Now that you've decided to start this year like every other day of it.
You've realized treating every year like a dead line's
a good way of procrastinating your own existence.
A deadlines the point in time at which something becomes meaningless.
Catching yourself on fire,
you realized this is a decent hobby for those with skin.

Imagine you'd said, if they made houses out of skin,
I though of you.

Not one for metaphors
I'm relying on you to literally be a deadline.

This bed gave birth to you.
You're a nightmare,
This bed's the side of my face I'm fine with not coming out of for weeks.

7 days later is a week
not that anyone's counting
but I've won.

If you'd like, we'll do literally nothing forever
and just how long till I get to become that void I'm staring at?
Soon, you'll say,
or maybe you won't, either way I'm ready to believe you.

Right now you're happy about lying about being happier alone.
Soon you'll be alone, happy about lying about being happier.

Asking what you'd do with three wishes you said
"her" twice, pointing at only one person, said
"die" once, explaining how to fit the worlds ******* supply into a single room.

After reading three books by Kafka
you realized knowing what Kafkaesque means is overrated.

You once smiled at the sun like it was proud of your teeth.
Now your mouths mostly full of rain,
and you really are proud of your teeth.

My hearts beating like its blowing at a small ember in your hands.

I'm the kind who answers "What time is it?"
by turning into a clock
You're the kind to answer " It's all a construct"
before peeling yourself in public like a cold grape.

Soon we'll both perfect being bowls
full of what couldn't be scraped off us.
For now that blank book I wrote " Notes On Futility"
should be enough to sustain you.
I only hope its looking at the blank pages
that turns you blind
not the way you lick your fingers to turn them.

A falasy, I'm ready for anything.
A fact, niether are you.
A song, drag a small corpse, across your lawn
there'll be neighbors, cutting grass
and a sprinkler'll hit you, and your, cold handful.
An ice cream truck plays, and it's, warm out.
Somewhere some child cries, that hes, missed out.
His parents promise, to take him, to the store.

A Concept, me in the dirt
the warmth of the sun radiates through the loose earth
I smell only beautiful things.
A rock scratches just where I want it to
and nothing really moves.
There is no longer a need for music.

What's really the cause of its arrival:
"it"'s questions.
"I"'m music.
I'm the part where words are said
that's to say not sung.
The context of my head's no more object than thought.
We'll take a while to talk about it.
Assuming "it", "talk", and "we" are any realer than the words within them.
If not then flesh, now you've eaten.
This is where it becomes convoluted.

uuuuhhhh

Is its own stanza
this "uuuuhhhh"'s in your voice in your head now.
In or outside,
your heads still a part of it strange enough.
Out or inside,
my hands still a part of it strange enough.
strange enough
my hands outside or in "it".
"it"'s been explained.

I want "you" to picture"me" holding a rock to the sun
asking why neither are thirsty.
"you" want "me" to be a rock in a picture of the sun,
"you" don't need to ask to be thirsty,
"i"m niether.

Water and a handful of pennies
makes a mouthful for a moment.
Last nights moment's a *** of coffee in my mouth,
told to self I really was trying to sleep.

How many "you"s in this poem's really "you" "you"'ve asked.
I'll say so much as to know the answer's the sun,
that said that still I'm not sure.
How many "I"'s in this poem's really "I" "I"'ve asked.
You'll see so much as to guess the answers: under pain of death.
That's your words, my head.

Set your things on top of me,
I'm auditioning for the part of a table made from a different table .
I've played the part of the one who built it.
Neither move.
Lines please.

Turn signals of cars looking about
to turn to here but don’t
blink at about similar pace
to a heart doesn’t leave
any metaphor worthwhile though the
fact melted ice cream on the counter
next to food served to people I don’t
know reminds me of the first time
I masturbated successfully does though.
Me touching something that goes into you
about the opposite I want both
closeness and indifference a balance hard
to maintain as kindness and the pace
needed to get things served so
kindness isn’t needed like
by archetypal male figures who can
slap a person they love to mean it.
Saying I love you doesn’t mean I believe
it under different circumstances I don’t
mean I’m lying either. Either it’s really
that difficult to explain or it’s just
difficult in all either way here
I’m still having difficulties
with the way your lips open or
when we’re talking how I’m
hoping they’ll be licked for
decent or my own reasons.

