now that territory outweighs tolerance,
we all just march in search of conquest,
for it is this that we were born to do.
no one questions this so called 'truth,'
we just read outdated books and call them proof.
for the right to destroy, we'll accept any view.
give me this and give me that
and put the rest up on a rack
on the off chance i run out of things to consume.
we're getting bloated and overfed
but that still doesn't leave any time to rest
because this isn't enough, and i need a bigger room.
so i'll just take yours and when i'm done, i'll take his,
and what i can't take, i'll drown in my **** . . .
no matter what, it will all be marked as mine.
and when the devil takes us up to show what we could have,
we'll say, 'we fooled you!  we took all we could nab.
you've got nothing to offer us, so get in the ******* line,
like everyone else we've got tagging along,
weeping and praying, singing spiritual songs,
and waiting for us to throw them a bone.'
because everyone knows territory outweighs tolerance . . .
it's easy to believe if you have no conscience,
and you're willing to spend your life in your mind, alone.
so that's what we do:  march about and consume
and destroy and defile and declare it as truth,
and ignore anything that points to something else.
because where ever we go there is never peace,
we just breed violence like a ******* disease
and pretend there is no such thing as a Self.
because like mitochondria, we're ensuring growth
and what's it to us if we leave dashed hopes
trailing behind in our wake?
get in the line, or lay down and die,
but whatever was yours now is called mine,
and i'm already looking for something else to take.

it broke while i was sleeping.
tangled around my wrist
the sheets
my heart.
i had no right
to sleep
with so much at stake.
i could fix it
with a knife
a pair of pliers
(and no real skill at all)
but is that really what it takes
to salvage a relationship
these days?
what it means to me
is not what it meant to her
but what it means to us
is greater than us both.
is it meant to be broken?
am i meant to fix it?
should i have even worn it
day in
day out
for all of these trying years?
creeping up on a decade
since i have seen her face
i still wear the ******* thing
as if nothing ever changed
and even i
don't know what that means.
it broke while i was sleeping.
i should have stayed awake.

they spur us on with mock encouragement.
a goal like a carrot
dangling like a participle right before our eyes.
and the tragedy and the misery
and the waylaid things
and the guilt they bring
storm around inside.
and the light that hides just seems to bind
when i can not make it shine.
but, 'on,' they scream,
'you must go on!'
they will not let it go.
i guess the mud doesn't seem such a bad place to rest
when you can't seem to lift your head.
so we strive for some vague representation
of something we saw on t.v.
and the time just ticks away.

so look at us now . . . they're selling us war!
pick it up at the most convenient store.
and now no one is paying attention.
forcing it on unwilling consumers
flooded the vast spectrum of media with rumors
these weapons of mass destruction
are just one big ******* mass destraction
and look! there's no one paying attention.
we've all turned our heads
in some middle easternly direction
a more reasonable enemy than our own ******* poverty.

but don't speak now, for we have not the time.
just look.
or march.
but be quiet.
and so we set sail
to ****** ourselves
as the majority disagree.
and we fumble around in our pockets
and shift our eyes to the sidewalks
and step over cracks and break our own backs
for our orange and coveted prize.
but who gets the laugh when we all realize
our surprise was just death in an edible disguise
and a grave is a grave, regardless of whom it holds?

'on,' they cry, and 'on,' they cry,
so shuffle, and sigh,
and avert your eyes
from the light that hides
and will never shine
on anything we do
until we forget these disgusting concepts
of death as a path to the truth.

‘Puts Me to Work’ echoes through the house,
Cate Le Bon’s voice bouncing off the walls.
I can almost see it, storming down the hallway,
Barging out of the bathroom.

This floor is ******* freezing.

I can see my reflection in the shiny wood;
A circle of condensation that grows and shrinks
As I breathe in and out.

‘But I know that you’re there,
‘cause you’re making it hurt.’

