the spigot and a beautiful friend is laying on my couch, I guess I forgot I wasn't dreaming.

High off hash joints and opiates,
I don't remember driving home.
My mother looked me in the eye.
Are you okay, she says.
I told her I was sick.


I looked at you in the morning and I was happy

It's you
It's a country rock tune
It's a bottle of codeine
It's the way the clouds shift.

I've been looking at blank walls recently.

I've been studying the imperfections in the plaster, looking for you, listening deeply for that ***** tonk rhythm, feeling with my hands for that orange bottle.

I drown myself in these things,
yet I am breathing.
I have broken water, I have filled my lungs and voluntarily I plunge again.

I know what I'm looking for in these blank walls but I'm not sure I'd recognize it if I saw it.

Alas, my heart goes on and I beg it to stop.
I'm terrified and I miss my mother, she's grown so distant.
I'm frozen to the marrow of my bones and I'm not sure who keeps turning the defrost off and I'm disgustingly afraid, I shake with fear and I don't know where I'm at, I don't know who I am, and I don't know where I'm going and I'm afraid, I'm so afraid.

There's a little mailbox off Broad Street that serves as a sort of library. You can take books out and you can put books in.
Yesterday, directly across the street from the library there was a sign on front porch of a house that read "free" and there was a pile of belts and hats and other things.

I want you to write about me but you don't know me and all I know about you is that you're not happy with who you are and that you write and that you're beautiful and disgusting and I am all of these things as well.

My mother has been pulling her hair out; she is losing a custody battle for my little sister, she lost her job and is living off welfare. I'm working two jobs because she asked me not to eat the food in the house so I do enough drugs I don't want to eat and punk rock music is always softly playing from my room, I can't stand it any louder.

My shoes have holes in them.
My gas light has been on for two days.
And I am happy.
The end is never the end,
I won't bother wrapping this poem up because it is not over.

I remember the night I graduated from Olympus Mons Military Academy.
I remember what my father told me,
the "one hundred percent true story of the creation of mankind."

There was a being who lived on Venus, all alone he lived, so alone he wasn't even sure he was living. This being had no name, but they had a heart that beat and a mind that thought.
He lived on a Venus that this universe has never seen, nor will ever see. Space and time are fabrics, but even the finest of linens have space, impossibly small amounts of space and within them universes. This being lived on a Venus woven into the fabric of time itself.

This being prepared a torch,
fueled by matter the likes of which humanity knew, but has forgotten and will never remember.
He lit this torch and carried it through the fabric of time.
He spoke to beings there about time and he did not like what they thought of time and so he took the torch elsewhere, abandoning the others in a perfect nothingness.

He took his torch to Mercury and asked the beings there what they thought of space.
He did not like what they had to say about space and so he left them in their chaotic abundance of space.

Dissatisfied, he traveled to the furthest edge of the universe and looked Beyond. He asked the beings there what they thought of space and time.
They did not answer.
He asked them what they thought of existence and they told him to stop speaking.
They asked him what fueled his torch and he refused the answer.
They grew angry and decided to try and strike a bargain.
They told him they'd reveal their thoughts on time and space if he reveals what burns his torch.
They told him time is only within his mind and that space is a projection thereof.

He fled.
He fled to earth and dropped his torch there, and it burned to the center of the planet.

He returned to the fabric of Venus and thought for an impossible amount of time and willed time and space to cease and yet he could not.

After, he willed himself to cease existing and he did.

His torch stopped burning with him and humankind was born from the ashes, they crawled from the center of Earth and wept for their creator.

I asked my father what this meant and he told me to stop speaking, and asked me what fuels my torch. Once I answer that, I will understand.

Love songs come in many forms,
the heartfelt pleas of lovers and friends, the eyes of disappointed children,
the sound of doors slamming,  
a mothers anguished cries.

They're not always coddling
and comforting,
sometimes they're loud and confronting and startling, like trumpets.

It's only when self love comes home that I'm able to recognize them for what they were and from where they came. They came from love and they are songs.

A room within a room
a door within a door
I need something more

Swallow
breathe
open the blinds
stretch

Touch you shoulders,
and kiss your freckles
hold on
stretch

Hold on
if love is the answer
you'll know
hold on

The water is always warmer than you expect it to be.

She taught me to shut the **** up and think. Think for a minute before I say something. Think for ten before I do something.

The grass may be greener over there but that doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy the green grass you have over here.

She taught me how to treat others and how I deserve to be treated and how those aren't always in the same way.

You should always drive safely because people love you and they know you're seat belt is broken and it's not hard to keep in touch so stop getting high and text her back.

The old man still visits and he tells himself he doesn't care and he figures that lying to oneself is something we never really grow out of.

