Hide the matches
Hide the gasoline
Hide all of the caches
Of guns and magazines

Bring about the fiction
Hide away the facts
Of where it is we're going
Of where it is we're at

Hiding in the neighborhoods
Hiding in the hills
Keeping up with the Jone's
Counterfeiting bills

Terror in the cities
Terror in the towns
Down to the nitty gritty
Living underground

Sealing off the borders
Feeling safe at home
Not sure if your aware of this
But home is where we're grown

If the tiles of talking
are replaced by something else,
say, lexical snowflakes,

where will our linear minds be?
It's not that we don't understand
weird, multifoliate simultaneities

in dreams, in anguish,
or in ecstasy. It's just
the rest of the dumb time

we stand there and pull
from our mouths a usual
piece of numb string.

A warped door swings off of broken hinges
A doctor stumbles into the hallway, sick with indifference
It's out of his hands now anyway, that'll be how he falls asleep tonight
6 Adderall in the morning, 10 Xanax at night
An atheist rolling the dice is really not so dramatic

There is a clock resting above a fireplace that hasn't seen a fire in twenty years.
It is fifteen minutes slow and it has been for quite some time.
I used to take it off the mantle and manipulate the dials so as to allow it to correctly display the time.
And my mother would turn it back again.
I never understood the reasons for this,
and I still don't.
And god ******, this clock has no significance and this metaphor slipped my mind as soon as I thought of it and I can't think of enough ways to say I'm sorry.

Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.