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.

There's a point when it all becomes okay,
a sense of divine clarity,
when you know for certain that no one wins,
the rules are always bent,
the good ones get away,
and summer is always spent.

There's a sound finer than your favorite music,
a voice begging for your safekeeping,
when you know for certain that at least one person,
for one spell, wants yourself, your health,
the gifts turn old,
beauty levitated by introspective wealth.

There's always a trail, there's always four walls, never an escape,
a broken heart crying for your broken neck,
when compliments wash ashore against a sea of catastrophe,
their hate proves your worth, your weight, your sting,
a perpetual feast of old, distasteful words,
your frightened mouth fired in haste.

An overall’d uncle stabbed over homemade champagne drifts around the bend.
A commemoration quilt and the Adamsville population shifts around the bend.

There’s an old hymn torn out of Martha’s hymnal, an elegy, a black dress.
“These details seem important,” Preacher says in European swifts around the bend.

The rains come and wash away the things we bury, bodies and toy cars.
Lowlands become lakes and a lone, malaise blackbird lifts around the bend.

A boy, all elbows and knees, in corduroy everything, in the thick of it,
drives a truck with no wipers, no license, the stick shifts around the bend.

The homes with electric lose electric, and the newspaper floats off porch.
No news today, nor tomorrow these are philanthropic gifts around the bend.

No home, no front door to unlock,
a life of roams, tires burning rock.
With powders, pills, and subpar poisons,
I remember your childish face,
the reddish furl of your hair;
your spine-tingling body strut cascading into French heels.
No luck, no fat genie or 7 on the die,
rainy bucks, broken umbrella with sigh.
Like songbirds, sirens, and symptoms
gracefully disappear without a note of gloom,
your smile, the original resurrection,
slides from tangible memory -- into mythos -- into misery.

be my second chance at life,
be my sun,
get into my orbit,
crash into my atmosphere,
let me paint your teats on canvas,
let me be the hot water in your bath,
I don't care if the metaphor is broke,
just get the **** over here,

the distance is inhumane.

The air conditioner hiccups,
as the second half of
Cole Berlin crosses himself--
a face deeply creased by consequence,
looks to the west,
a surrendering sun fractured--
broken by hundreds of stories--
tons of concrete--
mountains of glass,
and the gentlest gloom.

Mr. Berlin's body devours itself--
as the critics and even the diehard fans
run out of time to play "remember when".
The reality enters,
at first no more than an annoying stomach pang,
then growing,
feasting,
shouting,
until each cell knows--
no time for the comeback.

Whatever beams of sun were once banded,
now dismiss themselves,
as night subs in--
Mr. Berlin, closes the curtains of his mind,
falls to the floor,
"Sorry folks, no encore this time".

A week he lay festering,
no more a replica--
only a ruin.
A fly in a web,
rotating on a world without end,
the record, it spits, skips, smolders in ditch,
contaminating the soil,
the virus gently purrs perfection,
no hiccup, no hallucination--
only swag up for collection.

A black-haired, sharp-toothed preacher from behind pulpit
told the rose carpet congregation that if a child dies
before baptized, it will go to heaven.
As automatic as automatic.

I was six when I heard those words.
I pulled my invisible friend aside; gently broke, "Now for the end."
Why grow old only to spend an eternity in hell?

I walked through the yellowed pasture of grain.
To the brambles.
To the brambles brimming with what my mother called "poison berries."
"See ya in heaven."
I ate until my stomach churned with unrest.
"This is it."

15 years later,
I'm still waiting for the effect.

Forever, I touch the word, running my fingertips
along the coffee table we saved up for. Forever,
I whisper the word to the carpet where you
used to pin me down. Forever, I feel it on my chin,
I take it on the chin. Forever, we'll have sunshine,
little breaks in the fog. Forever, if I can even find you
then. Forever, the joke we said with wine-stained lips
and ash in our mouths. Forever, we dreamed each other
foreign and lived inside. Forever, the muse and never
the poet, the pen and never the paper, the writer and never the
reader. Forever, the way you talked down to me in t-shirts
too large for your shoulder blades. Forever, I take it on the chin.
Forever, the word, I feel it in my neck now. Forever, the affectation
in my voice, do you hear it now? Forever, the seeker in the company
of the sightless. Forever, the weaver. Forever, the weaver threading me into you. Forever, the weaver. Forever, the weaver winding me into you, unwinding me back into myself. Forever, the weaver, the ******* the dance floor, the tower of song, the siren, the sonnet, the beacon, the tower of song, the ******* the dance floor, the weaver, forever.

Put all the
elderly eye sores
in monochromatic,
ammonia scented
cages.