Some days he knocks on the door and altogether realizes he does care, he cares so ******* much and his chest begins to hurt and he leaves before she can answer.

Other days he knocks on the door and lies to himself and waits for her to answer. She does and they exchange pleasantries and she invites him inside for tea. Most days he'll stay for a glass and leave without incident. Making his way home he remembers how much he cares and vomits all over the bulbs on the sidewalk.

Some days he cares entirely too much and stays for a second cup of tea, only to torture himself. These are the days he takes twice as many of the back pain pills before going to sleep.

He looks in the mirror in a state of sedated discomfort and wishes that he could not care, he wishes he could lose the ability to feel, he looks himself in the eye and says "you're an old man, caring is for the young, vomiting is for the young, searching for a rock you threw into a creek and feeling some way, anyway, is for the young."

He's not entirely sure what he wants, what he prays for (to nobody and nothing in particular) but he knows he wants and by god he knows he prays.

And I see the stars fall
and I know you can stop them,
but you don't and I thank you.

Let them fall,
it is their time
and they are happy.

For thousands of years mankind
has predicted the death of the stars
but they never believed their ancestors would see it.

Alas they did,
the year 47806 has seen the fall of the stars,
but not the fall of man.

Oh no, man survived the destruction of Old Earth, the destruction of New Earth,
and the fall of Heigiria, so why should we die now?

No, for dozens of thousand of years man has persisted, for it is in their nature. Just as much as money was a part of pre-Heigiria human nature, so is survival.

We've evolved, we don't wear shoes or smoke cigarettes or speak but we still have art and we still have poetry we only share it differently. We share it on a cosmic scale, we mold Galaxies into love letters and universes into sonnets.

Let the stars fall, my dearest companion,
it signifies your love for me and the love I feel for you. Let's travel to Universe XB87 and experience it again in a millennium, let's travel to Multiverse 3 and experience it ten thousand times in ten thousand ways. Nothing I could think and nothing I could shape could be as beautiful, could be as wondrous as the warmth I feel from you as the stars die

The fine sands,
the Mullen fields,
the Wurm Cave.

Lone beast sought,
One beast discovered.
Thrice, sights found.

Aboard! haste!
Drink thou Mead slow,
the Wurm will enjoy you antonymy.

Land **!
the beast is high,
can thee hear him?

Crawl and creep,
the beast moves
silent under the water.

To his cave three men
brave the cold.
'While the Wurm follows

One sight found,
the soft sands of time,
beneath thy and thou's boot.

Feel the grains in thou palm,
beg ye Lord for salvation
and continue.

Second sight found,
the endless fields of Mullen.
Embrace them.

Feel the grains in thou palm,
beg ye Lord for forgiveness
and breath.

Third sight sound,
the end of the journey,
The Cave of the Wurm.

Steal thyself men!
felt, the Wurm's presence,
steal thyself.

Did I hear you say,
Wurm?

And so I'll like your selfie,
and I may send you an encouraging message.

Digitalized and marginalized
you exist upon a screen.
To me and my solipsist mind,
all that is real is all that is before me.

All that is after me is fiction,
something I, and millions of other poets may attempt to write,
but realness is lost.

It can be compared to trying to relay a first hand experience to another,
it is impossible to do completely.
I can tell you that the trees swayed nonchalantly and that the water was crisp and welcoming but you will never know what it was like to be on the lake that day.

If Jesus Christ himself were to tell me change my ways...

Put the music on repeat,
put the *** in the pipe,
pull the covers over your chest,
put your tongue inside my mouth,
and wake up,
I will do the same.

The thought of you,
the idea of you,
the digital image of you and everything you've said to me excite different parts of my body.
All these things excite my mind.
Your words excite the blood vessels in my cheeks and your body excites my groin.
I drink a tall glass of water,
I ******* thinking of you,
and I fall asleep hoping to dream of you.

I dream of you putting your tongue in my mouth.
My body excites in my slumber,
and though I only kiss you in my dreams,
I ******* in my shower.

I'm a mountain man dreaming of the desert,
and you're a Midwest girl dreaming of the ocean.

I want to feel your legs around my neck,
your hands held in mine,
and your tongue in my mouth and around my ****.

I want this of her and her and him and her and you but I cannot have it.
So I've masturbated 3 times today and if the son of God told me to change my ways I might need to ******* twice, thrice more.

i
I have always loved you.
You're my best friend you big beautiful idiot, what do you expect?

ii
You remind of words written on fog on a mirror. You can be beautiful and ugly but you will always be fleeting.
You told me that i remind you of corn flowers,
and I never really told you much.

iii
You are forgiven and I hope you are well.

iv
You came into my life at a weird time and I came into yours at an even weirder time.
We're both actors, so we were pretty good at pretending.

v
I kissed you when I shouldn't have and your mother disapproved. We've both grown so much and I love you exponentially.
You're a combination of Audrey Horne,
and a desert flower
and I wanted to kiss you so bad by the creek last week but perhaps your mother would still disapprove.

vi
You were my green hair muse,
I have so much to say about you
and I'm embarrassed to say I miss you.