The question if the felt or the feeling hand feels more
is the only worth asking.
As if to say if you asked if lately I’ve felt more open
or hot as the eggs I eat in the mornings where I think
about the things above I write about
I’d say if I were to taste you it’d be by the gallon by a cup
at a time to time to that song you’ve always said
you’ve liked candle light writing by it’s
what’s made all the good men go mad.
It’s dancing’s what’s not getting laid on prom night.
Candle’s light or otherwise kills what’s a lack of
it, is it now made suicide or just loneliness,
is it now mean loneliness or just vaticide
now eyes not opening for the first time.
Bordering on morose now we look for
other words: this is where I live.
Deader words: there was once where I lived.

The goal’s in words to make things ****
even houselights like being you as temptation.

This Is How To Be Cool:

Step 1:
Hate people.
Hating people is in.
This should build up the sense
of mystery  most
people you now hate will
be attracted to.
Don't enjoy the company of people
you now know why you
hate and ask yourself why you
didn’t do this sooner and why only most things seem the same.

Step 2:
Wear shoes.
Wear shoes as
comfortable as
middle aged men that
don’t please their wives now
that well anymore.


Step 3:
Lose sense of time.
Lock yourself in a garage
with no windows that has 2
TV’s that play different things.
Have limited water. Have friends
that you tell to buy you malt and even still
cheaper *****.
Listen to not stop talk
of the grade of **** in strip clubs at a $ per/for a
tall boy all day happy hour/s.
If you have or had a phone or a clock hide it.
If you have or had a sun dial or set of fingers
set it or them in front or in-between 1 or 2
of the t.v.s
so it or them always tells close to the same
2 times.
Never, not even for a moment, look at them.  






Step 4:
(4a)Watch.
 Watch an old man walk an ugly dog
   with a bag of **** in his hand.
  (4b):Come to 1 or 2 safe conclusions
   about why the man has ****
   in his hand/s.
 (4c):Come to exactly 2 [(4ci) and (4cii)] unsafe conclusions and write  them on the bottoms of separate chairs in an IKEA warehouse store.

(4ci)The man needs   to theoq **** at someone nearby.
 (4cii)The man has  a collection. A stockpiled **** supply.
(4d) Reference and annotate your secret **** propaganda.


Step 5:
Go someplace.
Go someplace  you
do not belong you
will make yourself unknown you
will develop a cult nonfollowing.


Step 6:
Write a poem.
Write a poem using useless metaphors to
end a poem that doesn’t seems to be about
women but  the poem at the end and inside of this first poem is about
one anyways.

Example:
You're a book just closed,
you aren’t done yet,
Your drawing yourself out
Waiting on someone else to return.

You are a sun just
set, you can’t be seen.
All the lights you left behind
have limits in the streets they shine in.

You are a photograph of a photograph
of an unfinished drawing:
a pointlessly layered mystery about
something someone somewhere
has already finished and made
better without you.

You are a woman
the least concrete image with
the least valid explanation.


Step 7:
Lie to your audience and end the
poem in an only slightly less useless
fashion then I told you to previously plan to. This is not about a relationship, this is about being ******* cool. About remaining in a slow waiding motion through yourself the planet like spin of a fire kicking up and consuming the last of the air around it, Nothing will happen to you. You will only make things more clear around you.

How soon words become their sounds saying themselves,
a muffled echo of a canyon packed
full with abandoned spaces.
I intend to fall over
you like the best part of a disaster,
like the thousands of things I have,
will have said to you,
only two will have been true.

When not unlike wet fish your mouth opens almost to speak,
wet horses drag my tongue from my throat like a long coffin.
I want you for the reverend for the wake for my last words,
to say something like
" His tongue touched his words often but seldom sexually."
I want you to want to have you want into my teeth
like new knives new points in balloons' mouths.
Like new balloons' new mouths on knives points
this's the first of the last of our first times together.

The assumption’s success is exciting
that danger too
is too and
that that again for you
there are too many of these words for suspense.

Assumptiosly,
I’m picking thorns from the lips the years
used to tell you you
have less faults than a rose.
Probably I’m a fishbone’s softened point
as red as roses aren’t without the ******
that made the same red as half the red
on your hands already.

It’s time and
again to tell you in as many and as broken
as entire houses hand blown and probably painted
like goose egg words that
I add Salt to things I like and need to keep
longer than this no understatement
I’ve made you an ocean filled full of fish bones.