We’re sick of their
unsightly nature,
And their unjustifiable
hormonal
rages.

Who care’s what
lives they led?
What stories they could
tell.

Let them all go insane,
(if they haven’t already)
to the sound of a
teenage
certified nurse’s assistant
texting her boyfriend
like hell.

Let them rot in defecation,
and fears.
Let them pray to a god
who no longer cares.

Let us go to work.
Chase ***,
Apply lip gloss,
bat our lashes,
and drink
our beer.

Occasionally going to an elderly’s
funeral
to stare.

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.

step into the light--
show yrself--
my black-eyed,
horned,
*******--
stir me up,
shut me out,
string me up--

end tonight.
the pools
of fear
swirling in your belly
drown the saneness
of my eccentric existence.
end tonight.

step into the light--
show yrself to me,
dripping with sweat,
draining me of strength,
drilling me with smartmouthings--

poison crib.
poison crypt.
pretty curls.
petty cruelty.

hitting bricks,
slitting necks,
creeping beasts,
show yrself.

the moon
beckons you.
the mercy
forgets you.
my fist
tightens.
my blood lightens.
endtimes
begin
with the sanctity
of illumination.

A bat of the eyes, a flick of the wrist,
a ruffle of sleeve, a daydream,
a heartattack kiss and
I'm gone, no time to grieve--
all the leaves of prose and bad poetry,
perhaps you'll remember me-
during those halcyon afternoons,
when the coffee brews,
distant church bells ring out
a panhandler's tune no one can sing to,
but we used to dance it through
in damp clothes and into dark rooms--
a life lost in desperate minutes,
forbidden fruits and daggers of knowledge
were all we could taste, feel in the midst
of the misery in simply existing,
and woman you're free to rise above me,
stare from the balcony,
while I reenact a lifetime of sin
on a half-lit stage, far from the lilac's bloom,
never will I dress as a groom,
nor will I sleep under the same moon,
that was miles ago, summers away from here,
a mythical love taken to sea,
oh, it's easy to miss what never could be.

she was underdressed, overtouched. and kept ironing out her napkin at the bar. with blue ink she wrote his last name in place of her own. the fan spun off-kilter. the bartender finished his third vegas bomb. one too many.

the hate of June tans my hide,
fingers crucify in hope--
but the rains remove only the surface stain.

died on mother's day.

Come to me bruised and frayed,
bird of prey.
Death's hour can wait,
I'd like to hope for your wings,
I'd like to hope for your seams.

If you're bleeding, dear,
I'll press against until the red stills.
If you're crying, dear,
I'll drink tears until you find your will.

Come to me bitter and dismayed,
bird of prey.
Love's hour can wait,
I'd like to lift your tattered remains,
I'd like to make you holy in the eye of a god.

If you're hungry, dear,
I'll give up my feathers.
If you're lonely, dear,
I'd like to flock together.

my hands tightly clenched
the bathroom counter,
my mouth agape,
eyes rolling,
tossing hair to the side,
tighter,
tighter,
veins aching,
my vision sliding
to look into
my own eyes,
pupils dilated,
bags,
red,
my face covered in runny
black paint
on my chest
the word
"dead" written
with the tips of tense
fingers,
that way if the sirens
ever made their way
they wouldn't waste
their time trying to fix
me,
tighter,
tighter,
i was my own maker,
my own master,
my own destroyer,
i hated to say it,
but i hoped she was alone,
because i was alone,
i fell to the floor,
traced the word
on my skin,
lighter,
lighter,
my head began to fog
with dense advice,
everyone is right,
except me.
everyone knows all,
except me,
my hands tensed one
last time,
my mind faded to
black,
and i took my gamble.

"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."

My buddy Todd set us up.
Her name, I knew her name:
Isabel Fienne.
I met her outside of Byron's,
drinking a 40 out of a brown bag.
She wore black, black spaghetti strap,
black Memphis skirt, black stockings.
I told her I liked the color of her eyes.
She said her dad just died.
And asked me, "What was your name again?"
I asked her, "How about a little of that drink?"
We spent the night throwing rocks at passing cars,
dodging police, and talking about how
we liked the anonymity of night.

We woke up in an alley.

I whispered the word stockings.
She bit my lip.
We get married the first of June.