Entire galaxies are swirling in the shaft of setting sunlight
Streaming through the broken blinds
At right angles, sharp and sudden.
Solar systems shift and spiral,
Exploding every
Time I take a breath.

A lake is forming by my chin.
I wonder if it is clear and wet
Like swimming,
Or white with froth and paste
Like winter.

I stop wondering when the shivering becomes me.

‘It puts me to work . . . puts me to work.
It puts me to work . . . it puts me to work.’

The song has been repeating for an hour now.
I used to really like the end.
Something like forty-five-minutes-ago.

I wonder if the battery will die soon.

I wonder not if I will die soon.
Preoccupied with galaxies and spirals and the little spot of condensation
Forming and unforming as I breathe.
With the frozen lake I feel cold enough to be skating across
In these baggy shorts and this tattered t-shirt
From a Nirvana show last century.  

The battery doesn’t die, and Cate Le Bon comes racing around the house again.

I close my eyes and sigh.

striving for simplicity
has starting seeming
quite similar to settling
for much, much less.
i suffer this stubborness
       like some plague;
some ***** scared of searching
for a saviour, or a cure,
unwilling to forgo the laws
that make him shout, 'impure!'
or 'unclean!' or 'run away,
******* run away!
i am death and his son hopeless,
and we've come out to play.'
an answer waiting underneath
every leaf and stone
and every molecule he breathes
on the wind when he's alone,
tickling his seeping wounds
and begging him to see . . .
i'm here, i'm here . . .
look here . . . see me.
but instead of living hopefully
looking for answers
that want to be seen,
just writhing in pain at the sting of the breeze,
and cursing and moaning
and spraying forth death
so stubborn and stupid with every breath
that's me, that's me . . .
that's me . . . that's me.
a *****'s disposition
on a long dead, lifeless heart
afraid of hoping for a change,
a cure, a fairy's pond
stubborn like a stone
so stupid and stubborn with every breath . . .
a glass of porter left behind on the bar,
flat and forgotten,
forsaken, weak, and wasted . . .
that's me, that's me . . .
that's me . . . that's me.
so stubborn and so selfish,
never reaching, never finding
the simplicity i supposedly
believed might save my life . . .
an excuse to surrender
and to squander and forsake
every opportunity
that would ever come my way
until my talents are just rusty tools
in the back of some toolshed
in some swamp in new new orleans
in the background of my head.
i have long since lived too many years
to believe i am owed more
and i have yet to do one single thing
that's been worth fighting for,
and sticking to and seeing through
and working at until
it pays off and releases me
from my hopeless, bankrupt will.
a ***** with a strange and stubborn
sense of salvation
my days are leaking right through my skin,
and dripping their decaying death
along a trail stretched out behind me . . .
a path that's leading nowhere,
made from nothing, with no one along its way . . .
potential in hunks littering both sides
in different stages of decay.
stubborn, and selfish,
but some will must still remain
in the corner of some toolshed
in the bog that is my brain.
a cleansing of the soul, or a
katrina of the mind
my freedom must be lurking somewhere,
for i am still alive.

suddenly ***
is a conscious decision.
i don't like it,
and neither does she . . .
but it is what it is,
and what it is
is something neither of us
should have.
i blew out my voice
on the first three songs
and ended the night
rolling and bleeding in the street.
so i guess it was
a good show,
no matter how it sounded.
my stomach hurts
and my brain won't work
and the rest of me couldn't possibly care less.
the disappointment
is nothing
compared to the loss
i did not know i could feel.
where is the joy that came with emptiness?
the feeling of
hey . . .
you're you.
i'm me.
that's enough.
it's never enough.
and still, i couldn't care less.
i was laughing, there
in the street
rolling back and forth
and back
and forth
and bleeding, for all to see.
laughing, because i couldn't stop thinking
there was just as much of a chance
a car would come
and see me to the end
as there was of the nothing
that came.
i rolled, i bled,
i blew out my voice,
and no one noticed but me.
my throat hurts,
and she looks away.
suddenly ***
is a conscious decision
and one i am not prepared to make.