I ate oceans feeling fishbones breaking;
                                      breaking;
                        breaking;
          breaking
me, talking to you like chopping a tree onto myself.

Even if words or not are in the right order
do or don’t you understand *do or don’t you?

It’s the first time and
again to tell you
I’m as broken as an entire house hand blown and probably painted
like goose eggs.
And again, Salt’s all I add
to things I already like, it’s
no understatement I’ve
made you an ocean filled full of fish bones.
I assume success is exciting
that danger too
is too and
again that for you
there are too many words.
Peach,
bear,
broken,
syrup,
or-terse,
are not enough to get life to work like you but
are enough to get life to work for you.
When or not in the right order
you do or don’t understand don’t or do you?
Necessarily,
I’m picking thorns from the years
andagain lips used to tell you you
have less faults than a rose.
In essence and again I’m a fishbone hut
in a **** storm and again
roses aren’t as red without the ****** that
may or may not have made the same red as
half the red on your hands already, and again,
I eat/ate oceans and am fishbones
breaking me brings no wishes or good luck
or and again I’ve choked children and
again talking to you is like chopping a tree onto myself.

If I wake up,
I make sure I
write
down my dreams I
write in perfect detail
and my not dreams I
write in perfect detial
too. A dream life is as valid as
a waking one is as valid as
an undreamed life too
every non-second
         every dream-second
                 every now-second
is life matter in every listed nonexistent perfect detail:
polar bears,
a bug eating me from the inside out,
a blue mustard bleached rotted bone,
a sword made of cotton
that grows legs and calls itself summer wear,
and all the things
that aren't those things
either too.

“I’m   sick    of     you


always
trying tobe a poeton
a balcny in the moorning
at


4
with-nough
whhiskey in your gut to **** a mule the size of a man twice yours”

Metal tastes the way beer does when your can is filling in the cut it opened in your mouth.
The same way words do with meaning.

“You don’t like
it?twhat’s         the matter?”
“It’s the word
mainly, listen to the sound,
ppuuuuudiinngg.
It sounds like the sop
from an unkempt venereal disease.”
“You ,
your fuckinwords.”

PlllaaassstiUc,
sounds like rain on a bucket with holes below the line you need it to be whole for, to work for collecting water
when you slap the bottle from my hand.

“Plastixs
cheeprthn
glash you devil
bitsh”

Off again into another night on may be the same bench till may be rain or rumble or a lack of water find me in the morning.

You ever want to **** someone so bad your stomach hurts? I counted to seventy eight in between when the shuttle took off and arrived and I got off to get distracted by hunger. Maybe I’m a ***** but it’s hard not to want. I smoke my cigarettes so fast I get light headed. It’s the only way to know I’m killing myself.

                                             **** yourself with
                  your last cigarette only almost broken but crumpled
                               it’s more comforting than love.
              Always call your last match false hope when you’re alone.

                                                                                    The days are gruesome.
                                                                       The trees get green then naked.
                                                       The women in pulp paper backed books.
                                               The woman in my pulp paper backed book is
                                a portrait of you, with your mouth open that felt *****.
                         I licked my fingers to smudge the shading on your tongue.
                                   I licked my finger to smudge a poem on the ground.
                                        A poem is a tree punching through the pavement
                                                                                    into the toothy ground.

                   The ground is the trees that tried and died before.

          Before is the whiskey in my cup I have to drink to waste it.

Waste is whole and even. I feel best as an odd number, as a single or a third, as one of those unrelenting fractions always braying to be torn apart. Whole is useless, whole is having nothing to give away, whole is to be a hole you’ve filled with yourself and no part of you sees day or the flowers that pile up from the corpse of accomplishment.

I’m equally heart and
head and **** and their
all digging for clay.

You’re less subtle than susceptible
to the sun rising
to hands softer than mine.
The smoke colors your fingertips
tarnished turmeric gold with
life passing through them
in waves and ripples
like Warsaw’s children
playing on the wharf.

That foam splashes up behind a sun
the rose hips on your hips, an alabaster canvas.
Nothing falls gracefully.

Brake,
break,
grab, slide, ball
like an infant safe in your ******* womb.
Cars around growl poised in packs on round haunches.
I hear finesse in relation to broken teeth,
rats in relation to style.
Like writing,
your name
on an outstretched rubber band
watch yourself shrink
and fly away every time
I see you let go.

