When you finally get in bed,
                                                 do you go to sleep?
Or do you lie there and think about how much you've ****** up?
                                                                                                              who you've ******.
                                                                                                                                               who you've ****** up.
Does sleep come easy like it used to?
                                                              Of course not.

haha
How ******* stupid this is.
Why can't you just grow up?
After all, you are the adult.
I'm just a little boy and you ******* said it yourself.

I don't know why any of this happened.
                                                                    I don't know where we went wrong
                                                                                                                                or why.
I'm not that interested in finding out.
Just forgetting.

Why don't we make a deal.
I'll let you forget, if you let me forget.

Surprisingly enough,
this little vile of some
horrible stuff
called "Pink-Pink"
is actually rather
musky.

And to think,
after three months
and then two more,
I would get six checks.

Micky Mantle captivated
the nation,
and Lars Montannaro
is captivating
this town.
All the while
Michael Moore is killing God
and God is killing us.

One must ask oneself,
did God create me,
or did I create God?
Is God within me,
or am I God myself?

Throughout John Carpenter's life
many questions plagued him,
most remained unanswered,
few allowed him to live
and one killed him.

He lies dying,
gasping for air,
with nothing but
Steinbeck and brandy
to bid him farewell.

On a bed without sheets,
in a motel without a kitchen,
in a town without a theater,
in a state without a king,
in a land without hope,
God lays dying.
With nothing but the prayers of
Mary Stein to bid him goodnight,
he prays himself.

Every man is a believer in the foxhole,
just as he is a saint.
Praying and praying,
the fire rallies
around a man,
his emancipated guts
lay spewing blood in the dirt.


Without a clear objective man is nothing.
Nothing is everything,
and everything is unexplainable
just as nothing can be explained.

The Dark sings a song it believes to be beautiful,
and the Light finds it discouraging to it's attempts
of what it believes to be beautiful.
So the Light chases away the Dark
and the Wanderers wonder where it went.

Wandering this world,
they try
and try
and try
to find it.

They are looking in the wrong world.

The man with a gun
runs to the store and back
and back
and back again.

The willows whisper a tune for their god
that the oaks find blasphemous.
The oaks chant louder and louder
so as to please their god.

Life goes on
and life goes on
and life goes on
and then it doesn't.
Then suddenly it  begins
in a thousand more forms
and in a thousand more lungs
it breathes.
Life will continue to exalt God
and God will continue allowing life to breathe.

For as long as there is air,
breathes shall be taken.

Faith falls out
of the lottery winning man
just as it is absorbed
by the cancer ridden man.

Nothing makes sense
in this world in which we live
and everything is gray in the relationship
we allow to live.

God creates man,
man creates God,
sheep live blissfully ignorant
without a need for a god.

The fastest man on earth
partakes of the green,
and the fastest man on water
partakes of the green,
yet the laziest men on earth
criminalize that which is our birth right.

Freedom's legality is a matter of discussion,
it's a matter of luck and
place of citizenship.

Depending on where you are
you may speak your mind.

You bought me a wooden pipe
on my last birthday.
I had it for a few months until I lost it.
Now, you're not here to spend the day with me
and neither is the pipe I named after you,
my lovely Lady L.

On a whim, however, I purchased a new pipe.
Inside a gold box,
long and brown,
like something Gandalf would smoke,
my mysterious Wizard.
Just like the girl I share tonight with.

Press your lips together
and press them on mine.
Feel my tongue on yours
and close your eyes.
See my face
imprinted on the back of your eyelids.
Kiss me long
and kiss me deeply.
Don't dare to pull away;
not yet.
Let's stay here,
you and me,
and etch our names into a tree.
Let us lay in the grass
and touch our feet with our feet.
Let us stay in this place
until the moon rises.

Place your hand
on the small of my back
and feel my hand
on the small of your back
while my other touches your face.
Let us be swept away
by the love in this place.
Let our hips come together
as the sun comes to horizon.
******* neck
and I'll bite yours.
Worry not about the marks,
we will grow to love them.
Run your hand through my hair
while mine holds your face on mine.

Let us not separate.
Let us not evaporate.
Let us not leave this place.