Drag me under the car she said
and I said where are your keys?
Pour me a molotov cocktail she said
and I said Another one?
Make the left eye black to match the right she said
and I said Let me get my glove
I'm cold, get me more gasoline she said
and I said Will regular unleaded do?
Move over you're hogging the bed she said
and I said Yeah, Tim give us some room
Do you have anything to bring me down? she said
and I said There's always the fire escape
I still love you she said
and I said How much money do you need?

remember when we used to joke about
bombing the bombing memorial?

that was morbid.

with a shrill cry we entered here,
we pitter-pattered on broken concrete,
we channel surfed the static,
charged with disdain and an
affinity for quickly dismissing
hopes for change,

with a shrill cry we entered here,
diploma in hand,
vocabulary expansive--
we tabbed the browsers,
waited for the buffer,
thought silent prayers,

with a shrill cry we entered here,
a jungle of shouts, busted fenders,
AA meetings, and white male kings,
waiting to mean anything more than seem,
and while we wait they talk polite-
ask us to line up against a newly white-washed wall,
the sunlight gleams over barrel, over trigger,

with a shrill cry we exit here.

the priest, whose tomato face looked like it might explode under collar tension,
gave the valedictory at the friday night execution
the yellow-toothed, combover'd serial killer buckled in electric chair
kept staring at the door, expecting an ally to crawl in late but not too late
the mother of one of the victims rattled on about
how she didn't care that the killer had an allergy to the anesthetic used
in lethal injection      he's going to die either way     what's it matter?
buzz of fly    crack of rolled program against empty folding chair
(yes, there were programs, and whoever laid them out knew their typography)
buzz of fly raised upward, toward the black, magma-cooled ceiling
audience chin up, pupils circled fly as the priest droned on
about everlasting life like a Paul Simon song from his youth
like a catcher's mitt from his youth like a youth from his youth
the boyfriend of one of the mothers of one of the victims
said he was hungry    pancakes sound good, don't they?
I love it when syrup gets on the bacon, you know? love that.
a pudgy guard with bleary eyes and 12 a.m. shadow
rolled his index finger   lowered his brow, telling the
priest to wrap it up   so the priest wrapped it up
by reading the names of the victims
Tara Barnes, 17, Rachel Lythe, 10, Julie McPherson, 13,
Serenity Strongman, 15, and Mary Beth Williamson, 13
the priest said something about judgement as
the boyfriend of the mother of one of the victims
took another swat at the fly                       missed
any last words? the priest asked
where's James? the killer asked, he was supposed to be here
did you guys give him the right time?
the guard nodded to a lab coat by a black box
then a hiss then a hum then an inhale
the first jolt of alternating current for

instantaneous brain death

hard to tell if they succeeded in that
for the second jolt came only a moment
later    this shock's aim to fatally damage
the internal organs, overstimulate the heart
and the killer's face looked like a horse's leg
then an exhale then a hum then a hiss
and the killer's face looked like the crinkled
skinmemory of a cicada
it was late   most of the best restaurants already closed
but we could go to that diner off 63rd, the boyfriend
of the mother
of one of the victims, said

Call me crying, sweetheart.
The sound of you cracking,
would be a joyous symphony
to lonely ol' me.
Your defeat would only affirm
my prophesy.

I love you, kid.
But that doesn't mean
I don't want you to be
absolutely miserable.
Get ******, call me bitter,
cruel, or a synonym of sorts,
but allow me to remind,
my use of the word "love".

I saw you stand alone.
You had a majestic, individual soul,
now you are a blinking projection,
of what some hungry boy wants
you to be.

How often do you see him
when you don't undress?

How often do you whisper,
"I love you" without making a mess?

I hope all your thoughts
are second thoughts.
I hope all your fantasies
turn to lucid dreams.
I hope your tethered body
tears from the seams.

I love you, kid,
and I want only victory.

Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******.

Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.

The wheat yellowed, the wind chipped and chipped
until the wheat lay cheapened in broken mass;
I steered my tanned corpse through the scattered wheat.
I came to the well.
Instead of dropping a coin,
I tore a stitch and threw it into the blackness.
Instead of making a wish,
I cleared my flattering secrets from my throat and yelled.
The yell echoed downward,
bouncing off grandmother stones,
until it richocheted upward
only to have the wind carry it away like a swarm of lies.
I watched my secrets yellow like an ancient photograph,
I felt nostalgia chip and chip away,
clearing the spillway for fresh pain.
I spread my arms, a self-crucifixion,
a savior of no use.
When cruel regret and cruel change
finished with me,
I stared at the bluebird flying overhead,
just beyond him a cloudless sky.
Joy is for the living,
myself I'm kidding,
I close my eyes,
and
I'm carried away.

sip.
utter ****.

never drink wine
that's cheaper
than the corkscrew.

sip.
still ****.

why do i want every woman?
all in the worst way.
my intentions are utter trash.

sip.
grimace.

my love is rehearsed,
well-versed in chick flick lore,
my love is mostly a slow bore.

sip.
spit.

