rag in your mouth,
sweat gliding
along the contours of your sockets.

lights on.

no pretending.
look at my ******* face.
love only me tonight.

i'm more than alive.
i swear i'll tear your lids
if you so much as close them.

lights on.

"What are you doing here?"

It was the wrong place
for pale, blonde Ms. Molly.
She was into God and other holy things
like Sundays.

2 a.m.

Everybody turned a shade of grey,
meaning nothing to me,
only Molly,
her crystal blue eyes watercolored
by murky bongwater,
at my personal Mother Superior's home.

"What?"

"I said, 'What are you doing here?'"

"Just bored, I guess."

"****. Really?"

"Yeah, this guy-um...****...Chris-no-"

"Brooks" said Brooks.

"Brooks is like a friend of mine. He sits
by me n'stuff."

Somebody put on Neutral Milk Hotel's
"O Comely" and we all sang along.
Innocent, our melody felt like
a jagged kaleidoscope.
I passed the ****, no hit for me, not tonight,
to appreciate Molly's smiles I wanted to be
coherent.

"You know, Josh, it's ******* weird."

"What?"

"That I haven't talked to you in four years,
and then we end up at the same campus,
and we are best friends."

She leaned over and kissed my smokey, worn
cheek. Her lips smooth, fine.
No one around said a word.
Everyone knew she had a man.
But are best friends allowed to
be lovers from time to time?
I ******* hope so.

I am a fading, cynical ****,
that has no room to throw
any advice at anyone.

But just because I don't have room,
doesn't mean I'm not going to give it.

Don't love him completely.
At least don't ever let him see it.
Keep him guessing,
give with restraint,
don't tell him your favorite spots,
let him revel in discovery,
don't trust him,
he'll abuse it,
don't tell him about me,
it will only inspire rolling eyes.

Make him pins and needles,
make him feel frightened,
make him need you,
you deserve to be in control.

Above all love yourself.
That's when you are at your prettiest.

sit, sit, sitting,
sorrowfully laughing
at the conclusion.

sweet, sweet, sweetheart,
i played prophet,
yet was surprised when i called it right.

no, no, yes
i think i will never exist,
just your projection.

do, do, don't
feel guilty, i, the wrecking ball,
finally crashed into myself.

see, see, cease
the reassurance charade,
i just wanted you to mean "i want you".

oh, oh, okay,
i will try to keep my hands at my side,
talk to you polite.

just, just, just
don't turn away, because
if my heart never breaks,
what was the point anyways?

what was the point anyways?
what was the point anyways?
what was the point anyways?

i'll ride the wave.
i'll war civil,
i'll smile,
i'll hold you, dear,
i'll step aside,
i'll drop all analysis,
i'll stay away.

did, did, didn't
i fall at your feet?
did, did, didn't
i lick each of your sores?
will, will, won't
you ever tell me what was the point?

I'm afraid the bombs will never fall,
the summer girls will never return my calls.

I'm afraid I won't claim any kills,
I'm afraid I won't ask when they hand out the pills.

I'm afraid there will be no couplet,
to satisfy the end rhyme.

I'm afraid our movement
is as meaningful as an ellipsis...


All we know is the suburbs,
the mailman,
couches,
Thursday night tv.

All we know is settling down,
settling on a wife,
settling for whatever's on sale,
whatever won't send us to hell.

I'm afraid no one wants me dead,
I'll be alone in a queen-size bed.

I'm afraid Jesus won't come from the sky,
I'm afraid when she can't love me, I'll still try.

I'm afraid every rule was a crime,
all the freedom ends with the end rhyme.

I'm afraid I will drive an SUV,
I will buy my headstone, while still alive...

All we know is the pattern,
work at 9,
Coffee with Cara at 5,
in bed, sleeping pill in head.

All we know is all we know,
a flood of morals,
a cancer spat upon,
by all the greatests that went on before...

The skin of your shoulders,
the skin of my teeth,
tripping tips of fingers,
eyes retreat and re-meet.

We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
you grappled and tore,
bit, I kept it to a dull roar.

You, you did coo,
as I saw nothing through,
coos for crooning,
surreal, surreal, surreal.

Excite the hunter,
excite the huntress,
as we take turns playing the prey.

Levitate the weight,
paw at my soul,
I lick your sores,
and beautify the remains.

We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
returned and renewed
a sense of pulse, a sense of the thrill.