Pale Blue Eyes began the moment our socks came off.
It may only be a five minute song but it felt like an eternity.
Our bodies were cold and wet from the October rain.
Our hips met just as Lou Reed sang "I thought of you as my mountain top."
A feeling of warm rushed through my body and I'll never forget it.
"Thought of you as my peak," as I looked into your dark green eyes.
We fell onto the bed and the pain went away.
There was no headache that had clouded my mind,
the coldness from the rain was replaced with warmness from our love.
The wetness of the rain was replace with the friction of our beings.
****** started playing as you began to yell
and my muscles gave out.
We stayed there until morning,
with The Velvet Underground on repeat.
We fell asleep happy and we woke up happy.
We were two very different people but for a single night and there onward we are the same.
One in the same.
Love tied our strings together and put it in a nice double knot with loops in it.

Pale Blue eyes played as our socks came off
and it still plays now that the lights are off.

The one constant in life is the opposite of it.
Death.
Lives come and lives go.
People are dying on the East coast right now
and people are being born on the West coast.

The one constant in the mind is the loss of it.
Insanity.
People find themselves and lose themselves.
People are being reborn on their journey's
and people are destroying themselves with their bottle's.

The one constant in love is the loss of it.
There is no word for it.
People create love out of thin air and destroy it just as quick.
People are falling in love with those around them
and those around them are tearing it down in the meanwhile.

The one constant in poetry is the lack of it.
Rants.
People spill their hearts or they spill their guts,
People are writing right now, as I am writing
and I'm also just talking to myself: Poetry.

I have a few unhealthy habits that my therapist wants me to shake.
Chewing my nails is a nervous habit, he says.
Smoking cigarettes is only a crutch, he says.
Gorging/starving is a personality flaw, he says.
Drinking alone will cause problems, he says.
Falling for those who are leaving, have left, or are simply out of reach is a death wish, he says.
Hating yourself simply won't do, he says.


Tonight,
a hot summer night,
spent cigaretteless,
loveless,
and sleepless,
teach me more about myself
than Doctor Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W.
ever could.

I know not about the feelings I have,
and the urges I get.
I know not when they'll come,
how long they will last,
and what my actions shall be.

I'm a mess.
This is the only way to describe it.
I'd rather breakdown in your arms,
than be at ease alone.

I couldn't tell you why the loveless are more likely to read love poems then those smitten with love.
It doesn't make sense. A man starving to death is not going to enjoy reading a cook book.
Yet, I, personally, do not read or write poems about love when I have it.
Coincidentally, I write about sadness when I feel sad.
The loneliest poet writes about loneliness.
And it is beautiful.

Being able to live in a cabin in the woods sounds wonderful.
I would grow a beard and I would drink pine tea.
Everyday I would go out and chop wood,
or fish or hunt or pick berries.
I would return to my cabin,
and my wife will be there.
She is beautiful and
earthly and we
love one
another.
She would stay at home and cook a nice homely dinner for us. She would read books and knit and paint and do whatever she wanted to. When I walk in the door I would kiss her cheek and tell
her that she is beautiful and I would mean it and she would believe it. Our house would
be warm in the winter and there would be an ice cold lake for the summer. We
would have a dog that has golden hair and doesn't need a leash he just
comes when we whistle and he would eat our leftovers and he
would be fat and lazy and he would make us laugh and
we loved him like a child and eventually we would
have a child but that isn't even on our minds
at this point. Everyday would be the same
but the would also bring us great
discovery and love and worth.
Eventually we will have
a baby boy and he
will look more like
his mother but
he'll still have
my blue
eyes.

Love.

"It's Toasted"*

Something about that red circle calls to me.
Something about R.J. Reynolds appeals to me more than Phillip Morris
and Santa Fe Tobacco Company.

Maybe all it is is the classic red circle.
Or maybe it's the nostalgia.
Maybe it's knowing that 4 out of 5 of my dead ancestors smoked Lucky Strikes.

But oh boy, to get one burning and in my lungs is bliss.
Whether it's in the morning, accompanied  by a cup of coffee
or during school after sneaking out of class.

The smoke that fills my head clears the smoke that filled my brain.
And shadowed my eyesight.
And made me shake.

Any cigarette will do it
save for maybe those God awful Fortunas.

How about this weather we've been having.
And how about them Yankees.
But boy, oh boy, how about those Strikes.

I'm just a pool table floating through the cosmos,
a snail racing in the indie 500.
I'm a mess, ******* on dirt, lying in a basement,
the Click! Now that I have mastered the click I can free my mind of all misconceptions.