Billowed and pasted, rollicked and wasted,
the night takes hold and Samantha, you remember her,
she's smoking again. This is her last pack though.
Drinks poured. Drinks spilled. Kate and I are talking
like people with scheduled late afternoon love affairs. There's
a car alarm going off in the distance. I love this blouse. Is it new?
No. It looks new. I love your perfume. You aren't wearing any?
Must be a natural—and the first to arrive at the party, Chris and
Evan, they're the first to leave, and we listen intently as one, or maybe both, tumble down the stairs. There should be waivers for second floor
apartment parties. Kate, you deserve so—I know. I know. You've got this light. Jesus. I'm just saying. Is it radiant? Yes, it's radiant. And they're lighting their drinks on fire now in the kitchen, some concoction of amaretto and 151 and a kickback of Coors. The flames reflect in their eyes, their cheeks a soft amber, and most of them are smiling, not sincerely, but when was the last time you could give yourself over completely to joy? There's a siren in the distance. Someone says they're coming for us. I'm going to the bathroom. Do you need help? And there's this ceiling fan with LCD Christmas bulbs strung around the blades. A myriad of claustrophobic yellows and whites and blues. Have you seen that video of the ****** having a baby? And he brings it up on his phone. Someone says, Oh my god I love this song from the bathroom. I hadn't noticed the music before now. Drink this. What is it? You'll see. And Samantha she says she's got to step outside for a second. And someone drops a hookah coal on the beige carpet. There goes the deposit. There's incense. There's a Scentsy. There's Febreeze being sprayed liberally. Can you drive? Can you? Do you want to? You know? I've ate a lot today. The songs keep getting skipped. Parquet Courts, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Chvrches, Miley Cyrus—wait, wait put on some SWIFTY. We're going to fire up in my closet if you want to join. It's a walk-in. Evan's back now. He kicks a mirrorball across the kitchen tile with Chris, who's also back now. Where's Samantha? She's smoking. She shouldn't be alone. You remember last—That won't happen again. I'm just saying. Well, you can stop saying. Sirens again. Closer. We're in the walk-in. Kate tugs on my sleeve. I take a pull off the bronze pinch hitter. Do little circles with my head. ****, she says. What? It all starts fading out, the rush of dark, the rush of light. Someone says trash can. Sirens. I'm just trying to—Shut up. I'm just trying to—Shut up.

I was an idiot back then,
those trips to Rebekah's hovel.
though they did make me sentimental,
for the days when her dad had taught me guitar
for eight weeks when I was thirteen.

she told me of a suicide dream
that utilized her iron deficiency.
I told her I would tell her parents
if she started pushing it in motion,
that made her cry,
though in retrospect, I wanted her to die.

I was at that misery factory age
when your heart pumps nothing
but razorblades and jealousy,
and the death of some overly-depressed
girl would at least give me a story to
tell.

I was a pseudo-lover,
writing page upon page
of poetry for Sheila,
I used an alias for her:
"Nature's Criminal".
It felt appropriate.
what she did to my
emotions seemed rather
unnatural.

we would kiss on dark, dirt roads,
and duck when cars would passby.
she would always preface
our encounters with,
"remember this doesn't mean anything."

now, Rebekah only writes to tell
of artists signed to Saddle Creek.
she got married to some diabetic,
acne-marred, ***-fiend that
bares the burden of a pet peeve
that revolves around bananas.

now, I only see Sheila,
when some boy is ******* her,
when she feels beyond used.
in her parasitic apartment,
I always remind her
they don't mean anything.

Anna
with
bluebird eyes--

Anna with blue
nails about her
black fingers--

Anna with an urge
to drive those blue
nails into my
recently earned cross--

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--

Anna
with
bluebird eyes--

Anna with a penchant
for freshly hewn
boys--

Anna with a disdain
for nobody but me--

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--

Anna
with
bluebird eyes--

Anna with black fingers,
black skirts, black spine--

Anna with whispers,
with webs,
with cozy refuge in the
dark corners of my mind--

Take my wallet,
let me hear her sing--

Take my wallet,
let me put my picture in her locket--

Take my wallet,
Anna's what I want.