You claim me again and again,
claw into me, spilling my demons,
whispers smoke, chaotic melody.

An overgrown field of sheets
laid flat,
no question, no success or distraction,
panting, panting, panting.

I could kiss you,
but what's the point?

I could never push his kiss
from claimed territory.

I could hold you,
but it would only remove me.

You would cry into my shoulder,
talk about what he "used to do",
I'd be furniture.

A proper fool,
Wiping his tears from your eyes.
Listening, as you re-asked all the whys.

I could tell you I loved you,
but you'd simply say:

"I gave my love to another,
I think of him every ******* day."

I could give you my time or blood,
all of it would equal none.

You are my poison,
and I picked you.

You are my poison,
but I refuse to kiss you.

Don't have friends that work at liquor stores.
They know what's good.
They get it cheap.
They have lots of friends they want you to meet.

I drank so much ***.

Quality ****.

I'm still drunk,
in the morning I hope this makes sense.

Here's what happened:

I went to the store and bought a mop,
our bathroom and kitchen floors are caked with
a various assortment of coffee, cheese, grease, and lots of other
mysterious things.

Clayton shot me a line,
said, "I got the *** you need to try."
I went to his place around 11.

The only honest girl,
the only girl I care to speak to,
the only girl I think I could even be attracted to,
had a heavy heart for her ex-one reemerged,
and all I know is he will make me further obsolete.

I got to Clayton's.
We smoked.
Watched a classic noir film.
Drank. Drank. Drank.

"Want to smoke a hookah?"

"Sure, man. It's whatever."

Off to Nathan's we went.

Nathan lives with a Persian girl
with impeccable skin.

Nathan has a Mexican lady interest,
who I wanted to pin.

I controlled my intake to purgatory states.
I played sweet.
I played collected.
I played drinking games.

I texted another ex.
A different one this time.
She didn't want to come over.
She's smarter than I remembered.

Clayton,
you are my destroyer.
I'll see you tomorrow
to **** myself again.

All God's children,
resting on both their
knees,
doing whoever
they
please,
thrusting boredom away,
dismantling the moonbeams,
dissolving the winter wind,
with a pitiful howl.

We suckled teats,
we dragged our feet,
now we *****
black comedy,
and pace perpetual in the valley.

All God's children,
lifting their hands to the plasma screen,
drinking their own blood,
and feeling
perfectly
guilty
for it.

I haven't shaved in 7-
I guess 8 days,
so it's the perfect time
to put on a pair of jeans
I've worn 4, maybe 5 times
without a proper wash,
I head out for a stroll
into the morning light,
I cross busy city streets
for kicks,
there's an army of running girls,
tan legs,
welcome mat *****,
any other day,
but today,
Keep the feet in steady motion,
a symphony of distant yelps
and funeral sirens,
me in ***** jeans,
gas station,
think about lighting myself on fire,
start to laugh,
keep moving,
a pretty girl and a lion,
let my eyes roll,
as they crawl into hobble
to color themselves
******,
and I walk until
morning gives way to afternoon,
until sidewalk gives way to forest,
my god these noises are tasteful
and frightening,
I think about the faces of pretty girls,
I think about hell,
then promise myself to never
fall in love with anyone
who will ever love me back,
too boring,
I come across cemetery,
find a unique name carved in stone,
the epitaph indicated upstanding character,
"loved with all her might",
all I can say is,
I hope it's contagious, Anna,
I dug a trench by her sleeping place,
I hope it's cool with your man, Anna,
I let my ***** jeans,
I let my wrinkled shirt,
I let my smokey scent,
I let it all sink to soil,
The stars are beautiful, Anna,
I don't know that I've ever seen them
before,
and I don't think I ever want to
see them again.

Anna,
the young lions won't want you
forever.

Eventually you are going to
get tired
of keeping it tight,
of batting your eyes,
of applying the gloss just right.

Anna,
what will you do when the invitation beds
come to an end?

Eventually the lions will settle,
while you gather cobweb and callus,
while you smoke cancer and wallow in cellulite.

Anna,
find a boy who makes you feel like the sun.

Ultimately,
he's the only one who can save your soul
from all the crimes you've done.

I know it's easy to have me.

But if I ever find my way to your pale hands,
please don't take me.

I'd like to go for a stroll
on some empty, November night.
We could complain about the missing stars,
we could quietly sing old soul songs.