Your teeth like drywall looks
when you’re eyes’ve gone red.
I want you like a child’s first attempt
at perfume
too much alcohol
and pulling blush from a warm rose.

I’ve had all my affections poured out over pink skirts as well as pale eyes.
It’s easy to find that pogo sticks and pacifiers
can’t get a childhood
off the ground; where she stood smiling.
Over coats and undercuts are all to cover something.
Replace your teeth with gold
and when they don’t feel
like yours anymore
Then you’ll know.
Your tongue is bronze now.
Plaster’s coming off like a shuffle board land slide
All around this cage they keep us dogs
In, When we bite; its because there isn’t any tongue clicking
Or word bashing left to do.
The sun has found me,
I see it through
slotted bars, and the clouds
are in just as much hell as I am.
I see them with belly full to eyes full of wine.
I’ve been too long in burning this bridge.
It’s the buckets full ,
waiting to quench tinder.
It’s that I’ve drunken everything,
Flammable for miles.
Lock jaw and bite.
Bite down on the trusses.
Bite down and curse god.
He’ll understand all
Your tongues, and spastic fingers.
She says that I puke passion,
that these trees don’t grow in vain,
that fruit is god awful imagery,
And that I have to train every limb
so they can beat the stop signs with their falling pines.

There was speed
in the way the rose hips aged on your alabaster canvas.
Nothing falls gracefully.
Life passes in waves and ripples
the lulls of it trapped in pockets of wrinkled flesh.
When smoke colors your finger tips
like turmeric.
Whose lungs would be better to seep the blood
it took to build our youth.
I said if you let him deal in front
of me I'd **** him.
It took more then broken bones to keep you out of the tar
and feathers.
Those needles I broke just turned to coal
stains on tin foil, crumpled
it was the only thing
above ground when you were through.

Good dogs,
always panting towards the sun.
The lapping tongues that break;
the mirror of the lake.
The picture of your face,
rolling and broken on its surface,
like I always knew you were.

Here, over the crisp of morning grass.
Here, under the silk of morning skies.
Here, in-between the thighs of time swaying.
Here, we find the dawn, or tomorrow,
now, wrapped together,
in the sweet must of old wool
and fresh sweat rubbing together.
Now like the gap between the second hand settling,
as brief as hummingbird wing beats,
it all rises in front of us,
awake in the warmth of the sun.

Good dogs,
always panting towards the break.
The lapping tongues at dawn;
the mirror of  lake.
The shaken picture of your face,
smiling and open on its surface,
like I always knew you were.

You ever wake up in the middle of the night real thirsty, and so you go downstairs, or across the house, or whatever, to get somethin' to drink. When you get there you know you don't want water, cause water's got no flavor, but you don't have any juice, and its too late f'r tea or coffee. And you **** sure ain't got any of that bitchmade caffeine free herbal **** either, so you're just left with water, so you drink it even if you don't wantu. Then you start feelin' real upset and dissatisfied what with the fact that you just had to drink water, but then you start to feel bad about feeling bad about "only" havin' water, what on account of all them little starvin' children and whatnot, so you decide to drink a whole nother glass just out of spite towards the little ******* who made you feel that way, determined as hell be grateful as **** this time, but it still don't work. Don't work at all. So you just go upstairs, or across the hall, or the house or whatever, all bloated from like forty ounces of lukewarm tap water and you just lay down all bloated and dissatisfied and sad and questioning the meaning of your terribly mediocre existence. Then you start to feel really down, and questioning like the meaning of things that don't need to be questioned and all. 'En by the time it's gettin' round to like 5 in the morning you realize none of this would have happened if you at least had juice. Hell even koolaid, but it's to late now and you're still all bloated and sad and you just fall asleep cursin' juice and all the ******' different kinds of fruit that make it, and made you feel this way, what on account of the transitive property. Ya well, what I'm trying to say here is, **** fruit, its the reason I'm so Go'**** unhappy.

May be I love you.

Or maybe I just love the idea,
Of pressing hard into you,
On cold nights,
When the room’s dark,
and all you can see,
is our panting and labored breathe.
The stink of sweat and clenched fists.

Or maybe I just love the idea,
of drunken mistakes,
on unmade beds,
when whole worlds on fire,
and all you can smell,
is the sweet pitch and sap of smoldering clothes .
The stink of sweat and clenched fists above it all.