A breakdown? I don't know if I'd call it that. Something about that word connotes immediacy, precision, a kind of instantaneous loss of your mental faculties. No. This has been slow. Like two, three years slow. I'd welcome a breakdown. A breakdown would give me the chance to start over, to mend, to be a better ******* human being. This degradation, and, I know, I'm being repetitive here, this degradation is so slow it's almost intangible. It's so slow there's ample room for denial. I need one swift, irrefutable act of self-destruction. Don't do that. That little gesture, that go-on-just-bottom-out hand flip. You're not listening. I don't have the energy for that. I'm not reckless. Wanting and being are, in this case, mutually exclusive. You know where I am? Let me illustrate it for you. I say I love you to empty rooms. I say sweetheart, sweetie, et cetera for no other reason than habit being so strong.  I'm not beat up about her leaving. It happens. Sometimes two people just don't work, you know? But maybe I'm beat up. I haven't slept in the bed. I sleep on the couch like she used to. I buy her favorite wine—which I don't particularly enjoy—but I drink it. I drink it, I think, just to watch the bottle go empty. I drink the wine and I sleep on the couch hoping it summons the breakdown, some ******* finality. That's true. I've been many different people, but I've been the same one for far too long.

There was a time—and this wasn't all that long ago—where I wanted to be seen, loved, admonished. I wanted to be some novelist casanova, women, movie deals, et cetera. And one day it changed. I wish there was some monumental event tied to it, some clear catalyst, but to be honest this opposite idea, this idea of erasure, came to me in a supermarket. In the checkout line the cashier didn't greet me, didn't ask the usual did-you-find-everything type questions. The transaction was wholly procedural, nothing human to it. The total showed up on a screen. I swiped a card.

And it reminded me of that part in DeLillo's—I know, it's always DeLillo—in his book Zero K where he talks about the origin of "alone," and what the word really connotes. The word is a rather simple portmanteau of the Middle English phrase "all one." And when you think of the word like this, all one, it gives you a different idea. It does for me anyway. All one suggests freedom from any tie or association. It's who you are minus geography, minus desire, minus friends, minus family, minus lovers. Many people would say there is no self if you were to eliminate essentially the entire context of your life, but I disagree.

I say all of this to say, I'm hitting the red button. I'm eliminating all my friendships to regain a semblance of an inner life. I think they've become responsible for a projected version of myself, an expected version rife with inconsistencies that I wish to no longer adhere to. I know what you're thinking. I'm going to be some half-assed buddhist of the plains, but this small world I've played a small part in shaping has become suffocating, and the only way for me to exist in this space is as a vapor.

It eats at me, this singular question. It repeats in my head, over and over—how can I desire what I already possess? I look at the books on my shelf and the coffee table, and I want to love them completely. I want to never buy another book. I look at the TV, a moderately sized HD set already obsolete, but what a fantastic machine it is, and though I've owned it for years, can I desire it? Or do I want something larger, something 4K? I'm trying to desire the objects I own, so when the day comes, when my singularity comes to an end, and I'm waiting for Her to come home, I will be lovesick, anxious, feverish, pure in my desire.

I've been in relationships and fantasized about one-off affairs. I've had one-off affairs and fantasized about something whole, something reliable.

This TV is watchable and this book is readable.

I think a woman is inherently better at desiring what's in her possession. She gives life, she creates, she's given to infrastructure, and future-building. A man destroys. A man conquers. A man stands in the corner of a room with a drink in his hand and recounts his destructions and conquests. You're a woman. Can you tell me how it's done?

It was an—I don't know—unfleshing of sorts. There I am. I'm in my old room. My parent's place. And Mom's telling me what all we need to pack up and organize. This place, my room, it's frozen in time. It looks exactly the way it did when I graduated high school. The lime green walls, the Brett Favre poster, a few pieces of artwork my brother did. There are all these medals and trophies for soccer; football; academic *******; and most of it, to be frank, was undeserving. I phoned it in, my education and extra curriculars. Things came easy, et cetera. And the lesser accolades, the participation trophies, for these, Mom hands me a pocket knife and tells me to pry off the nameplates and she'll donate them to Goodwill. It was tangible, right? This erasure. I've talked to you about that before, erasure. I wanted to disappear completely, but there I am in my old room, prying away pieces of my past with a knife, a couple of nameplates popping off and hitting the floor before I can grab them. That sound, dull, empty, metallic.

I'm alone a lot now, you know? After losing the job, entering this funk, gaining weight. I'm in a depressive state. In that room, I felt like I was just further removing myself from the world, like my deletion had gained dimension, it was truly, ****, what word am I looking for here? Help me. Comprehensive. That's good. Sterile and safe for work. My erasure became comprehensive. Ha.

And it's hard to talk about this, depression, erasure. I always feel like a selfish child. I'm perpetually throwing a fit. I won't clean my room. I don't want to brush my teeth. I don't want to help grandma with lunch. Ha ha.