And if we get a hotel room,
I'd like to sleep in my jeans,
you can wear anything
as long as it's something.
I want to feel classy,
valued,
and I want the same for you.

I want to wrap up in sheets,
warm each other by the glow of our smiles,
I want to get my fingertips tangled in your hair,
and we'll stick to forehead kisses and whispers.

If we don't heal,
we'll at least escape,
If we can't be innocent
we can at least fake.

Stop looking at me like you look up to me,
and start looking like you're in love with me.

Forget those spiders,
cut yourself free.

Get into my orbit.
Talk me through my destruction.

I'll distract you from yours.
I'll put on that tie you like,

and you will wear that black dress.
We will pretend we invented fashion.

You will get the eyes.
I will get the eyes.

Get into my orbit.
I'll tell you anything you'd like.

I wouldn't mind if you would cover me with night,
and silently rest your head next to mine.

Stop looking at me like you look up to me,
and start looking at me as if you can set me free.

I only see you in fevers of inappropriate dreams,
you only speak to me when everyone else you know is asleep.

I will make coffee,
you will bring a sewing kit.

We will talk about finding the bottom
of the human soul on drunken nights.

We will say **** the indie kids
and the 70s throwbacks.

We will wear swimsuits
when no one is around.

We will talk with good humor
about what we'd say at the apocalypse's final address.

Get into my orbit.
We'll compare scars and run from all our old towns.

Stop looking at me like you look up to me,
and start rewriting yourself with me.

yeah.
u are prettier without me.
i'm cancer.
i'm ****.
i'm a plaster cast of ur ideal man.
i'm empty.
i'm far gone.
i'm ****** music.
i'm death.
u r purity.
innocence.
kindness.
love.
i'm death over and over again.

i won't live much longer.

u deserve a family,
someone who u can pass ur love to.

i'm gone.
i'm gone.
i'm gone.

i loved you more than anyone,
but i started ******* u over and couldn't stand it,
because u were the sweetest person
i ever met.

be happy.
              find someone kind,
                                         someone that is handsome.

let me fall into the shadows
like i was destined to.
   let me dissolve into nothing.
let me die alone.
    
                  whether
rope                or             bullet,

                  whether
alcohol            or             smoke,

let my self loathing conquer.

go on.
keep moving.
ever forward.

i hope u find heaven,
                     i hope u find picket fences.
ur pure.
ur perfect.

i miss u, but can't have u.

because i'm the antichrist.


i'm the apocalypse.


the nails in the crucifix.



the cancer u can't eat.

keep moving.
keep moving.
keep moving.

i love u more than anything and thats why i can't have u,
because i'm satan, and u deserve bliss.

i can't be selfish.

kiss those other boys,
                       they won't let u down.

i will self destruct
                      and worship the memory of u.

My face distorted,
my mouth twisted and
shrieked under the broken remnants
of night.

I shook, shook, shook.
I finally wasn't numb.

Be thankful you didn't see her.
her face did shatter,
her fragile frame quaked,
in her driver's seat immobile,
directionless once again.

We talked outside of coffee shop,
she was cute,
I looked like hell.
"No, no you can't."
She said in reference to my eye's honesty.
"I was supposed to be strong."
She quivered,
Her mouth locked open,
she was more real than I had ever seen her,
through her cracking voice
she spoke with absolute wisdom,
and it magnified my misery.

The previous night found us
on the stairs outside my apartment.
We smoked,
she started a heavy talk,
I was relaxed,
introspective,
ready to release the last
bit of cancer she swore
she could eat.

Two moments cut deeper than
anyone has ever cut me.

The first was when she released
a melancholy howl,
and spit, "You're my best friend"
through the tears and the runoff
from her nose.

The second is when she threw the bracelet.
The reminder would be too much,
then she somehow slipped the "Be the change" ring
into my back pocket.

I didn't want them as reminders either.

I put them next to the mosaic she made me.
The one I never bought a frame for,
the one that pleaded our favorite Beatles track,
"Don't Let Me Down".

I built her up
to let her fall.

A Tower of Babel to wreck through
                                                         ­               secrets,
                                         ­                               nomadic revelry,
                                                        ­                and speaking in barricades.

He was lean,
a hungry coyote,
tattoo'd, cynical,
probably coming down
from smoking a bowl.

"I dig your tattoos."