a million little miracles
standing in a line
laughing at the little man
who chooses not one time.

crowded, there.
elbows and hellos and farewells.
dream
after
           dream
after dream
withering
decaying in a flash of images
of people that will never be
and chances that will never be
taken.
encounters
that will never
                                  occur.

again, a new dream
stands up to take his place.
his place,
and the air rushes in
to fill the gap
where the old dream is no longer,
and the new dream has yet to be.
the air rushes in,
closes in,
fills it all in
and when the disappearing dream
declines all else but its own
                         decay
it blinks.
vanishing into a single point of
                            light
                                   a frozen face
                                                a
                                         fractured
                                                 (smile)
a piece of god
                       of self
                                    of soul
and when it
blinks
it winks
it darks
               and it is gone.
the dream is
                                                                                              worse than dead.
                                               the dream is
            worse than gone.
                                             it simply never was.
it simply                                                                                            never was.

the air rushes in
again
always filling in
and the new dream swells with pride.

i
am the dream
that will make
the miracles
and save this man
from the self he
secretly serves.

the new dream opens its eyes.

the air
          rushes
                       out,
                              grows thin,
                             breath becoming ragged
before it has even begun.
eyes tear.
drip and run and **** sadness
and water and cloud
at the heat
left behind
in the wake of the evaporating atmosphere.

refusing to gasp or swat at tears,
the dream stands straight and tall.
i
am the dream
that will make
the miracles
and save this    
man
from the              
self  
he secretly serves.

one moment of attention
a second’s worth of will
and the air would be endless and free.
the dream would be endless and free.

before blinking
the first
(and only)
time,
the newborn eyes
                                                                         swollen, itching
                                                                                                eyes
grow wide in unfeigned horror.

dream after dream
from the footprint under his shoe
to the ****** horizon
of crimson and death and loss
stood screaming.
                           dream after dream after dream
                                        standing and screaming and
weeping
clamoring to be heard.
a cacophony
                                                               so loud
                                                    
                                                     so very ******* loud

his newborn crusting eyes
saw the sound
through the red tint
of sorrow
and loss, the tint
that in mere moments
had become
the only vision he would ever know.
saw the sound
he
saw the sound
so loud
               the fragile air
pulsed and scattered, convulsing.
the sound so loud, he saw it
before the sensation
                                of hearing
                                                  occurred.
before hearing
before blinking
but weeping, always,
                                                                                                  weeping . . .
he saw the screams of all the dreams
through eyes that leaked decay.

                                                       one instant.

one flashbulb spark
second in time
to give this dream
(any dream
any of these dreams
any ******* dream at all)
breath.

one second to pause
to give
one thought
to give
one chance
to give one breath.
to give. to give.

and the air would be endless and free.
the air and the dream,
both endless,
and free.

                                                    i am the dream
he chokes,
                                                                                              his eyes burn and
                                                                                                              weep,
                                                                                               itch and weep
                                               that will make this man
                                                                                                            he cries,
ears ringing
forsaken dreams
******* screaming
crimson and ****** and loud
                                                 save the miracles
                                                 he secretly serves
he shrieks,
                                                                                                 hands clenching
                                                                                                  into futile fists,
                                                  &

100 milligrams of flexeril
to relax my beating heart
until the muscle stops
flexing
beating
pumping.

100 milligrams of restoril
and maybe
finally
i can sleep.

maybe
i can finally sleep.

waking up has become such a chore
such an unpleasant experience
and if this doesn't stop it,
nothing will.

flexeril and restoril
and 45 milligrams
of methadone
because all i could score
was four and a half pills.

30 milligrams of phenagren
just to make sure
i can keep it all down.
i heard you could use
dramamine
but hey,
who wants to risk it?

i've taken my last chance.

15 milligrams of xanax
and if i can make it
for another hour or so
i won't even remember
what i've done.

this will end with a clean slate,
me on the floor
*******,
saying mother,
mother,
what the **** did i do?

if i can speak at all.