You say that. And I appreciate it. But if I always talked to you about this stuff, you'd stop answering the phone. Or I'd feel so guilty about bothering you that I'd stop calling. This feeling gets you from both sides. It's like that old adage. Never chew on something that's eating you. But that's precisely what I'm doing. In this moment. Outside of this moment. I want to ask you how do I stop. But what could you possibly say. Stop thinking about it. Find a hobby. Exercise. Read. Journal. Go to therapy. You could smile while you told me these things, you could pat my hand, you could finish your coffee, and you could walk out the door to face your own little tragedies, feeling like you'd done something kind today, check the box, score some karma. You see all those recommendations are tired, generic; they're surface level, phony. What would I prefer? I think if you threw that coffee in my face that'd be a start.

Yeah, I guess you could say that. I seem to be past the hex. I have a job again, one I like. I'm teaching. But I can't help but hear that song from Wizard of Oz play over and over in my head. No. Ha ha. I wish it were that one. No, it's the one that kicks up as they leave the poppy field. "You're outta the woods, you're outta the woods." That song is so hopeful yet undercut by something looming, inevitable, a bigger fall to come.

Sure, I still think of her.

But what I was getting at earlier is that I feel like I'm at this point in my life, this middleplace, where the abstraction of love, the mysticism of the body, all of that ****** fog seems to be clearing. The people around me are plucked white, devoid of any raw, genuine sentiment. They view the body in a way so clinical. I only hear of its limitations or its capacity to bear children.

Peter Pan Syndrome? Maybe. But if the body is reduced to its most rudimentary boundaries and functions and not treated as an instrument of erasure or alchemy, then what's the point?

Yes, she and I talked about kids, but that was always so far away. At this point, I don't know that I want them. Her? That's hard to say. I'll concede that the happiest moments of my life involve her. But, and I see the irony here, on some fundamental, unsexy level, we enabled poor behaviors, addictions. We both suffered from depression and didn't know how to dig each other out.

I never see her in a negative light though. You look surprised. I don't. There she is and there are all other women. She's fifty feet tall in my mind. A femme titan. Whipsmart, funny, kind.

The morning, good; the morning, relentless—she tip-toes
out the front door in her ex-husband's brown patent leather shoes.
Outside. Walking again. On her own two feet but not in her own
two shoes. It's a Monday. It's an autumn. It's a neighborhood
with tricycles strewn in front lawns, with spent confetti in the
gutters, with Japanese trees, with Greek columns, with the reliable
sound of the working class commute in the distance. The shoes, four sizes too big, nearly slip as she half saunters, half staggers on
her way to the bakery on Bellevue. She's hungry for predetermined conversation, an exchange between a patron and a cashier. There's a young boy playing with a water hose. He waves enthusiastically. She matches it with a wave of her own as she passes by. The boy turns away, runs toward his home. She feels self-conscious and there's something in the pocket of her ex-husbands linen suit jacket, a bottle of cologne.

The door chimes as she walks into the bakery. The cashier says good morning before looking at her. The cashier's eyes quickly scan her and dart away. She's a child in her ex-husbands clothes. She orders a coffee. She asks for a Splenda packet. "I like my coffee like I like my women," she says. "Hot and artificially sweet." Pity laugh. Nervous laugh, maybe. It's not even her joke. He tells her the price. She hands him the money. Thank you. No, thank you.

She sits alone by a window. She's an alien doing normal people things. She's tired and whatever spark got her out the door may not get her home. A man seated at the table behind her sneezes once, twice, three times.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I think I'm allergic to your perfume."

"Me too," she says.

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the Arlington Cemetary,
where the babies of the
influenza epidemic do sleep,
down from the ancient cedars
and the ruins of the Winchester Bank
established in 1908.

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the snaking and rusting
barbed wire of the Scott Place,
where my father chopped cotton
and his father died under the weight
of a fallen log and his father died
to the backfire of a shotgun.

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the Cimarron River and idle wheat fields,
where my mother once watched the dust
roll in and the money blow away,
down from the birthplace of
a serial killer you've heard about,
down from a quiet, flybuzz pace
that so often inspires rage.

white walls,
the cackling night,
festering liquor,
and a chance to break from my landlocked liturgy
collapse on the fine-toothed grass.

my head -- a dark carnival of shared substances --
smolders at the grind of its gears,
as my Black Venom mistress dribbles
drunkspeak for an hour, and aimless
boys find holographic truth
in a hallucinagenic bathroom --
"we should mean less than this."

close the door to bedroom crypt--
"you've got to die to be born again"--
Black Venom undresses me
while the shutters of perception
rattle open, then closed, open, closed, open--
a grey wind and erratic desire fire, fall, pant,
realign to destroy body in the name
of a newness to follow--
if I'm mad,
I'm quite good at it--
if I'm sane,
I have no intention of staying that way.