"Thanks man. I got a few,
I'd like a few more,
but that **** costs a lot of money."

His hair was shaggy,
reaching for his shoulders,
he hadn't shaved in a couple
weeks.

"What does that Asian script
on the back of your neck mean?"

"Oh,
it means Black.
Ya know?
Like my last name.
It's like a ******' football jersey.
Just in case I forget my name."

We walked down
darkened corridors,
he made me nervous.
Not like I'm going to
**** my britches nervous,
but that this guy is older,
wiser, not afraid to say
whatever the hell he wants,
and probably doesn't want
to waste his time, kinda way.

"Nah, dude.
Burch threw me a bone on this one.
I picked up most of my writing from
taking a course on Creative Writing
with Professor Jamison.
The dude was ******* legit.
He went to Yale or some ****.
Two Ivy Leagues anyway.
You would'uh loved him.
He made bank too.
90 grand,
more than anybody else I
know on this campus."

He talked satire,
he talked poetry,
he seemed ready to devour
any unsightly barrier in his way.

"It was nice to meetcha'"

"Hell yeah, you take care of yourself."

Why do I have a feeling that Mr. Black is going to drastically
alter
my life?

I always loved her best,
with her sharp pupils,
irises of oil,
her crimson hair
and
contagious smile,
but that didn't stop
my callused mind
from commanding her, "cease to feel",

but what a gift she gave in return,
the girl I've always loved best,
the first ache in months,
the first spill from my lids,
in a few years,
when she simply returned fire with,
"give me some rest."

Now, I sit calmly, tearing at my hair,
trying to figure which of my so-called friends
can get me to outer space,
for the duration of the rest of my years,
making my gnashing eternity go
down with a little more ease.

I am a miserable ****.

Traffic jam thoughts.
Aimless speech.
Fever dreams,
coffee with no cream,
love with no pulse,
alone at restaurants,
            at grocery stores,
            at parties.

I have no identity.

Shifting shape, black to blue,
trading girls, red hair for Persian skin,
parents and gods,
politicians and lost purpose mobs,
all asking me to be sacred,
                            to be loving,
                            to be trusting,
                            to be active,
                            to have no spine.

All I want is a bit of my own time.

A grenade of change,
to end the coagulation of my brain,
to leave me hungry for anything
other than me,
didn't somebody say I was promised something?
                                            I was going somewhere?
                                            I was unique?

I am the same miserable ****,

As every other miserable ****.

The ******* that cut you off on Highway 62,

The person that complained about too many pickles,
on his precious fast food,

The boy yelling at his baby sister for getting too much attention,

The girl sexting your boyfriend,

The boy sexing your girlfriend,

The generation divorcing everyone it knows so it can fall in love with

itself.

All different,
in exactly the same way.

Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
                   Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
            trafficjamthoughts. traffic. Traffic Jam Thoughts. Thoughts.
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Jam.
thoughts. traffic. trafficjam. trafficjam. traffic jam thoughts.traffic.
traffic jam. traffic, traffic, traffic. I am a miserable ****. Traffic jam.

Every time you are away,
the vultures ask if I'd "like to play",
and lately I tend to say,
"Okay."

They invite me to dim rooms,
we talk about how all our friends
are "old friends",
we talk about ex-boyfriends,
weather, pregnant people,
and potential careers.

They ask if I'd like something to drink,
and lately I tend to say,
"Okay."

So we sip poison,
put on one of their country records,
or play some ****-poor movie,
and I never really say anything.

They ask if I'd like to lay beside them,
and lately I tend to say,
"Okay."

We undress,
push, pull, sweat, hate,
die,
and then the vultures
always make the eyes,
and I always have to
wipe my brow,
clear my throat,
and say,
"Our touch doesn't mean much.
Okay?"

"Purity vital."
I laughed and then spoke,
"****** from the start."

"Last summer I went to this wedding,
and the dude had a black wedding ring.
It was really cool.
And cheap."

"A black wedding ring?"

"Yeah, it was like fifty bucks,
made out of titanium alloy.
The only problem is-"

"I knew there was going to
be a problem."

"No, it's not a big deal, sheeesh.
Now, as I was saying,
the only problem is if the ring
gets stuck on your finger,
they can't cut off the ring.
They have to cut off your finger."

"Yeah, that doesn't sound like a
major problem. Fifty bucks for
a black ring, that looks kinda cool,
only to have it chopped off,
along with your finger."

