o monotony,
her hideous face allures me
so much that i might leap into the abyss,
a mediocre fall, in truth,
onto a springboard for disaster...
and not for want of false trying.

i watched a movie today that made me cry.
i can't remember the last time i cried in front of anyone.
i looked over at my mom's tear-soaked face and as
she looked back at mine,
she did not see me.
because i don't cry; right?
i'm sure she cried some more just at the sight of me.

i've gone and done it now.
exiled myself from the one thing i want,
the one thing i crave:

the one thing i need,
or else i'll wither, for a little while.
like a tomato plant that's been out
in the muggy alabama summertime;
like i forgot to water her for just a few days;
like the leaves are wilting brown, and gray, and i think:
i can save her.

and i water her day after day;
and i sometimes think i'll drown her
the way i drench her stalk.
and her roots.
and her leaves;
like i want her to live so i can live
and through her love to live instead
of living to love her.
and i have to wait and see if she'll pull through
and save me in return.

and at the end of this day,
of whatever kind it was,
i sang some songs of old,
and smoked until the ash
and dreams
were too soaked into my clothes
for my tear-soaked mother
not to notice.

the sunsets tick like a time bomb to redemption,
the seconds, like so much sweat,
mere atomisms,
symbols of this world's inconceivables,
indecipherable nothings,
whizzing 'round your halo;
rushing to drip down your fading silhouette
before it's shattered by einstein himself.

still:

remember that it's all a game
and when your heart shouts wealth or fame,
remember that it's all the same,
remember we have much to gain,
and nothing to lose but hope.

still:

remember the way she looked,
and the way her throat strained at the hook,
remember it's your heart she took,
remember you're an open book
and your pages won't last forever.

still:

remember the shape of punk to come,
and how you used to be so dumb,
remember when she pulled the gun,
remember watching black ink run,
and the stains on your fingers forever.

still:

remember that he died for you,
and the years spent trying to pay that due,
remember that your human, too,
remember language is so crude
and the world is so...

still.

as much as i try to seem
calm and domesticated,
like an old dog in suburbia,
i am yet a beast:
my fangs drip with whiskey
and my eyes shine in the night
like a vulture or a fox, but less beautiful.
so distant, horizon lines and fish eye lenses,
like the past, or some naval armada,
pummeled by your locks,
driven to the bottom of the ocean by
your treacherous hazel eyes.

fair well, or better than i,
for your happiness is its own reward
and your smile is the universe.
once we sat, delirious,
smoking cigarettes in the misty sunrise,
talking **** about people we didn't know,
asking questions, unanswerable,
all the while, your smile bearing down on my soul,
and mine, paling in comparison,
searing itself into the insides of your eyelids.

i am the way your cheeks flush whenever you see me,
and you are the sweat on my brow as your smile,
refracted on a million rays of light,
reaches roughly into my brain and extracts
every single bit of sanity, so tenderly.

and so it seems that life and death
are just some pleasant accidents
between which we sit here, struggling
with whats, hows, whos, and whys;
but why do we care? and why should we?

and, by the way, who are we? and who is you?
questions, billions of them, unanswerable,
crawling almost ceaselessly,
down magical filaments of endless light,
towards a nonexistent finish line.

you'll never make it where you're going,
and not from lack of trying or some
deficiency of moral fiber:
it's just that that finish line, and all its glory,
is nothing but another beginning.

tired, weary, stumbling slowly,
our heart does something new,
having spent so long beating,
like some tribal ritual gone awry in your chest,
now rests forever in this world.

cross over, into the other,
the dark, the unknown, the nothing.
nothing is everything, just as ending is,
ending is, ending is, repetition,
full stop, and breathe.

and so it seems you are no more,
a pleasant detour life turned out to be,
and now, you sleep, or dream
of grass growing to the heavens,
or maybe a field flowering, just once, forever.

and so it seems that life and death
are just some pleasant accidents
between which we sit here, struggling
with whats, hows, whos, and whys;
but why do we care? and why should we?

and, by the way, who are we? and who is you?
questions, billions of them, unanswerable,
crawling almost ceaselessly,
down magical filaments of endless light,
towards a nonexistent finish line.

you'll never make it where you're going,
and not from lack of trying or some
deficiency of moral fiber:
it's just that that finish line, and all its glory,
is nothing but another beginning.

tired, weary, stumbling slowly,
our heart does something new,
having spent so long beating,
like some tribal ritual gone awry in your chest,
now rests forever in this world.

cross over, into the other,
the dark, the unknown, the nothing.
nothing is everything, just as ending is,
ending is, ending is, repetition,
full stop, and breathe.

and so it seems you are no more,
a pleasant detour life turned out to be,
and now, you sleep, or dream
of grass growing to the heavens,
or maybe a field flowering, just once, forever.

what am i to say?
when your tears are his,
his dreams are dark,
and i am, here, exiled.

the songbird tells of strife,
but sweet harmonies through the bars,
entrance the ear and heart,
almost forgotten now, the woe.

the stars, of course, point backwards,
sacrificing holy rules and codes
merely to get their fix,
before returning to their stations.

sit. silent. feel it. definitely.
i can tell there's something missing,
but as for what? what matters?
and as for how? why bother?

drift, eternal drift, so cruel,
that drags you from the top,
and gags and binds you with every word,
how empowered he must feel.

still, no way out,
but the slow, benign hand,
ticking lonely seconds,
sinister, and dripping with time.

devouring, always,
thirsting for words,
jonesing for dramatics,
yearning for redemption.

the keyboard pounds,
some inglorious Beethoven
composing some dilapidated
Archduke Trio, just for the hipsters

the action repeats. now. now again.
in spite of its supposed purpose
a mere reflex?
or the essence of self.

more more more, i say
why should not the skies erupt
with rivers of euphoria
and other useless miracles?

the city, overrun with ugly serpents, makes
the whole gambit crystalline:
permanent, frozen, and most of all,
clear, as a may afternoon, laid out on the Front Lawn.


so, always, never does it come.
the chalice spills forever,
and i must lap it off the ***** floor,
because why cry over spilt milk?

nothing grieves me heartily indeed
but that i cannot do much at all,
that i can do everything and don't,
that i need everything evil and beautiful.