Children,
all of me was all for you,
from towers I commended,
from basement I sympathized,
and god,
how I find all of me,
missing all your adoring stares.

I stood by,
I watched your birth in the garden
all those years ago,
and how your cries floated to heaven,
and how heaven answered with meadowlarks,
I handed you the apple,
I kissed your brow,
you would coo and grasp my coat,
I felt love, you felt vital.

I waged war,
with all the saints and arthouse critics.
We drank their blood by the moon
and our temperate speech
did flow from the fount,
under the table we were,
grew we did,
proper adolesence looking for
classical supremacy.

And Children,
I know the darkness was always creeping,
crippling every satellite, every sandy shoreline,
withering us in mirror,
you asked if the tide could claim us,
I patted your shoulder,
kissed your hand,
there is no enemy capable of victory,
oh, how the prophets betrayed me.

When your compliance was absolute,
when our neighbors pledged allegiance,
when I crushed the throats of Solomon, Gilgamesh, and
the sons of Zeus,
leagues made banners,
few made poison.

I gave you slaves,
girls, and sport.

I gave you a voice,
blankets, and victims.

The crowd and chants,
my pride and concubines,
the grass never faded,
nor the flowers wilted.

Children,
why did the publications turn against me?
I erased the existence of all you wanted dead,
I gave you dreams,
I gave plenty to sup,
plenty to remain drunk,
Children,
why did the prophets lie to me?

The priests carried daggers,
preyed upon me,
prayed for my passing-by,
the stares were there,
empty of adoration,
only hungry for my sacred blood.

I watched seas of my own,
pull down every cast,
my form laid to waste
on the streets I built under your feet.

My royal guards
chained my hands,
I could only stare at my blue veins,
my royal guards,
dragged my feet,
and in the senate they made me watch,
as my record was blotted out.

As the sun set,
the streets were lit
by effigy.

As the sun set,
I found myself in
the garden.

I stood straight,
back to a stake,
all eyes on me,
all shouts for me,
all the rage,
effigy, effigy,
they poured pitch at my feet,
they said prayers and incantations,
the flowers were in full bloom,
and the sound of buzzing flies buried
the cries.

I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Now history's vapor,
I tried to be a friend to everyone.

**** near me
with perfection talking blues,
caressing crystal drinks,
promising future sneak,
and blanketed romance,
**** near me
with hissing tape violence,
milking the moment,
snagging the attention of the suit
and the tie,
**** near me
blowing every ambition in the room,
plunging into whiskey,
head first and lonely,
**** near me
sha-la-las and oooh-la-las
slither into my forked crypt,
staining my funeral garb,
plastering my cask,
**** near me
brothers looking for to see,
while sister ***** the poison,
I dare her to keep pushing,
**** near me
the kissing and the clowning,
the nightgowning I soon to go a' drowning,
cockroach in the corner,
**** near me
Miranda owes me fifty,
the filthy ******* creature,
draining me of chatter,
**** near me
hustling for the saddest rent,
sleeping with the butcher,
under Martha's tent,
**** near me
the crows collect seed,
the know-hows bashfully reread,
while I **** near wearied, worried;
bleed.

Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.

"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.

"Is she eating?" my mother asks.

"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.

My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red ****-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.

Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.

"I forgot my trunks."

"That's no excuse."

I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.

In the living room.

While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.

Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:

"All roads lead to me."

You pose him, your child, with the dog, the puppy,
the one your wife insisted you buy for him, your child,
your only son. You stand back. Your wife counts down
from three. Your child smiles in such an unnatural way
like he learned to do it from an instructional manual.
Something about this unnerves you. The posing. The
stilted smile. You made this child, your only son, and
he's five feet removed from you and his face is unnatural,
a caricature of joy. The puppy barks once. It echoes in the small
living room, and you can't help but think of this photo
as a marker, another tangible step closer to your own death.
Wait.
You reframe. You say this is a moment. This is something to
cherish. This is something to look back on. Your wife says
good boy and scratches the puppy behind the ears.
She kisses your child, your only son, on the forehead.
But, of course, one day this dog will die. With any luck, you, your wife, and your only son will live to see this day and this moment
will reemerge and your wife will say he was a good boy and your
son will say he was so small and you'll feel this same dread -- the posing, the stilted smile -- you'll feel it all fresh. How many tiny tragedies can a man anticipate? How many tiny tragedies
can a man endure?

I met Virginia in a wave of sleet.
On Decatur, a hundred winters ago,
with a black iris, black hair in ponytail,
with a tongue like a nightcrawling widow,
Virginia whispered tornados behind the backs of the
grey-suited saxophone players, going blue in the cheeks,
under their blackface.