Saturday night,
I dreamt I killed you.
It felt alright.

This morning,
I missed your smile.
I guess your wit, too.

Tomorrow,
I'll think about our drab conversations.
And will want to **** you again.

all my tuesday nights,
turn to wednesday mornings
before i even try to sleep.

every girl i ever dreamt,
seems to be settling
away from me.

each ounce of energy in my feet,
feels as though it's being traded
for suburban formaldehyde.

all-powerful god,
stolen away by rationale,
and the omniscient google.

every old friend is giving up
on me now,
i've restarted my life too many times.

each passing glance grows to a cold stare,
the americans are wondering
why i'm still fighting it.

all i ever wanted was a piece of pure love,
every cool kid talking up my name,
each word to ring with absolute truth,

but

all i'm getting is older,
everyone getting better at overlooking,
each cell traded for cancer, each dream gone sour.

someone asked why i was never happy
for any notable period of time.

"i need the darkness to appreciate the light."

someone asked why i was never in the neighborhood
anymore.

"i never feel content in one place for more than a day."

someone asked why i was always alone.

"i've been looking for Her."

someone asked if i believed in war.

"i am bored."

someone asked if i struggled with pride.

"i'm on social networking sites."

someone asked if i felt a heavy sense of regret.

"i've gotten over the feeling."

someone asked if i was ready to die.

"no, my head is still full of all the whys."

forehead kisses,
sipped wine,
and curls of incense blanketed
our clumsily sprawled bodies.

it was our first true blue
listening party.

you stole the wine from a roommate
after sneaking in the back door.

i picked up the album at midnight,
i just couldn't wait anymore.

you couldn't finish your second glass,
as we reached the fifth track.

my head was wonderfully light
off the tidal waves of smoke.

this world might be tearing at our hearts,
all the other couples we know might
be falling apart,
but i'm not sure if i'd have any direction
at all without you,
just dig your fingertips into my shoulder blades,
don't give me a chance to get away,
i've never been more content than right now with
you halfway submerged in blankets,
3/4 tipsy,
and talking about how much you love 70s' punk.

god gave me a gift,
then god gave it away.
blue eyes turned grey.

why should i stay?

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

fingertips trace the
splintered podium.

clear my throat,
once,
twice.

"We shoulduh' seen this coming."

great opener.

"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.

Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.

Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.

Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,

and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.

We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.

We all got divorced.

We all got into politics.

Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.

Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.

We shoulduh' seen this coming.

But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.

The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.

Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.

they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.

"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.

Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.

Get stoked for the funeral pyre."

all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.

no one even got a chance to applaud.

reckless
were
my words.

i expected
you to
cut me with yours.

you just cried.

you thought
i was
breaking your
heart.

i just wanted
you to tear
me apart.

the markerboard on the fridge read:
sleep tonight.

the only thing i promised myself i'd do.
the day went something like this:

i woke up thirty minutes late,
i made do with only washing my hair,
ate an apple, yogurt, drank a cup,
****** myself to clear my head,
ignored the neighbor as i stepped out the door.

went to a dead-end, data-entry job,
where the girls aren't pretty, nobody is funny,
because everybody is a CPA and i'm not pleasant because i
don't give a good ******* about the
world of finance.

the highlight of the workday (as it is everyday),
was the break room chatter during lunch.

the earth-shattering conversations
revolved around:
how good the nutrisystem desserts taste,
how there was low voter-turnout in the midterm,
and how that one girl is a lesbian.

i got off work,
ate a sandwich, a banana,
put on sweatpants and a thrift store t-shirt.
i wrapped some fitness contraption around
my belly, whose sole purpose is to make
my abdomen sweat profusely.

no pretty girls at the fitness center.

i got back to my apartment.
wrote some phony poetry full
of half-baked sentiment
for no worthwhile reason.

i smoked.
i watched a foreign film, but couldn't find my glasses.
meaning: i have no ******* clue what the plot was about.

i went to the gas station.
made small talk with the long haired indian man.
i bought two smirnoff 40s.
something about smirnoff gives me really cohesive dreams.

my roommate tried to give me a lecture.
i told him christ was a myth.
a simple summation of earlier religious figures.
slammed the door,
lit some incense called "*****".

