1 AM on a Monday night
driving somewhere to somewhere.
No curfew, no plan, no problem.
No plan, no future, no hope
               no plan.
No tomorrow only tonight,
only the sounds of night and
chills of wind.
Hair standing this is me at my most alert
                                             my most clear
                                             my most awake
                                             my most alive

1:01 AM on a Monday night.
Not sure if I'm looking forward to
the next one.
Another day, another week
of no hope, no future
no future, but to be back here
(wherever here is)
With no plans,
no plans but you.

No money, no god, no tomorrow
hardly a now even.

The morning after
as bits and pieces came back to me
I searched and searched
             for you
You weren't in the pieces I remembered,
so I put you into the ones
                                          I didn't.
I'll never ask where you were that night
Just let me think that we had
                                          our time.

I am a beginning and I am an end
I am a stream of consciousness and
I am my own lack of surprise
Manifested into a walking horrorshow wondering
where it went wrong.
Watching the birdwatchers checking for watches
They know no time with enough patience to share
Little smiles of knowing more than you
The ones who found what they were looking for
in the trees and canopies and little handbooks and scientific names
Flightless birds waiting to be classified

You were born into this,
grown into this,
engulfed and swallowed by this.
Oppression of your being,
soul-crushing down unto you,
with the burdens and pain,
of a thousand years past,
with a thousand years' hopes
and trials and failures and retrials.
You are bred into this from conception,
moving forever forwards into their backwards.
Your lovers and your guardians the same,
marching ever slowly opposite in time.
Pushing you to the fates they never sealed,
sealing your own in the doing so.
Born into this
A constant struggle of want versus need,
of love versus hate,
life vers death.
Born into this
Becoming this that you fear
Becoming this which erases what you are,
what you once were,
what you were meant to be.
You were born for this.
You were created for this.
You are the beginning and end,
of the never ending cycle,
of those since past,
and those without future.
You were bred into this,
and you will breed more of this unlife,
and they too will be born into this.

Something cynical this way came.
It came in a moment and took up residence
                           inside me.
When half full became broken glass,
I stopped looking at the whole picture,
and focused on the cracks.

How does one battle black and white?
The cracks. They're inevitable right?
Paint chips, rock erodes, skin withers.
Why fight?
Time always has been a killer.

I guess it came to me at a time,
understanding it is easy.
Maybe that should scare me, but now
I find the dirtiest in all things.
Would I be surprised to find how ugly I've become?
Or would I just brush it away as another necessary casualty?

Religion picks some men in the way of miracle,
but very few feel an enlightenment.
And so most men pick their gods.
Perhaps it's the guarantee of eternal life and the answers
faith seems to hand out.
They don't know if the guarantee is ******* and there is no afterlife,
and there are no answers
to all the ******* questions.
But ignorance is bliss and if leather and scripture help them sleep at night
then good, i envy them .
As if all the problems in the world could be solved by a Sunday.

Minutes go by and turn to weeks,
as the night and day cycle is known to me
only by the light slipping between the curtains.

Tracing the lines of her face to the ridge of her spine,
I've found a haven under these sheets
and heaven hidden in plain sight on her lips.

Her invitation I could never refuse.
She wears it on her face as her innocence,
beckoning me to explore behind eyes or between thighs.

I was warned I could be lost here forever.
Deep in the folds of everything she stands for,
everything she's shown me on bare skin.

Because on the first night a bird called twice,
once for the beginning of love,
and again for the end of time.

Oh, how heavy a heart must be,
alone, adrift in some sea.
The only direction lives in the black,
giving names to the stars,
as if they are the new gods.
Forever still and unmoving
as the single constant,
in a world of crashing currents,
from this sea, to the plates under the pavement,
that the greatest cities are built upon.
And even still it is only the photograph,
which lovers name after each other,
and sailors follow home.
These new gods are dead at first imagining,
as all gods before and those yet to come.
Their light defying their demise for millions of years,
to give a look back in time.
Though one must still live, in the present,
a last survivor against the vaccum of space and time,
burning up to the heavens, as Rilke wrote.
And so it is this hope that something lives on,
amongst the burnt out graveyard,
that weighs upon the heavy heart.
As it recognizes the universal inevitability of an end,
but can't help to think otherwise.

When it hits paper,
it never fills potential
When it becomes physical as ink
                                       I've failed
It becomes half of what it means to me
after I take these words from the dark
and force them into the light.

If every great worth his name in paper is looking down
                               on one person  
              discovering the path they set to follow
I wonder who was ashamed when they looked down on me
Whether it be Bukowski or Burroughs,
how long did it take for them to turn to one of the Lost and ask,
                           "how's yours doing?"
                       "oh well he's the next me."

Stand strong and tall,
old lamppost.
Stand holy and unforgiving.
A nuisance to young teen
lovers,
groping in their parents' cars

Savior to the children,
extending their parklife,
as so they may not face
age and life,
for another hour or so.

And know if your bulb ever runs out,
I'll warn the women
to stay out of the park,
after dark.

I saw her the night before,
holding back tears, pretending,
everything was going to be,
fine.
She told me she had something for me,
in the trunk of her car, and I,
never looked.
I told her I loved her
and barely made it out the door.
Next morning, sitting in grass, they told me,
and I thought, I'd never known someone to die.
And when we all came together to remember,
praising the name Gloria,
my aunt read a poem, and the church,
overflowed with people,
wearing matching
t-shirts.
And when it was all over,
the pastor shook my hand and said,
I looked
sharp.

The first time I kissed you,
you turned from looking at a sunset.
My heart a thousand pounds in my chest,
my lips probably a little too wide, but you didn't mind.
And maybe that's why I became so hooked.
On your willingness and ability,
to teach me.
Just a kid who thought he knew everything,
until he tried to know you.
But it was simple then, yet new,
and we held onto it for a summer.
The smell of you on my clothes,
lingered long and welcome,
a comforting reminder that I was falling in love,
with a girl who made my lips ache, night after night,
in some theater, showing some film,
we really didn't want to see.

The streetlights are our friends,
and I'm getting to know the grooves of your palm well.
Bathing for mere moments in pools,
of flickering purity.
What we know in the day is shadowed skylines,
alleys darker than the last,
and I am tracing your outline with my eyes.
The longing is out on the sidewalks,
of all restless souls, huddled in doorways,
breathing ash,
and I am focusing on the sound of your footsteps.
The wind bites bitter and it's us in the doorway.
It is our longing like gravity between us,
breathing in your breath leaves
a better taste in my mouth.
And I am tracing your outline with my hands,
but the moon is in the gutter,
and I can't see your face tonight.

flat on your back in the dark
wished for anywhere but it's known to you
you've spent the most valuable currency here

neon and natural outline the window
hissing and stepping into the unknown
there's an entire other world out there

but you've made your own here
and travel is risk without a guide
to tell which avenues to avoid

count the silhouettes and trace the lit letters
write your hopes in the fog your breath left
for fear will keep you from driving your fist into the night

you've made this place your prison
with the only visitors your walls
are they getting closer?

maybe before you find yourself crushed
you'll look out that familiar glass
and see something unfamiliar

the first shadow to stop and look up
to notice the one dark window in a wall of light
and to sense an illumination subdued by darkness

to draw you out from your cell and be your guide
over the gutters and through the alleyways
and to show you all you've hidden away