Or maybe I just love the idea,
of old age spent alone,
on creaky porches,
when all my senses have faded,
and I can’t love anymore of this world.
Is the end always found alone, in places like this?
The stink of sweat and clenched fists above it all, fighting to the end.

Or maybe all of these things,
but then again,
maybe I love you.

I feel so **** lonely sometimes.
Not that anyone can fix it for me,
but it’s always there it seems,
in the background, telling me,

that not anyone can fix it for me.
Those hands reaching for fever
in the background, telling me,
it’ll be okay, don’t worry, not now.

Those fevered hands. Reaching for
Those lies that say things to me like,
“it’ll be okay, don’t worry. Not now.”
Sick sentimentality wraps around

those lies that say things to me like-
Oh hell, I know it’s me talking all along
around sick sentimentality. Wraps,
smother, swim, I’d drown in your arms.

I know it’s me talking all along, Oh hell,
what could be so wrong with me when i
swim, smother, drown, in your arms. I’d
be sick to want anything other than,

what could be so wrong with me. When i
think about the best kind of days; I’m
sick to want anything other than, we.
At least I can know now for sure that

days like this one will pass, days where
I feel so **** lonely sometimes.
I’m sick of sadness, those crisp voices
in the background, telling me.

“It’s all *******."
She mouthed
cocking a drunken head and lighting a broken cigarette.

                                up,
                 ­         up,  
I looked her up,        
and down again.      

"Between just us
us friends
it'll be fine
just fine in the-"

"I know."
As she looked away
she showed me soft grace
a wrinkled nose and tired eyes
posture of those patron saints.

I poured out two gins
taking both
she smiled.
Both gone
She saved
not a single, sip.

"You're beautiful"
I mumbled
and
she smirked.

Made upward movement
taking a lucky
she brought fire
up to the tip.

Lips pursed together
tongue pushing spit out
toward and around the dirt
at my fumbling feet.

When we were done,
the smoke clinging
to those auburn curls.
She lay back arching.
Those fluttered eyes,
drove my aching muscles,
reaching for her open smile,
as, with slippery digits
I played our sighs together.

Petting
heavy
heavy as the world sitting
on my worried head.
Watch it crack under pressure
The gory puddle of my expressions
in her lap.

It all started with us listening to the rain through an open window
beating heavy on the old wood of the cabin.
Those hours of morning when the sun still hides,
and the air smells like dust,
we were smoking cigarettes ,
and smoking homegrown,
and drinking water ,
and whiskey.

There we shared unmistakable looks
With cracked candles in the corners
And fresh moss under the windows
We pretended to both be tired.
So we could lie down together,
and huddle close,
and save warmth,
like burning coals rapped together in a blanket of ash.

But it had to be more subtle,
more drawn out,
than both of us wanted it to be.
So I reached out a single hand from the opposite side of the bed
to see if it was ok.

You grabbed it,
and pulled yourself closer,
as if you were pulling yourself away from the den of lions,
Daniel in those biblical proportions.
We closed their hungry mouths together.

We stayed wrapped together all night,
the mess of your hair sticking to my face.

It wasn't until the sun came up
that both our heartbeats settled
and my muscles and mind relaxed
and our breathing slowed
and we could slip into a dream
with bodies weak from wanting.

" its all *******."
she mouthed
cocking a drunken head and lighting a broken cigarette

I looked her up,
                         up,
                             up,


and down again.
"Between just us
as friends
it'll be fine
just fine in the-"

"I know."
as she looked away
she showed me soft grace
a wrinkled nose and tired eyes
posture of those patron saints

I poured out two gins
taking both
she smiled
both gone
not a single
sip
saved.

"You're beautiful"
I mumbled
and
she smirked.
Made upward movement
taking a lucky
she brought fire
up to the tip.




Lips pursed together
tongue pushing
spit
around the dirt
at my feet.

When we were done
she lay back arching
those fluttered eyes
aching muscles
the auburn curls
her smile as i played
our sighs together.

Petting
heavy
heavy as the world sitting
on my worried head.

That Soggy Winter Night,
when the rain beat heavy on the old wood of the cabin
and the air smelled like dust,
and candles,
and fresh moss,
and wilted leaves,
and anticipation.

It all started with us listening to the rain through an open window.
Those hours of morning when the sun still hides,
smoking cigarettes ,
and smoking homegrown,
and drinking water ,
and whiskey,
and sharing unmistakable looks,
that both of us where too eager and scared to put words to.