i fell asleep, woke up an hour later in a fright.
turned on the fan,
lit some more "*****",
closed my eyes,
and dreamt a complex novel,
containing:
me missing church,
my mom calling me,
getting lost in canada,
finding my way back to
my hometown only to find
two dudes with heavy machine guns
killing everyone in the cozy, local shops,
then somehow i got a line in a movie
directed by none other than keanu reeves.

at least i finally got some sleep.

here i sit,
waiting.

waiting to
get thin,
get rich,
get renown.

knowing that soon
i will only drive in sunsets,
the radio will only play the sweetest jazz set-lists,
and the young girls will all be whistling.

here i sit,
waiting.

waiting for
original love,
substantial proof for christianity,
and absolution.

knowing that soon,
i'll be respected for wisdom,
*** appeal,
and my national pride.

here i sit,
waiting.

"i just think it's weird people value the heart so much."

"why do you say that?"

"i mean what does it do? pump blood. big deal. i want a world where genitals are valued the same way the heart is now. think about it. they are the physical manifestation of love. that beats the crap out of pumping blood."

we rejoiced
when the sign on the parking meter said we could park for free.

your kind hand
in clumsy mind,

we strolled.

we were caught between the arts and business district,
so the shops and eateries weren't
sure if they should be cool or classy.

we strolled.

we passed an army of delis now abandoned.
a greek place,
a gelato,
a couple of hotel diners,
we rounded the block,
came back close to our start,
decided on the only restaurant
that was open.

as we were seated,
the already present patrons
stared ceaselessly, with no blinking.

people always stare at us.
i think they have trouble
categorizing us.

we aren't fat.
i don't wear affliction t-shirts,
you don't dress ******,
we are caught somewhere
between the summer of '72 and indie rock brats.

our waiter was uneasy,
he had black hair, a beard,
a voice that squeaked and stuttered
as he boasted the organic and local support
the restaurant waved as their prideful flag.

order taken, people still throwing quick glances,
the music was right up our alley.

we took turns saying the names of the bands.
Cake, The Strokes, Spoon (the setlist's favorite), a deep cut from Bowie's Low, and a multitude of indie darlings that i can't remember.

i fell in love with you again.
i guess that makes the fifth or sixth time.
your child's eyes,
warm laughter,
and noble concern for the ****** state of the world.

it was good conversation,
it was good food,
it was a pleasant warm-up
for the remainder of our
getaway weekend.

when you dance with me,
look at only me.
when you smile at me,
make it real.

when you touch me,
i don't feel so cold.
when you talk,
my thoughts don't feel so alone.

let's keep moving.

when your hands fasten,
does that mean you only need me?
when you change the subject,
does that mean you love me?

please love me.

"no, it's just funny you should say that."

"why?"

"because I work at the capitol."

"oh yeah? what's the most interesting thing about it?"

"i don't know, it's ******* boring."

"nah, there's gotta' be something."

"not really, man. i mean, i guess the toilets are the busiest i've ever seen....nah, nah i'm serious, man. you know how most fellas use the ******? not at the ******* capitol."

"you know why that is, right?"

"why's that?"

"'cause politicians are full of ****."

i didn't buy enough alcohol to get drunk.
purgatory. purgatory. purgatory.
but there are summer girls in skirts outside,
bugs that bite,
and a roommate whose ****** grammar is
appealing to my humor.
purgatory. purgatory. purgatory.

i didn't buy enough alcohol.
purgatory. purgatory. purgatory.
i can't touch the summer girls, 'cause i got a love 50 miles away.
i can't **** the bugs, because i don't have the appropriate spray.
i can't fix my roommate's grammar because he's a little bit touched.
purgatory. purgatory. purgatory.

you wrote the book on being an *******.
i read it twice.
and i find myself alluding to it
all the time.

you told me the definition of high art was broke.
if i wanted to succeed,
i needed to trash my collection of huxley
and memorize
every action sequence
in every jerry bruckheimer film.

you based the last six years of your life
on a ghandi misquote,
you ripped from wikipedia.

you told me love was just mankind kidding himself.
only trust in what you can feel,
"like *******."

i wrote an article about you,
i asked  if you believed in god.
your reply,
"god is a concept
by which we measure our pain."
i thought that was clever.

it took me 3 months to remember
that's off lennon's Plastic Ono Band.

the night before your funeral
i coped by engaging in 100 different things
you would have never approved of.

i made the eyes at alyssa,
a girl who wasn't mine.