Under a flimsy sheet of moon sliver sky and a dim streetlight,
Virginia kicked a soda can along the cracking concrete.
With each bar we passed, I hollered, "Thank God we're alive!"
and danced a shapeless jig.

Near Williamson cemetery, Virginia's white knuckles laced into mine.
"The amount of time we have cheapens whatever purpose we have,"
Virginia hissed.

I caressed her serpentine neck.
A lone car's high beams
made Virginia's silhoutte tower above the cemetery gates,
made Virginia's black irises madden to poisonous yellow.

She loosened my grey necktie.
I let down her hair.
A sea of collected strands fell
like a closing curtain.
The distant saxophone ascended to heaven,
leaving me below,
leaving me below,
leaving me to spend the night bellowing for above.

i saw the flowers fall in a flash.
winter's wind came with a bellowing crash.

i saw the stems bend and buckle,
turning into a heap of grey.

i felt my shoes become so soaked.
wading through wet concrete cracks.

i felt my heart beat so slow,
reminding me "it's time to go."

i heard the children laugh somewhat soft,
amidst the crying trees and their dying leaves.

i heard panic in the parent's voice,
unable to understand there is no choice.

in a moment,
in a blink,
the scene slipped
as though nothing
more than a dream.

when i awoke,
the sounds were all gone.

i sat in silence.
i sat in the rain.
the rain danced and skidded
along the contours of my frame.

now, there is nothing new to know,
this season had it's show.

i saw how lovely, lonely
nature could be.

my words
fell like a
power line,
fell like a power
line into a kiddie pool.

how quickly i became
synonymous with
a snicker and a sneer.


they hate what they
don't know,
and they'll
fell you,
cast your
dead body into
deep water
along with
your electric.

hope you
feel the
cruel sting
of your
creation.

but all i
feel is empty.

missing
the freedom of
oxygen.

missing
expression.

god,
i'm sorry
for one transgression.

i at least confessed.

i gave truth.

they drown you for it.
they disown you for it.

if you knew everything
your loved ones did and
said and
thought,
they'd all
be
shocking you.

my words
fell like a
power line,
fell like a power
line into a kiddie pool.

Now, underwater, sound turns itself
inside out. I aim myself
toward the floor of the pool
but my pruned hands never
find it. Down down down.
Deep water. As quickly
as fear arrives, it's traded
for confusion; confusion,
for abandon; abandon, for peace.
Down here, I barely am.
The weight of my body erodes.
Watch me stingray. Watch me dolphin.
Watch me ball up into stone.
Watch me sink.
Listen for my whale song.
Wait for me to geyser.

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.

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.

it seems cold,
when i look at it from
your point of view.

me discarding your emotions.
casting them aside like dirtied sheets,
to sleep in makeshift innocence.

let me just feel my own pain.

take in my own mistakes.
the weight of yours
coupled with mine,
would only crush
my already
curved
spine.

your eyes when they seek
broader meaning in me,
simply, repeatedly **** me.

your words shouldn't be kind.
a smile is something you shouldn't be
capable of accomplishing.

when you grasp words like,
"i'll be anything you want me to be"
you cling to them, as you would weeds
on the bank of some tumultuous river,
"just give me a chance,
i will show you how perfect i can be."

but you trying to keep your head above
the water
is only drowning me.

She ***** on a milkshake through a metal straw. Strawberry.
The place, Tom's on Western, is bare. Ash falls outside. It's
sticking to the glass windows. Glass and steel frames
and white paint and white chairs and ash outside.
A taxi cab goes up over the curb. A black woman in a headdress
gets out and tosses money, red money, blood money.
I'm here too sitting by the bathroom, noting the length
of Strawberry Milkshake's boy shorts. Is this objectification
or object reduction or reverse personification?
The siren in the distance winds down, sounds like it's melting.
Do sounds melt? She, Strawberry Milkshake, doesn't
seem bothered by what's going on outside. I want to sink
my teeth into her shoulder. Ash sticks to the glass, and a
kid, eight or nine, runs by, newspaper up over his head.
He's crying. I can see this, but I don't hear this. Water
starts leaking then pouring then falling in sheets. Ceiling
tile and insulation float at my feet. Strawberry Milkshake
pulls her wet hair back into a ponytail. I clear my throat.
She raises her *******. I walk over and tell her
there's this song she reminds me of. And a bomb hits just
down the street. There goes the glass, crashing all around
us, slicing past forearms and skipping through empty space.
The steel frames bend. She puts her hand to my face. My
face becomes her face, her hand my hand. She and I half-hum, half-sing
"Oh Destructo, you're so destructive. You're so destructive to me."