So we pretended to both be tired.
So we could lie down together,
and huddle close,
and save warmth,
like burning coals rapped together in a blanket of ash.

This was the hesitant placation of our urges.

But it had to be more subtle,
more drawn out,
than both of us wanted it to be.
So I waited until I couldn't stand it anymore
reaching out a single hand from the opposite side of the bed
to see if it was ok.

You grabbed it,
and pulled yourself closer,
as if you were pulling yourself away
from the brink of a deadly mountain’s cliff.

We stayed wrapped together all night,
the mess of your hair sticking to my face
because I stayed wrapped around you.

It wasn't until the sun came up
that both our heartbeats settled
and my muscles and mind relaxed
and our breathing slowed
and we could slip into a dream
with bodies weak from wanting.

All my dreams are made of ice
tinted with gold by your memory.
Like ice
they turn to puddles
with the rising sun melting the moon in the morning minutes

Listen people, as this pertains to you, in general. The ***** that I give are decaying, exponentially, in relation to you. (you as a mass, an amoeba, a faceless many or few, however you wish to view the individual, inner, outer, oneself, selfless or self-centered, arrogance and humility all set aside)Forward from this point it has been planned, by my conscious and I, through negotiation (talking to myself is demoralizing, ruthless ******* I am at all ventures) an equation for the ***** I'll be rationed (or deprived of) has been set forth by it (or him, the tones are erratic and stances inconsistent, better I find to leave it faceless, a mass inconceivable in ways and form) to follow said equation.
F= i(1-e)^L
The variables within being explained to me as meaning such:
F is for *****, obviously-the end result-what we in essence: are after. Having to wade through the entire convoluted mess my conscious has made of it.
i is innocence, the starting point or amount- the source from which all my ***** flow.
e if experience, the rate of decay through time-experience being what seems to cause it-hardening innocence, slowly but surely, eliminating ***** all together.
L is life, the time: The span in which the degradation of ***** can and will occur, upon its end, the equation is erased, and given to start anew somewhere else, with someone else.
In layman’s terms the entire equation is doomed to begin with. Innocence, mine or anyone else’s is an impossible thing to quantify: measure. It’s sun tea from grandmothers’ mason jars on summers evenings, nostalgia and ignorance, something individual and immeasurable.
Leaving us to ask it (my conscious) what the hell it was even thinking. It, of course, doesn’t think in logical terms, only hides under the pale ruse of them.
My experience is a little easier to quantify. Seeing death, hearing the crack of an animal’s entire body under a tire, the last screech of death, Ruined lives or families, the illogical kindness of strangers, the warmth of another human’s body. All these things play crucial roles, leaning towards one way or another, another being this case, another being negative.
My time (L) is limited, leaving us to ask what relativity it has on the entire equation. The sad and short domain of a cliff dive graph. The two dots that predict importance, and my relativity the graph, the system this equation functions within, and its rules as a whole.
It says to work it through, to find myself, to change some spiral I can’t track or imagine.
It doesn't think in logical term, it left me confused without the tools to claw my way out of existence, and this sterile version of it.
It doesn't know (or care) what’s going on, it only hides behind the pale ruse,
of giving a ****.

"Do you know why i pulled you over?"
" Suspect it was because of my speed."
" Did you realize how fast you where going?"
" Nearly 75 miles per hour, you see, I noticed that concrete median just ahead and realized I have been suicidal lately, so I unbuckled my seat belt, glanced at my blinking airbag light letting me know this would be a for sure thing and gunned it. Then of course you turned on your lights, and i knew there's too big of a chance of making it to the hospital alive with a cop this close by when it happens so i decided to pull over. I thought may be suicide by cop would work, but i don't have a gun with me, so the worst that would happen is i would get tazed, and you'd have to do paperwork, so i abandoned that about the time you reached my bumper. To tell you the truth, you, and solely you, for multiple reasons, may have been the only thing that kept me from killing myself tonight. Now that I've had some time to think about it, I don't think dieing would help either, wouldn't help me or anyone else, so i think the best thing would be to just go home and sleep it off, sleep until i start to feel something again."
".......Life gets hard sometimes and you can't let it get a hold of you like that. Where do you live?"
"about ten blocks up"
"I'll let you go, but I'm going to follow you there just to make sure you get home in one piece, and in the morning check yourself into somewhere."
"I'll make sure to."