290 milligrams
to prove
this is not
a cry for help.

these bars of bone
this fence of flesh
this cage that holds me in
i sweat and shake
and cry and moan
it crawls across my skin.

caricature fades
the roles he plays
the act that he puts on
what's underneath,
it's small.  it's weak.
it's dopesick, and alone.

forget the fright
the fear of night,
and all the mares they bring
to gallop through
your frozen frame
and teach you how to scream.

don't try and dream
don't try and think
don't even try to sleep.
just let the horsemen
do their thing.
just lie alone and weep.

and as the war
plays out inside
your body, and your mind
you take the past
you burn it up
you take what you can find.

i welcome you
to hell, my friend.
just dive right in the flames.
learn your demons well,
my friend,
and call them by their names.

another newport, another bowl, another drink
to see me through.
another sedative to seperate
me from you.
this is how it's always been, i suppose it's safe to say
this is how it'll always be.
don't say you learned it from me . . .
we've watched t.v. since we could see.
since we could see.

more and more, i must admit,
i'm amazed
by our general lack of concern
for the mess we've made.
i was always led to believe
things would change.
now i'm just numb to the whole ******* thing . . .
is that so strange?
you're only blind
to what you elect
not to see,
so shut up and smile . . .
and call it happy.
happy.

we've sold our souls for this:
ignorant bliss.

don't mistake this for blame.
i'm just as guilty as you!
the question now is,
what the hell do we do?

i never knew that bliss
could taste so much like ****.

she stalks from room to room
talking of imminent doom
and the flowers in her hair
would be pretty if they dared
she covers with a sheet
every mirror that she meets
and it's not hard to see
this ain't got **** to do with me.


don't you think
if this was about
me and you
one of us would surely be
amused


and all the people that we hate
are the only ones
we know how
to imitate


i watch her storm all through the house
i'm as quiet
as a mouse
and i just can't help but think
if i could only sober up
we could be done with this
whole thing.

another day, another week, another month, another year,
another high, another low, another dream, another fear . . .
another song, another phrase . . . another day.

another day, another night, another dark, another light . . .
another shake, another sweat; another gasp, another breath.
another day.
another day.
another day.

it doesn't seem like it's been ten years . . .
an entire decade, washed out with so many tears, and i . . .
and i . . . and i
can't believe you were there and i was there and the way we saw the truth
lay itself bare, and i . . . and i
can't forget how it was, when i shake in the night,
and the dark
refuses to give way to the light,
and i shake,
and i sweat,
and i cry.

and the drugs haven't worked for months, and i am
losing my grip on all that i am,
and i don't expect anyone to understand,
but Everything that i Love
just Dies.

and i don't mean to sound harsh,
but i am . . .
so i do.
and i don't give a **** about the reasons that you
had for feeling the way that you did at the
time.
and i won't ask you to look me in the eye,
and i won't ask
if you shake and if you cry
and if you sweat,
and pray to ******* god that you don't
die
like i do.
like i do . . .
like i do . . .
like i do.

another day, another week, another month, another year,
they just pass by, another week, another year, another year.
another day, another day . . .
another day.

anything less than everything
is something less than nothing
less than nothing
less than
nothing
and the rhyme goes on and on.
beauty takes a detour
through loneliness
with silence in the backseat, sitting, staring,
still, the road goes on and on.
her stomach was a contour map
crags and valleys
and fault lines
creeping toward each horizon.
the beauty bewildered me
overwhelmed me
blinding and sacred and innocent,
hiding every
time she took a breath.
“Don’t look at my belly,”
she whispered,
as my eyes traced every crack.
following every line,
riding the highways of her flesh
from
one side to the other
one end
to the beginning and
back again.
“i love it,”
i whisper,
“i love everything about it.”
less than something.
less than everything.
less than nothing.
less than
no    thing
less
than nothing.
the silence should have been a warning,
and sometimes,
i will think it was.