My frail form grows frailer,
   sounds of gunshots,
   these parties end on the grounds,
and when your gaze turns to shades of grey
   how many tears can I kiss away?

We blend,
   amidst friends, fantasy, and fiction,
   there never is proper disdain or diction
for our survival skills in the midst of storms,
   will your love abound as distance norms?

There are symphonies in fingertips,
   while bombs scatter the dust of human kindness,
   fetal screams trickle down
and jab the meaning of heartache,
   can you avoid faults and breaks?

I intend to give you majesty,
   though I'm not a man of wealth,
   I'm still a man of means,
turbulent maybe the times,
   but we agree on dying with the end rhyme.

The light quit working in the jukebox,
the melodies' surrender,
a commonplace extinction,
against the salt and the breeze
of your false Mediterranean.

The burden of your rational soul
in a world of extremes
has torn your spirit to tatters-
tatters littered across
your Toronto abode.
Divided amongst the heirlooms
and emptied bottles.
This desolation you
sought to translate
for the harmonious pulse
of the dial tone.

Hazy,
is this ancient mind,
a smoking fallout of
yesterday's parties
to be discussed over
lukewarm coffee
and cigarette butts,
while the shivering streams
and green plains become
commodified for a higher power.

Dan, my dearest friend,
I loved you
ferocious and freely,
fanged and supremely,
and as your mind coagulated
on a couch,
microphone in-hand,
I felt nostalgic for
your clumsy alcoholism,
and clumsier guitar strumming.

The white fog descends,
the city is hungry--
no longer can it expand.
Toronto eats itself
with you inside,
shall I write you a postcard?
Shall I kick down your door?
Shall I let you join the bones
you so beautifully alluded to?

Whisper, my friend,
amidst the soft croon of
the saxophone,
whisper, my friend,
of a Europe gone defective,
whisper, my friend,
for an apocalypse of sun
to release us all from
the white fog slowly burying
our Toronto.

J.L. had one of those mysterious gland problems.
Some villain gland that made him fatter and fatter;
he was always quick to point it out.

Harvey James invited J.L. over last Tuesday,
during that awful snow that shut down Beecher St.
Anyways, J.L. was supposed to arrive at 6,
however he never had plans and prematurely
arrived at 4:30.

Harvey was occupied with some blonde girl,
who was of a fine leather-tan.
From what Harvey could gather she liked
vampires, pop punk, and sweet tea.
Aside from that her body was okay,
her laugh tolerable, and her eyes were different colors.
The left a sea green, the right a murky grey,
but during a drought Harvey seemed to
settle on whatever vulture was around.

So, J.L. Kreeve knocked on the door.
He heard a bit of a ruckus,
the kind that comes out of computer speakers
when there is nowhere to go.

J.L. tried the door and to his luck it was open.
His entrance was well-timed,
as she let out a final wail,
Harvey gritted his teeth, began panting,
and their bodies collapsed on the sofa.
J.L.'s eyes went wide with
her tan structure.
Her **** seemed to be swinging
like plush dice in a teenager's first car.

"J.L. what the ****, man?"

J.L. continued to stare, stare, stare--
"J.L.," Harvey said firmer, "WHAT the ****?"

"Oh, my forgive me. Forgive me. I'll just step back outside."
And he walked out smiling.

"Sorry about that Whitney."

"Oh no big. It's been worse before. This one time I..."

Harvey tuned out. He hated her. And hated himself
for doing such a *****. He got up, nodding out
of habit and saying things like "oh yes" and "wow" and "I gotcha",-
to which she replied,

"You are like a great listener."

Harvey opened the door since they both were dressed.
J.L. apologized again.
Harvey poured a glass of white wine.
He wasn't much of a fan,
but it was alcohol.
He was trying to lay off the hard stuff
since he had one of those "near-death experiences".

When he came back in,
J.L. was grinning like he was the
smartest ******* on the face of the planet,
and Whitney was letting out little giggles.
Harvey thought perhaps they were having a worthwhile conversation.
He was mistaken.
They were talking about variations of sweet tea
at one of those chain drive-ins.
"Just talking about it is giving me this crazyass craving,"
said Whitney with dumb dimples and blank eyes.