Wandering words of wisdom
curl eagerly
around the smoke stack songs of southern savages.
Whispered wordlessly through the generations
my gut boils with ******* bravery.
The sounds of ancient ruins
those panted grunts of trance bound elders
are what they have named me.
I've plucked my eyes from their plush pillows.
The lies they slept in kept them slow and useless.
They will wander in the dark
open with anticipation
free of the blinding roads of gold
you had set so slyly as traps for them.

The slow serenade of time.
The subtle spin of the clock’s tireless hands.
In endless cycles
she dances out the destitute rhythm of days.
I'll weave you a web of words
the seconds bouncing on its brittle strands.
This life is tiresome
with rusty claws I'll change my fiction face.
Hung up by rope in the shed
I'll use my bare bone canvas to make something new
someone better.
Those starving tree moored beasts
I'll hide in the rustling leaves, haunches raised for the pounce.
I want to have no perception of time
a man of madness, melancholy, impulse and innocence.
Raise your cups high
toast to everything you ever had.
Toast to life
*I'll drink to never knowing it.

The rain like rubber bullets on brittle glass.
Everything is broken up in the light
and hissing
slithers serpent like
to the city's sunken sewer.
All the ticks of this season fade together.
One drop at a time
the air is cleaned
and the memories we find in it
have all washed away.
The rainbows of oil slick streets
run pitted up rolling hills
and I found my *** of gold:
all those moments of memory
under the pines dripping gin stink serenade.
I swam in the streams that trickled down your lips
the hum of heaving skies
blocked out the world
leaving only our warmth
as salvation.

In the fog of mornings
and twice closed eyes
my dreams spelled you.
All the pain of reality
had been lifted from your face
your smile shone like diamonds
in that quick to disappear dream.
At least here you're happy
those narrow moments
where the world can't touch you
of course
neither can I.

The day sets sudden into summer shimmering
blind beasts patchy and lost
wander hopelessly along the tarmac trails of rubber foot caravans.
My mind races rancid thoughts forward
the winner takes all
that winter melancholy waving funeral flags at the finish line.
I'll bite down my teeth on the metal masculinity
and taste holiday nostalgia:
burning meat,
drunken rednecks,
fireworks just past dusk,
that mixture of sulfur and black powder,
fumes.
I can't keep on like this,
knees shaky from miles measured in ruby minutes.
I'll eat this city whole,
carbon emission load before my final marathon.
These teeth will shine down like symmetrical clouds in the sky
my mad mans brittle grin.
I used to wish:
for finer living in laps of luxury;
for nights wrapped in silk, sweat, shine, and infamy;
for heavens gates to open pearly white to golden streets for me.
Those days have lost their charm
beaten dreams that bellied up
and showed their starving guts.
Submitted and laid down
with their tails tucked between legs
and panting for mercy
my dreams play bottom ***** to reality's sadistic hand.
As for now;
I hope.
Hope I can hold the fire in my hand
to burn my life and this city to the ground
the pile of ashes will bare no souls return.
That silent hour,
I want to be alone and involved
in the fashion of dogs.
I'll wander off alone to the trees.
My brittle ribs showing
the silent cage of my black and tired heart.
The trees will whisper their names to me
as my spirit shakes their shining leaves in rising.
Goodbye you lion;
your angel face was as quiet as ever,
slack and pale under a harvest moon.

I listen to the pitter patter of pumping blood
like summer rain on a satin roof
my ear set to the perfect patch of flesh
made by your white v neck.
I can smell your twenty dollar perfume
warmed up and almost ran through its fragrance.
I'm flattered
you put it on just for me.
That K-mart bottle will be forever linked with you.
I let my breathe show the path of least resistance
as it follows the flow up your chest.
I don't want to draw blood
being a vampire is overrated by pop culture
and my teeth sketch lightly
dull skates on a frozen pond.
We both taste like whiskey.
I'll take you poured over two rocks
with a dash of coke.