I'm a grubby snail person.
Dos Bros Tacos,
served with a hard shell.
I'm a cigarette, trying to hold water in my mouth, and you're a jar, trying to make me spit it out.

I'm a vegan, with primordial urges,
a user, with blood rush surges.

I'm matter, quickly vibrating,
an organic compound, slowly decaying.

Memories
Are
Never
Here.
Always
Tomorrow.
­Tonight
Antagonizes
Nobody.

Before
Every
A­ttack.
Calm
H**atred

For he's a jolly good fellow,

adorned in yellow and love,
it was hard to see his face through the smoke of a three blunt rotation, but I could feel his heart beating from across the trailer.

Worn out eighties music was the unofficial theme of the night and I think we lived up to the expectations Eddie Murphy set for his.

Strings.

Our world is never going to be enough.
We want to know what's beyond,
what comes after,
what was before,
and I 'm no different, don't get me wrong.

So, we have a robot flying threw space about to land on Mars.
We have Christians praying to their God and Muslims to theirs.
We have Atheists being Atheistic and Satanist being Satanic.
Punks are acting punk like and triple X-ers are passing the blunt right back.
We have scientists trying to cure cancer and theoretical physicists trying to understand dark matter.
We have you and I trying to work things out.

why.

What really is the point.
There are a select few things I am absolutely sure of.
I am alive.
I am going to die.
I love you.

why.

Why don't I just die already?

We found it funny
that our shoes and shirts matched.

We heard people ask if we had planned it
and we told them we had not.

You also matched me shot for shot, until we lost the ability to count
and we decided it would be best to stop drinking.

In your bedroom I matched you kiss for kiss,
until our lips could not satisfy us anymore.

Breathe for breathe,
****** for ******,
moan for moan,
we matched and we matched and we matched
and nobody asked us if we had planned that.
If they did, we would have told them that we did not.

And now,
when people look at our lips
and necks
they will not need to know if we planned it,
because the matching of our hearts was planned
and perfected, and practiced.
Not by us,
yet we enjoy the rewards.

Maybe someday you'll be lonely and understand how to be a friend.
Maybe you'll give me a call.
Maybe I'll pick up or maybe I'll have a new friend.

I don't want to write about you anymore
and maybe I'll stop.
It's not a question of what happens on my side but a question of what happens on yours.

-
Yesterday at school,
as I was walking through the halls,
a girl, (who I do not know the name of for sure, but that's not important right now) before walking past me looked up and into my eyes as they were already intent on her.
She was beautiful,
you must understand.
And her eyes pierced through the fog that the melancholy environment of the school had left upon the halls.
And when she smiled, I swear all else around me stopped,
all things inside me rapidly expanded,
filling my body with an awkwardly warm feeling.
When I smiled back to her without meaning to I remembered looking into the mirror that morning and seeing my face, with it's too large nose and it's skin invaded with acne and a few scars and even fewer whiskers.

All these vain trifles of mine own face quickly evaporated from my mind as her eyes made their way back in.
I looked down at the ground around her feet and noticed nothing but her feet.
Covered with black China flats which were covering black tights that wove their way up her calves and thighs where they disappeared under a brown backed floral dress which again, stood under a denim jacket.
******* my short casket of knowledge when it comes to women's clothing
but God ****** if I don't know a stunning girl when I see one. If I see one, and I saw one.

My eyesight slowly wandered up again to her eyes
and thinking back on it now I am wondering how I had enough time to take such a clear mental picture and save it in my smoke filled brain.
And as I looked up I found her eyes again, looking back at me.

She continued smiling and said hi.
I continued smiling and more or less grumbled hi.

We each continued walking in our own, opposite directions.
I don't know her name.

And I have a friend named Fiona who played a tree in our school's production of Wizard and Oz.

Every time, I pass by an In-N-Out I remember that night we went to a show in Sacramento.
You, driving your van full of people and hopes and laughs and drugs,
pulled up in front of the school around 5 o'clock on a rainy January afternoon.
I hopped in, immediately overwhelmed by the love I took the back seat to myself.
In front of me was Jena, wearing her blue and purple sweater that I always will remember by.
Next to her was Fritz, dressed in his usual attire consisting of a hoody and jeans.
Next to him was Shelby, a girl I had not had the pleasure of spending time with before that night.
She didn't say much throughout the whole night nor has she since then.
Riding shotgun was Dylan, another person I had not hung out with before. He was busy mixing shisha and hash oil and I don't blame him for not saying hello.
And you, Tyler, you were driving. And as we drove with the windows down, your hair whipped around.

