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we take long drags
of each others skin,
the addiction comes
in phases.
day 1: my lungs sigh, weary,
air does not satisfy,
day 2: we're chasing
lifelines, that are rusted
and in vain
day 5: bad habits are
hard to break, beg, at the
holy altar of our mistakes
day 8: hands desperate,
clammy, unfurl
like belladonna palms.
day 9: i hope your
vocal cords strain, that
the only word you can
bear to say is 'stay'.
day 11: last breaths
muffled in the
graveyard of a kiss.
day 17: darling, i'm
losing track of time
day 28: i'm finding it
a little bit hard to quit.
© copyright

"with close kinship, interest, or connection; intimately"


it's n-early for natty,
dressed for gym penance in his
dress blue

but instead of working out,

he's working out
a gymnastic, mental, laboring problem,
that the muse mistress musters him out
to out,
and to attend to
the birthing of t-his

a re-erupting volcano that
has gone and got him good,
now he's a man intimately
with completing, recording,
an unabbreviated log of
oh so long ago's,
a list of the
oh so many


line items in his
life's lineage


went a whole life lessened by being
love less,
which always calculates as
a life lived
forever insufficient


was intimate
with tears self-shed,
on a single pillowcase in
a double bed,
that was unfulfilled,
no intersecting


as a
dictionary definition official
for a
sunken vessel,
a drowning one man scull,
racing toward a finish line
that had no visible


lost both sons, lost years, lost friends
lazy living in the slow, low heat
of a burning hell
of zero connections,
thinking the proper cost/benefit solution
was always,
never to be
greater than,
less than one


packed it in,
while overlooking a temptress river,
calling me out swiftly from the
slow lane of loneliness,
offering a


certain final outlet sale,
a mark-down event,
for clearing the heavy, overladen shelf
of over-weighty
a sale of singular single
cell marks upon human flesh


died a miserable man,
and still may,
from who knows what
pestilence consumption



from never knowing,
for the lacking of,
the unadulterated love
of a good woman

and that is
more than,
greater than,
all the unknowable

and more
than any other
life may yet
deny me,
curse me by

Jan. 18, 2016
for Steve (Sjr1000) whose nearly always,
inspired comments
reminded me that
can be
in its own right
I want to drown you so I can forget your face,
Pretend like you never existed here
because being here means you are real,
and this reality has broken something I once had ,
leaving me suffocating in my own silence

For the sands of time should be non-existent
as it’s abilities cannot be changed for just one love,
a love that can be forgotten but never altered,
a desire that can never be tamed but only burn brighter

And finally comes my downfall in this bottomless pit,
where only I stand alone in regret and solitude
For the fault here is mine,
For requiring something I cannot take,
rather only something that can be given with sincerity

But to leave this with dignity is too far gone to ask,
A wish of mine that can never be realised,
a pursuit of mine that can only be a paradox
instead of a fixed truth or reality

The unknown silence is killing me.
On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.

Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.

Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
when we least expect
our demise.
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
Dear Adulterer

the present is the only girl worth living
for in her bed is where you
always are

time brings about the decay of perfection


and lend half a knee to the ground

to send naked prayers to the sky
for wifi—
we are supposed
to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.
Rubicon on broadway 
young and beautiful 
in white Cadillacs and Buicks
audio pop gods transmit 
preludes for the night 
through hair waves 
and satellite finger tips

Buried souls are only resurrected
among friends
at Shakespearian rags
at 10
in mind
with wine, no whine 
oh mine, oh mine 
no more golden toads in Costa Rica—
the planet is a metaphor for the body—

old spice and white gum

our everyday gospel
We stand
on the ephemeral  balcony
serving medium rare chicken
wearing ankle socks
savoring the ticks to the decay of perfection

our nights end when their days begin—  
chasing the power that made the moon rise—

Old age is philanthropy
for the failures of youth

Casual men
tell us these casual things
before they
leave our youth
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