Don't let me get comfortable,
I could get used to this lifestyle.
Lazy days in the desert sun,
exciting nights with ****** fun.

Toss two hundred dollars on a dinner for 5,
It doesn't mean anything to them.
Don't miss the champagne divot stomp,
with a hat on your head, the heat is tangible.

Days spent with sand between your toes,
a Marlboro lite between your lips,
death on your mind,
all the while the dunes are full of life.

Dream of a girl who comes to you clothed
and leaves you with a guilty feeling of ******.
Don't forget your brandy.

Money is no object,
having enough things to buy is the problem
having people to buy things for is the problem.
****** is a problem.

****** is a problem,
but it seems to solve all other problems,
and when money means nothing,
****** is just a chance to feel.

Or not feel,
the desert doesn't care.
It is beautiful and deadly and will leave you searching for water, and the desert nights are unlike those of the mountains.
The mountains I'm a part of.
The mountains are forgiving, they are loving and caring and will not leave you searching for water, for it is a given.

I'm as lit as a Christmas tree,
tomorrow is Saturday,
and, "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."

tomorrow is Saturday,
and, "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."
The clouds are thick,

and "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."
The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.

I would enjoy some chocolate milk. "
The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,

The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.

but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.
"I need what keeps a young man alive,

Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.
"I need what keeps a young man alive,
and I'm saying I need it now"

and waste not, want.

I'm happy you enjoy drinking coffee and talking, because
I also enjoy talking and drinking coffee
and maybe we could do it together sometime? Tuesday, there is nothing I'd rather do than drink coffee and talk with you.

You're an intellectual,
you're a compassionate human being,
and your hair is to die for.

No, no, we're just getting coffee,
I'm not interested in anything more,
she's cute sure, but she would rip me to pieces. And besides, like I said last Thursday, I'm not interested in dating anyone. Why don't we just put on the Talking Heads and get high?

I dated a girl who emotionally abused me for months and when I finally split things off I cried everyday for a couple months.

I split things off with a girl who I loved with all my heart, I continue to believe I would cross oceans for her, yet I have not cried.

I'm an oxymoron, a lesson in irony.
I'm an upbeat jazz number, played in a minor chord.
I feel the world for those around me,
and only bitter disdain for myself.

I'm attractive, I've got a strong jaw line,
and a nose most guys would **** for.
I dress better than the guys I run with,
and my hair does exactly what I want it to.

I read French existentialist authors
and consider myself well versed in modern jazz.
I've got a steady job, and I've never been late once.

When I think about who I am,
and the jealousy I feel towards the happiness I am not providing you,
I get sick to my stomach.

All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy and you appear to be so and I'm upset because I'm a jealous ***** of a man who has the emotional capacity of a child longing for his mother's teet.


I don't know why I feel the way I do but I'm out of *** and I have to deal with how I'm feeling and that will be a first.

Two celestial beings destroy each other over a petty argument.
And two cartoon characters live happily ever after.
An actor is playing an insecure caricature, while a despicable tyrant commits genocide.

I am talking to a girl who flirts with me and it makes me happy.
I'm allowed to be happy.
I lay awake at night with guilt.
I'm allowed to feel guilty.

I drink and I smoke,
but I haven't touched an ****** in so long I lost count of the days.

We continue to talk,
I hear nothing but meaningless small talk
and speak likewise, if only to prove a point.

I imagined your hips in my hands,
and I imagined I had it all under control.

I stared at your lips when you spoke,
you pretended not to notice.

I stared at your *** when you walked away,
and your hips swang methodically, enticingly.

Public intoxication, two nights in the county jail, 500 dollars in court fees and fines, and the feel of your breast on my palms.  These are the things that haunt me.
You haunt me.

I am not worthy of being hers, receiving her love, being held in her arms.

Is a believer worthy or his god's love?
Are you worthy of Jesus's love?

We as human beings have tried to capture what we believe in, what we're most passionate about, through art.

I will try to describe to you my beliefs.
I will try to describe to you my love.

Her ******* could be compared to the most delicious fruit, eaten on a summer day.

Her love is that of no other. It is as powerful as an endless rain, as gentle as a lilac.

Her voice rings true in my ear. There is beauty in truth and her words are a scripture to be worshipped.

Her touch is softer than a cloud in heaven,
yet firm.