Almost as soon as we were on our way, I was packing spliff, courtesy of Shelby into a pipe, courtesy me.
We got it burning, just as we reached the highway and not long after that the hookah, courtesy Fritz, was slowly burning the hash-shisha concoction, courtesy Dylan.
I remember not saying much, except when we sang along to some rap song that I could not tell you the name of now.
And at one point, after the spliff had all been smoked and quick hooka session  had concluded Dylan turned around and asked me something I could not make out.
I replied back to him with a what and he again asked an non-understandable question, only this time I said "Sorry, I can't hear you, I'm really high."
Everybody in the van laughed and Tyler said she loved me and Fritz patted me on the back and Shelby turned around and smile at me.
Maybe a half hour after we left we stopped at In-N-Out for some beautiful Double-Doubles.
Once we got our food we began to understand that we had ordered not Double-Doubles but regular hamburgers. Albeit we were very put off by this, it did little to ruin our night.

I can only remember brief portions of that night.
I remember being dropped off at the curb of a punk rock show Shelby and I were attending.
I remember meeting our friends Lukas and Dakota, who are dating, inside.
I remember standing watching the bands, thinking of God knows what.
I remember walking two blocks to a parking lot the van was parked in.
I remember getting in, again overwhelmed by the love and this time, smoke.
I remember Lukas and I went outside to smoke a cigarette.
I remember a local coming up to us and asking us for a light.
I remember talking to him about something. The weather, perhaps.
I remember hugging Lukas good bye and getting in the van.
I remember falling asleep.
I remember waking up at a gas station where the tank was filled, courtesy Fritz.
I remember getting home.
I remember the laughs
and the smoke
and Lukas
and Fritz
and Tyler
and Jena
and Shelby
and Dakota
and Dylan.
I remember the love.

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 am
confused.

It isn't the first
time.
And it won't be the
last.

Would it be too brazen
for
me to say
it.

I feel that it
would
be slightly out of
place
for me to say
it.

But I like '
you.
And nothing can change
the
way I feel right
now.
Except maybe a
cigarette
and a hundred
more,
and also a
kiss
and a thousand
more.

Red shoes on black carpet.
She skips across the floor, hands together pulling her small body forward.
From room to room she hustles, skirt all about her, not bothering to fix her hair.

I can see her in my dreams, with unclouded eyes she looks back at me.
She smiles at me in my dreams, and when I dream of her withdrawls do not wake up.

She is my *****.
She is more beautiful than the flower
and has the *** appeal of the powder.

My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
The smoking and drinking and snorting and fighting and drinking and crashes and drinking were not good for him.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One summer, when he was 16, everyday he would take a bottle of wine from his mother's liquor cabinet, buy a pack of cigarettes at the corner store, meet up with his friend Mario, who also stole a bottle of wine, and together they would ride down to the river and smoke and drink and swim. Everyday, for a full 1970's summer they did this.
And now he tells me, that at the time they were having fun and they were not worried about money or addictions or the future.
They were just having fun.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One day, in the dead of fall 1981, he and his friends Mario, Mark, ****** and John all got together at Mark's apartment on the corner of 51st and Diablo boulevard. They hit the town, drank, snuck into movie theatres, harassed girls and had a good time. They returned to Mark's apartment at 2 am and thought it a good idea to steal Mark's mom's new car. They decided to go to Reno.
Driving, as my dad put it, well above the speed limit on Highway 49, they collided head on with a big rig. There were no fatalities but my dad broke his shoulder and suffered a minor concussion. Mark's mom chose to not press charges nor did the driver of the big rig. The next day my father was back at work, refusing to adhere to the doctor's orders of taking it easy and wearing a soft cast, entrapping his left arm against his chest, climbing under cars, changing oil, and repairing engines.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One cold winter's day, in December of '82, my father's ever faithful companion, Mario, picked my father and his dog, Wimpy, up and they drove over to a small burger joint named Big A's. My father ordered two bacon cheeseburgers and a large rootbeer. Mario got the same, only with a single bacon cheeseburger. My father father gave his second bacon cheeseburger to his pitbull Wimpy.
My father was better to his dog than he was to his own body.
Now, my father coughs himself to sleep every night, and has chronic bronchitis. His liver and kidneys are shot and he plans to not live passed sixty. He will be turning fifty in two weeks.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.