and i only did it because i know
she would never have me,
and that's always appealing.

lauren was late to the gathering.
she made four fractured souls
sitting around a wobbly table
at some arrogant sports bar.

i didn't touch her.
i didn't want to.
i wanted isolation,
yet invited these people
to make me play pretend
at some busy rednecker establishment.

i talked a lot about music.
LCD's latest mostly.
it's easy to hide behind the trivial.

we stopped at a gas station.
i bought beer for chase and tyler.
i hate beer, it just makes me feel
an idiot sense of accomplishment
when this 19-year-old pulls age off
via beard.

lauren left at 3.
i didn't say much.
i kissed her weakly.
she accepted it.
understood it.
had taken notice of my wandering mind.

alyssa slept over,
she had been locked out of her cousin's house.
in the morning, i made her breakfast, coffee.
asked her if she had decided to be my best friend or not.
it was a running joke to her, and she smiled, said she needed more time
leaving it in "potential" status.

i need a best friend.

alyssa left when i took a shower.
as i got ready,
i complained to tyler about lauren.
i don't know if i meant it,
but i listed quite a lot of grievances.
(is it my age?
am i restless?)

i put on a suit and tie. i didn't look at the weather.
i didn't realize it was forecasted to be a sauna.

i got in my car and drove to prague.
the Parks Bros. funeral home parking lot
was spilling into the streets, with SUVs
and heavy duty trucks.

i parked my car a couple blocks down.

walked into the parlor
where you were to make your great showcase
in that open casket.

my father gave your eulogy.
he had been your minister for a few years,
and had loved you for more than 10.

you had died in my mind months earlier.
when i found out about the leukemia.

when i walked past your body on display,
i looked briefly.
all i really saw were your sideburns.
they looked ridiculous.

everyone told me i looked handsome in my suit.
god.
was i so desperate for a compliment that i overdressed
for a funeral?

as we stood outside, it didn't take long for people to laugh.
talk about work,weather, ****** hair, baseball, and girlfriends.
"i hope the heat keeps us from being sad at the cemetery."

i drove to your final plot in the back of the procession.
my dad tried to explain some metaphor at the site, but it fell flat.
he said a prayer over your body.

then he asked me to lead a song i didn't know.
everyone looked at me.

i tried to pass the responsibility.
but eventually started lacklusterly.

i hope there's a god leonard.
i hope that you made it.
and if you get a chance to speak with him,
tell him to play favorites,
and make me a favorite.
that's the only way
i will ever make it.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
are children that hate them quite a lot.

your house won't save you.
your finely pressed slacks won't save you.
your tan, ageless wife won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
is hunger nonstop.

your bill of rights won't save you.
your republican party won't save you.
your daddy of great renown won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
is circular plot.

your ****** won't save you.
your tax deductible donation won't save you.
your patience in line won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
are a few friends at a future funeral.

sara left me on the 14th of may,
while my mentor laid dying,
while my debt went unpaid.

over routine coffee and cigarette,
she watched the flimsy fabric
of my flesh
catch flame.

she floated away
to ricochet off summer lions,
whose pride lies between their
worn thighs.

i planted heavy.
aged a century in a week of
wine, infomercials, and hospital
calls.

every mutual friend i asked
about sara's condition,
told me to leave her be,
cast me in creep status.

my beard grows gnarly.
my smoldered remnants
held together by cobwebs.
and everything i ever loved
is on its deathbed.

blanket my flaw.
make me easy
to consume.

lights out.

we can pretend
i am one you want.
i am pretty.

lights out.

i am less alive,
but that's hard to tell
with the

lights out.

lauren broke my stupor with a whisper,
"you're a slave to detail"
my trance was fixed on adam
and his shifty eyes,
his shaky lips.

lauren knew i was sinking claws,
"breathe, baby. think other thoughts."
my teeth were sharpening fast
off his sweaty brow,
his wavering hands.

lauren disappeared from me.
adam and me.

adam and
my ex.

adam and his lies.

"how can i rewrite my history-"

"what?"

"shut up,
how can i rewrite my history
if you dig her up?"

"what?"

"shut up,
adam you're a creep."