"hahahaha, oh me too," said the 300-pound Clark Gable,
"want to go get some?"

"Oh why the heck not? Harvey, do you want to-?"

"Nah, I got some writing and other **** to do.
You two have fun."

They climbed into J.L.'s car.
Whitney made a comment about all the
sticks of deodorant lying about,
J.L. explained it away perfectly lackluster.

The snow was coming down good at this point.
And they got stuck before they even made it
to their treasure.

They sat in the car.
J.L. only had one CD.
It was some George Michael
disc, he had bummed off his
mother a few weeks ago.
Whitney said something like I'm cold.
J.L. said something like I could warm you up.
She smiled stupidly, unsure what that meant.
J.L. took a gamble and reached for
her right breast.

"Oh, no thanks. Just wanted the tea."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Of course," J.L. let out a deep exhale,
his fingers fidgeted,
he cleared his throat,
and with a weak cordial
smile asked,
"Do you mind getting out to push?"

She's always walking through,
no claws ever get to sink into,
I'm sidelined, foaming, chomping at the bit,
buying bouquets and greeting grins,
there seem to always be too many others around,
we could sneak into the bathroom-discover what the fuss is about,
I remember you dressed all in black,
the second time we collided-- it was the funeral of my tact,
I hope to sweat the summertime to smithereens,
with you, my distant venom queen,
if it happens--what luck,
if not-what the ****?
We sway to stolen melodies in hazy suburban cities,
we fight tooth and nail for the upper hand of witty,
looting,
shooting,
moving in opposite directions in the name of discovery,
do you want to learn revelry?
I do, I do, I do.

I'm walking laps around my apartment complex.
Passing a red-headed girl with a bottle of Corona,
a few Johnny Rebs talking adderall,
headlights, streetlights, lighters,
swirling, combining, but never providing enough bright.
I'm still bearing a slight headache from Saturday night,
but finally past the nausea.

I spent the day conversing with Rachel's family.
The domesticated, scene of warmth was a sharp
contrast to the hell I put Rachel through in
the waning hours of night.

I woke at 9 this morning to find
her barely covered in a ratty,
blanket, no pillow under her
ruffled hair, her eyes burnt red,
asking if I was okay.

I thought she was overreacting.
She shoved water in my face.
She said, "Drink it, ******."
Like she'd tried a few thousand times before,
and apparently she had,
I just didn't remember any of it.

She had saved me around 4.
She cleaned off a death mask
of filthy ***** by force.
I wouldn't comply because
I wasn't coherent.

Tonight as I touch each crack
of the pavement with my sole,
the rest of the human family
is pounding beer, suckling the barbeque
off their pudgy fingers,
and howling at a nation divided between Cheese and Steel.

I'm stuck in the trough of existential contemplation.
Old Mr. Huxley self-medicated with mescaline
and said he discovered the "is-ness", and somehow
found contentedness in "everything is".
That never made much sense to me.
Bukowski found god in ******* and drinking beer.
Vonnegut said when god created the world,
man asked what his purpose was. God was surprised,
and he replied, "I don't know. Make one up."

and saying,
"You signed up for this."
I only speak to myself.
Like most artists,
I barnacle stories out of friends,
without any return discourse,
until they are deflated.
I discard them and search for
the next inspiration.

I go for walks with a dim moon
and shy stars for company.
I see faces through apartment windows,
lit by infomercial-spouting television sets.
I pass neighborhood after neighborhood
bearing rustic names, Pine-this-or-that,
Cedar Bend, or some similar ****;
yet the natural world hasn't been tangible for sometime.

Joy is a mirage that passes with the night and the liquor.
Sunshine turns it to vapor,
as readers crash cars into fellow readers to
better understand empathy.

My collection of the arts does nothing aside from gather dust-
a conversation piece, an aesthetic to allude to-
but nothing of worth or personal weight.

We write to change the world,
to melt swords; to further the slaughter,
but the blood in my mouth has left a bitter taste.
There are always too many mirrors,
and I'm sick of my own face.
If all is vanity,
how is it all capable of breaking me?