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.

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.

The only thing left
in this mind of mine
is self destruction.

I know not how I strayed
so far from mother's teachings.
And I know not where I
shall end up.

I only know where I will find
my next fix at.
And I know how long
8 of these pills will last me.
(three days.)

I could place my finger
on this map
and tell you what country it is on.
Yet you could not point
at the crowd
and find one person who loves me.

Albert Camus
said that the only question that
truly matters
must be answered before
there can be discovery,
growth and love.
That question is whether or not to continue one's life.

Unlike the affects of vicodin and *****,
I know not the answer to this question.
And I suppose I will
find the answer,
or die trying.
Just as I did with the mixing
of my two favorite elixirs.
And what a lovely combination they have become.

Hemingway wasn't cutting it
soI cut three lines
and blew them in rapid succession.

I put on Vampire Weekend and jacked off
to a picture of you until my **** hurt.
It's night like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me wonder why I started using.
Not even high enough
to sleep,
I stumble around my room
as my ****** nose leaves stains on my carpet.

I try to keep my room clean
and I try to stay clean
and I try to use clean words
but it's nights like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me a ******* loser.

It's night like these
and it's words like yours'
and it's **** like Tommy's
and it's music like Ezra's
and it's loneliness like mine
when I want to not wake up in the morning.
If I ever fall asleep.

It's on nights like these
when I wish I could press replay.

I remember how you looked
in your black dress
and I remember how you kissed
with your red lips
but I cannot remember how it felt
to hold your swollen heart.

Stop killing time
and it will stop killing you.

I am a liar,
I lied, I lied, I lied, I
lied. I am lying.

There is nothing in this world that held my interest as much as you did.
But now you're gone and I've been floating around.
Wandering between groups and people, drugs and couches, love and hate.
And now, I am nothing,
The alcohol brings stink to my breath,
the hate brings bitterness to my thoughts,
the love brings regret to my life.
You brought these things to my life.
I shouldn't blame you
I shouldn't be that pathetic as to blame you for not getting my life in order.
But your voice will never leave my head,
your love will never leave my heart,
your face will never leave my nightmares.
Nothing will ever hold my interest as you once did.

When the nights are hot
and the doors are locked
and I'm not with you
I begin to wish for
a thousand more kisses
and a million more songs to remind me of you.

I wish for it to be November again.

Once a girl told me I kiss like I'm in a hurry
and I wasn't sure how to feel about that.

When I kiss you I feel as if
you're trying to fit a lifetime of kisses
into one single breath
and I feel as if
I never want to breathe again.

Maybe this will be my year.


*Maybe not.

Nothing is more gratifying,
than my friends talking
about you and me.

The truths of you and me
and the predictions
and the destination.

I went to a wedding tonight.
My mother was the Maid of Honor
and I was the drunken teenager.

My mother's best friend of many years
was marrying her best friend of a few
and I took advantage of the open bar.

My sister brought a blackberry pie
my mother a speech
and I got to hear about how much I reminded everyone of my father.

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.

I've already smoked most of my cigarettes while the night (along side my six pack of Angry Orchard Hard Cider) is still young.
The stars are outside
and in a few moments
when my head clears a bit I will join them.
I have so many places I could go.
In fact, the options are limitless.
There's the church parking lot across the street,
or the forest beyond it, hiding pleasant little benches to sit upon.
There's my favorite spot as of late
which is simply a bucket which sits next to my truck which sits in my parking spot on the street.
There's always my truck, which could take me to many far away places but I've already had a few beers and don't trust myself to that.
I could stay inside, and not greet the stars.
I could simply stuff a towel under my door, turn the fan on, face it out the window and smoke
but the house is stupidly hot and the stars, I would miss.
I could also stay inside,
write what i call ****** poetry
and what one beautiful girl cried about
and not smoke.
Bud *******, I want a cigarette.
Looks as if the bucket will be seeing me soon.