Her strength is seldom flexed but when needed she could move a mountain will force of will.

She is love, she is the essence, she fuels desire and stars equally.

She is kindness, she is forgiveness, she is a blessing to me and every other living creature that encounters her.

I am an unworthy servant, I will wash her feet a thousand times.

She is the sun and the moon.

Timmy got a bike,
Timmy ******* died.
Timmy's mother drank,
Timmy's father cried.

And it rained.
It rained for five days and six nights,
and although it stopped raining on the sixth day, the sun did not shine.

It's the movement,
iOS7, download tonight,
Timmy's bike was red,
his friends thought it was tight.

Timmy got a bike,
(Each day we all feel a bit more like Bukowski, a bit more cynical)
Timmy ******* died.

A Half Forgotten Memory of the Train Tracks in Puget Sound

People are uncomfortable with truth.
There is truth in silence
and people are uncomfortable with silence.

When asked how one is doing, the proper response is 'fine' or any indicator of greater ease.
One is expected to participate in class activities, team building exercises, and other meticulous, tedious motions of repetition.

One should shake hands, smile, participate in pagentry when only putrescence is felt.

One should not look at walls, there is no social status in looking at walls.
One should not have problems unless they are desirable. Anxiety, but too bad. Depression, but not too bad.
One should appear clean and well slept,
one should claim one received very little sleep, regardless of how much sleep one actually received.

If one is female, one should show skin but not too much skin.
If one is female, one should not resist ****** advances, yet one should not have multiple ****** partners.

If one is male, one should be in fit condition, one should not cry, and one should not show interest in a member of the opposite gender except for those of a ****** nature. One should not acknowledge the existence of more than two genders, ****** orientations, or trains of thought.

One should be socially and politically aware, but one should not raise their voice on these issues unless others of a high social status are.

One should be happy, but not too happy.

All my life I've chased happiness through herbs and manufactured substances.

Occasionally the touch of a womanly body would spark life in my heart.

And six months ago to the day I asked you to be mine and you gladly accepted.

I got clean (I used by choice and not habit, I can honestly say) and I loved with all my heart but not all my mind.

I am not a body, I have one.
I do not have a soul, I am one.

And I'm thankful I continue to collide with you, no matter how seemingly hard I try to ***** it up. I swear, I've only ever tried to bring you happiness and you have no reason to believe me but I'm happy down to the very core of my being that you do. That you're trying to.
And that you return my love tenfold.

I am consistently amazed with my ability to hurt.
The ones I hurt are the ones I hold dearest.
The ones I hurt don't deserve it.

My hands are rough and scarred, they are flawed.
My hands can create and they can ****.
My hands have created and they have loved and they have taken what doesn't belong to them and hurt those who trust them most. And they are controlled by my mind.

There is a clock resting above a fireplace that hasn't seen a fire in twenty years.
It is fifteen minutes slow and it has been for quite some time.
I used to take it off the mantle and manipulate the dials so as to allow it to correctly display the time.
And my mother would turn it back again.
I never understood the reasons for this,
and I still don't.
And god ******, this clock has no significance and this metaphor slipped my mind as soon as I thought of it and I can't think of enough ways to say I'm sorry.

Mistakes are something we are forced to live with.
More so than scars or badges of honor.

And that's a good thing. As long as we live with our mistakes, we won't repeat them.

But does that matter to those trespassed against? To those the mistakes were committed unto? No. And it shouldn't, the mistake is what matters. And the one in the wrong isn't the only one forced to live with.

Mistakes often come about from selfishness, and selfishness serves no one, abides by no biddings.
As it shouldn't.

Forgiveness is a hard fought battle for humans. Forgiveness for yourself, lovers, friends and enemies. They're all hard to come by and must be striven for.

The ache that's been lingering between my eyeballs the past twenty four hours is constant and stabbing. That's where I'm keeping my mistakes. Somewhere that will never be out of site or mind.
This mistake is large and so my whole body aches. No, reader, don't say you're sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for and I deserve the pain I feel. I deserve the back of my eyelids swimming with images and my ear drums ringing with a single sentence and I want to apologize every time i hear those words. Those words are for you and for me and I will keep them and they will make my body stimulated and tense until I have forgiven myself.  
I don't want to forgive myself. I don't deserve it, just as you didn't deserve to be the receiver of my mistakes.

I promised myself I wouldn't write this.
My will power is week and
I don't know, I have a thousand more things to say but they only matter to me and so I shall keep them.
I hope for three things;
The first: you're happiness and well being
The second: you're friendship.
The third is selfish and so I shall keep it to myself.

I can be alone.
I spent two years perfecting the art,
and I may spend some time practicing it.

I just hope someday the phone will ring,
and that the caller is happy and healthy
and whole.