"i jus-"

"and you can't stay far enough away".

lauren grabbed my tensing shoulders,
whispered, "retreat".
my clinched fists didn't release,
nor did my stare,
nor my hate.

adam and his lies. adam and my ex. adam and his lies. adam and my ex. adam and his lies. adam and my ex. adam and his lies adam and my ex.

i'm going to die alone,
before my skin withers,
before my mother, father
sister and both brothers.

i hope to fade out
to the sound of another
televised war,
where the purpose is
lost in verbose.

no more small town cops,
self-taken mirror pics of ****** bags in flex,
no more tan blondes with gargantuan sunglasses,
no more left wing, right wing, chicken wing,
nor laughter or warm beer,
no more neighbors, so-called friends, or fast food,
no more retail ****** or gun-toting *****,

only me, my old friend misery,
and perhaps a ****** eternity.

i would have married you at fifteen.
my love was as sincere, as it probably
ever will be.

you,
you were ashamed of me.
but you liked the company.
so you held my hand when
no one could see.

i would have killed myself at seventeen,
to prove the weight of my want,
but that would have been a bit blunt.

you,
you thought it was some sort of stunt.
but it made you feel important,
running from a creature on the hunt.

i would of rather had anyone else at eighteen.
find salvation between another girl's thighs,
to uncover all the whys.

you,
you held marriage high,
wanted me to to spend my life side-by-your-side.
instead, you spent six months having a good cry.

the coffee was cold.
a day old.
i heated it.
poured it.
fought through it.

put on a b-film.
something about crap
films made our lives
feel more fulfilling.

we laughed.
exposed every flaw.
we held hands.
snuck
loving glances.

i have to wake up in three
hours, but all i can think
is life is luck,
even for the dumbest of us,
when you tell your
eyes to open up.

every time we fall in love,
they call it trite,
a false fairy tale.

love is weak.
and weak ain't trending no more.

every time we speak our mind,
they tell us to shut up,
too young to have an opinion.

the youth is unreliable,
too many fresh hormones.

every time we stand up straight,
they cross us,
crucify us.

acquiescing is appropriate,
they gift certificates in frames for that.

every time we subscribe to a higher code of ethics,
they call us radical,
salivate, and spectate as we are torn asunder by lions.

love should never transcend national pride,
here it's guns, god, no homosexuals or mexicans all the time.

if i make a stand, and you make a stand,
and the dominoes begin to fall,

if i inspire a dozen, and you inspire a thousand,
the gears will grind, the tide will turn,

the lions will all be too full,
and
they surely will run out of nails,
before they've crossed every single one of us.

i won't ever see past my past tense.

i won't ever belong until they carve my name in stone.

someone give me your best.
i'm tired of being all that's left.

sorrows,
shaved scalp,
sorrows,
forehead heavy with ash,
sorrows,
scabs scraped with broken pottery,
sorrows,
all the gods stopped playing fair,
sorrows,
with cold sons and contradictory friends,

sorrows,
for the saints,
sorrows,
for the satans,
sorrows,
for citing both.

sorrows,
at the sound of laughter,
sorrows,
at the touch of neighbors,

sorrows,
for losing my mind,
my maker,
my family,
sorrows,
while everyone else is content
to live in ****** sitcoms
and safety-net salvation.

at ease, hideous you
with blood o'prey
dribbling down
your well-crafted
dimples.

eager ears surround,
live to make meaning
off your rehashed
sentiment you *****
from some recent-dead
and righteous boy.

and i admire you.

yes, yes, yes i do.

oh, enemy
playing us all for fools,
eating us all alive,
we townsfolk don't
give you the torch or pitchfork,
just our unending applause.

because green leaves
and restoration sunshine
bore the hell out of me.

because love for me
has never been forever,
just a face i show for a scene.

because spring and winter
for me never exist,
i seem to live in the months inbetween.

because at the surface
my subject matter deals
with nothing past my *** drive.

because every word i use
is a staple of every
third graders' vocabulary

because this poem doesn't rhyme.

because i write stark reality
instead of romantic
imagination.

because they aren't me.
every poet may be their biggest critic,
but they're also their biggest fan.

"are you feeling anything now?"

"nothing positive.
some guilt with a hint of nostalgia."

we thought we could touch.
touch that would enable us to exhale.
we thought we could touch.
but our touch don't mean all that much.

we thought we could make love.
love that would resurrect our rhyme.
we thought we could make love.
but we only looked perplexed when all we made was ***.

we broke each other up.
played pretend-patch-each-other-up.
now all we are is haunting shrapnel,
stuck in each other's side.