Jeremy Duff woke up as he usually does on a Tuesday morning.
With the alarm clock blaring he lifted his right arm from off his wife's chest.
He stood up, covered his wife's bare torso with the purple, fuzzy, comforter and walked to the bathroom, naked.
He turned on the sink so hot water would begin to pour out.
After completing his usual morning routine of shaving, dressing, smoking, and eating, respectively, Jeremy began his walk to work.
It was, on a typical day, and this was a typical day,  a twelve minute walk.
He lit a cigarette the moment his feet hit the sidewalk. It was the first of, on a typical day, thirty-eight.
Jeremy worked on the 27th floor, which he thought of as funny as he pressed the "27" button, as he did on any typical day. His job was to edit spelling on essays before they would be turned in for final inspection. Then, as his boss put it, if the writers were lucky, they would see the essays in the next issue of Story Magazine.
He sat down in his office, lit his third cigarette of the day, and looked at the large stack of papers in front of him. If he was lucky, Jeremy thought, he could get halfway through the stack and take his 10 early, to see his wife. The first one on the stack was entitled "The Young Folks." It had a blue sticky note on it reading "Vignette, Salinger, Jerome David, 1,794 words."
Jeremy read it, purely aesthetically, looking only for spelling mistakes. Finding none, he put a quick check on the blue sticky note. Mr. Duff lit his 5th cigarette and read the story again. It was phenomenal. He read it a third time, while smoking his 6th cigarette. Jeremy finished the first half of the stack and lit his 9th cigarette. He grabbed the story by Salinger and began his walk home. His wife greeted him at the door with kisses. He showed her the story. She read it, read it again and told him it was great. She just didn't understand, Mr. Duff thought.

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.

You sing songs
of unrequited love
but you know not
on that subject.

You sing songs
of longing
but you know little
on that subject.

Oh God,
I love you,
oh how I've loved you,
oh you disrespect and belittle me.

It's two am.
It's snowing outside.
Cars drive by more frequently then they should.
It's Christmas morning.
I'm at the 7/11.
I'm standing under the awning outside.
I'm smoking a cigarette.
It's my 19th since my shift started.
My shift started at 9 pm Christmas Eve.
I'm getting paid time and a half to enjoy the snow and the cars and the cigarettes.
I hear the bell ring.
I'm alerted to a customer.
I put out my cigarette.
I step inside.
Inside it is warm.
The customer is a young man.
The young man has dark orange hair.
He is wet and he is not smiling.
He asks me if we have any one gallon containers.
I tell him no, we do not sell those here, we have a payphone out back if you need one.
He says no, thanks.
He walks over the soda machine and grabs a 72 oz cup.
He asks me if he needs to pay for it.
I say no and ask him if he is broke down.
He says yes, about a mile and a half down the highway.
I tell him I'll give him a ride.
He appears to think about it for a moment.
He says thank you.
While I lock up the station he fills his 72 oz cup with the cheap gasoline.
I finish up and walk to the car.
I unlock the car and sit down.
He sits down.
We drive and he says stop, there's my car.
I pull over and he gets out.
He pours the gas into the tank.
He starts his car.
I drive back to the gas station.
He follows.
I open up the gas station.
He purchases $36.79 worth of gas.
He says Merry Christmas and drives away.
I go outside and light up a new cigarette.
It's now 2:24 am.
The snow is coming down harder.
The cars appear unchanged.

The mere idea of your person
is a tonic, potent enough to intoxicate.
And intoxicated I will be
as long as your words
roll of your lips
and ring in my ears.
It's hard to say
but it's easy to feel:
all I want is you
and all I need is a chance.

A connection made is a chance for it to fail,
and some thing never loving is better
than taking the chance of losing love.
I could not disagree with these people more.
Perhaps they have never met someone like you
and perhaps they will never.
Perhaps they have never been drunk
off lust
or perhaps they refuse to alter their
state of consciousness enough
to allow lust to manifest itself
into a physical ache.
More than mental yearning,
I can feel it in my gut;
pulsing and pounding,
feeling its way to every corner of my body.

Perhaps the brandy is actually what's intoxicating me;
for every glass I drink
the pulsing becomes quicker,
the pounding becomes harder
and the feeling reaches parts of my body
I didn't know could feel.

~

It was a Saturday morning.
We got cigarettes around 10:00,
***** around 10:30 (they just wouldn't leave the liquor isle),
and drunk around 11.
We didn't stop drinking
and smoking
until we ran out.

High as the low lying clouds
that rained upon us,
we walked
the streets of the town we were born in.

They have a word for boys like us.
Probably a few,
but we don't need to get into that.
Time ******,
highs fade,
wallets empty
and we got drunk at 11 on a Saturday morning.
They have words for boys like us.
Bums,
hoodlums,
punks.
Whatever,

It was a Saturday morning and we had pie for breakfast.

I'm a vampire girl and you're my meal,
you know that you are.
I'm ******* on your neck,
like it's happy hour at the bar.
Wait, that doesn't make sense,
who drinks alcohol through a straw?
To each their own, just as long
as your quick on the draw.
Gunslinger,
shooting down clouds like *****,
popping pills,
turning fake nerds into mince-meat.
Shepard's pie,
with extra cheese,
thank you very much,
did I forget to say please?
Where are my manners?
You know I adore you,
I'll do that thing with tongue
and you know I'll show you.

"I guess I am doing a good job at biting my tongue."

If you only knew how much you were hurting me.
If only I could snap back with something equally as hurtful.

I wouldn't if I could.
It would be inappropriate.
Undeserved.
Regretted.

I'm sorry I've been so rude.
I'm sorry my cigarettes ran out,
I'm sorry I haven't been sleeping.
Plagued with nightmares of you.

I'm an *******.
But I will never apologize for that.
I will never apologize for who I am.
What I believe in.
What I do.

But most of all,
*I'm sorry

Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.

She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.

I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.

She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.

She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.

Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;

With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.

She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.

She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.


Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.

I'm better.
Better than I was
two months ago,
a year ago.

I'm worse.
Worse than I was
two days ago,
a month ago.

I'm trying,
to stop using
people and substances.

Oh! the same old song:
Chorus:
People and substances x 4
First Verse:
Using until I've used all there is,
Trying until I've tried my best,
Using until I've used the remainder of this,
Trying until I've tried the rest.
Chorus
Second Verse:
Some days go slow
and some go fast.
So days are mellow
and some are brash.
Chorus
Drum break
Third Verse:
Using until there's nothing left
Trying hard, but it ain't my best
Stolen: Integrity!
Reward for information regarding theft.
Chorus
Repeat chorus with slowing tempo
and volume until song fades
into misshapen and misplaced drums.

Even though I knocked them over
I walked in to find empty beer cans
stacked to form a tower on the table.

The air smelt of cigarettes and secret connotations.

A small house filled with many beautiful people
and many different kinds of alcohol
on a cold Saturday night.

**** and bad intentions littered the floor.

I can't help but shake the feeling
that something went wrong and that
she isn't smiling the way she used to.

You pushed me down and I couldn't help the words of gratitude spilling from my lips as you picked me back up.

Will this pain go away if I **** myself?
Will I finally get some sleep?
Will my headache finally go away?
Will my addictions go away?
And will my hate leave me?

Will this pain go away if I **** myself?
Will there be anything for me?
Will this world miss me?
Will this world follow me?
And will death welcome me?

Will this pain go away if I **** myself?
Will there be love in my heart?
Will these meaningless trifles disappear?
Will the world ever be good?
And will my death help?

Steal yourself my dear.
Bite your tongue and not your lip.
We shall begone by dawn and forever more.

This place holds nothing more for us.
This town is full of memories hollowed by hate.
Steal yourself my dear.

Quick kisses in the halls.
In the theater.
Behind the gym.
At the football game.
At the parties.
In abandoned houses.

There is nothing for us here but quick kisses.
Lost feelings.
And the past.
Most of all the past.

all of my dreams have been about kissing you
                                                                         or dying.
it's haunting to know that these two things are what i have been craving most.
even more haunting is the fact that i cannot have both,
                                                                                        i have to choose.
                                          theme
there has been a common             in my life:
                                                                       choices have been
                                                                                                    my downfall.

since i have had this terrifyingly awesome power of choice i have abused it.
i have used it for nothing but personal gain,
                                                                      personal harm.
once i learned of the ability i posses to harm
it has overwhelmed me.
when i cause another grief it haunts me,
                                                                pursues me to my dreams and beyond.

guilt is a motivating factor in my life.
not more so than love,
                            hate.
but it is still powerful.

                                  i am not able to function properly.
                                  i get drunk
                                  i pass out on the couch
                                  i fall asleep with cigarettes burning in my hands
                                  i break my own heart, but watch out
                                  i'll break yours too.