"Sometimes I wonder if anything is actually real at all... or if it's just me"
" I mean... I doubt anything is real, and even if it is... I don't think any of it has any purpose."
"Ya? Like its all in our imagination... just a big ****** joke."
" Even if it...the world - reality; does exist; in a physical, permanent, sense, It's still all a matter of perspective on why it - or what it - (it being reality) is to you. It changes from person to person, and if you don't like it: you can change it. Which makes it seem even more like... it isn't real..."
"I just wish there was a purpose... I wish I could find a reason for my life."
"No one ever will, I don't think it's possible. The wish for reason, for a light at the end of the tunnel, is the ultimate weakness of man... but it's also the ultimate strength: it's all gratuitous - it's progress - sadness. The search for purpose is a lesson in futility... taught by hope."
" I think... I think I'm just... just tired"
"It is late"
"No, no not like that, not like physically, like of the way things are going, I'm just ******* tired of life."
"I am too... I think everyone is on some level. At least till you reach denial... or acceptance... or the ability to be oblivious - Life is a week of insomnia in an eternity of dreamless sleep - In the end none if it matters. I think if there is a purpose me and you will never be able to find it, we're only humans: we get tired, we get confused, scared, we misinterpret signs, we're filled with error. If we did find a purpose it'd be filtered through our perception, applicable to no one el-"
"You just passed the only store."
"... Sorry... I was too busy paying attention to you."
"Its ok, I didn't need it anyways. It was just an impulse thing."
"Impulses should be acted on though. You don't have much time for procrastinating, and you have to do it now because you never know when your numbers punched."
"...True..."
I pull up slow to the front of your house
we say goodbye
and god do I want to reach out and grab you
want to hold you - and not let go
lie
and tell you I know the reason
a reason
any reason.
Its an urge that spreads energy through my limbs from a pit in the bottom of my stomach
like it's going to shake me or tear me apart.
I want to kiss you,
but I just drive away slow
and contemplate how utterly useless everything really is.

I am off again.
Off to enjoy the dead livings
of old civilization.
If you wish
you will find me in the woods
up to my neck in mud and sweat:
smiling.
I will pan for gold
at the banks of untouched river runs
and the bottom of gushing waterfalls.
I will hunt
beautiful beasts
with black coats and empty bellies from a winters sleep.
I'll sit huddled around fire
that dances in an iron bellied stove
warming my hands and drying my rain soaked feet.
I have no wish to leave this kind of life.
I will return with heart uplifted by accomplishment
and my hands covered in scars.
I will have made my mark on the land
the hawks circling above for the creatures smoked out by the fire in my lungs.

Good days
staring through a golden veil of sun
at a world panting in heat.
The sky is a baby blue blanket
lying my flying mind to rest.

If you want to
we can lie down together in the sun baked grass
my arms wrapped warm around your body's beating blood beauty
and listen to the dull growl
of a city talking itself into the future.
That chattered fate is not for us.

If you want to,
that moment will be silent
still
and enjoyed free
under a beaming sky bound sun.
We can close our eyes
stop seeing them
stop believing our ears
then
nothing but us
and where we touch
will exist.

*If you want to.

" Will you please pick up your dog's ****?"
"I would but I need you to think about this from my perspective. Think about dog ****, think about what it equates to: to human life. Human life on this planet. The same way fresh dog **** ruins the soul of a shoe, so the human race ruins this planet. Are you against the human race? Against our existence on this planet? Our cosmic **** storm mess that we will some day succeed in tracking through the metaphorical universal living room? You see, to me, asking to pick up this dog **** is like asking to destroy the entire human race. Asking to destroy an ecosystem; is that what you're for? The death of mankind, the death of the unrecognized beauty that is this dog ****. Are you an anarchist or just a man who can't appreciate beauty in all its forms, a man who hungers to destroy life?"
"Your crazy, **** it."
"Says the man who wants to destroy the entire human race, god help us."

The poisonous cherries have blossomed outside my pane.
and with a deadly tilt out my second story window
I can kiss their blushing hearts.
I lean over and out
and smell spring
Rain,
Dirt,
Fever,
Love,
in the air.
I’m another mutt howling in heat
gift me with your treat
another blushing heart with beat.
Cherry blossoms dripping rain
liquid fragrance feast.
I’ll kiss your petals.
Secret meadows
bring me spring fever satisfaction.

Self satisfied hipster ******
immaculately disheveled
crawl up anarchy patched
and retro fitted
from every bagel shmear
coffee house hell hole.
I hope this whole district gets fire bombed
leaving only the book store
so I can sit here in peace.

Pendulum hours spring slow forward
seasons swaying trigger festivals
and the dancing banners
on windy streets
spell sales
for slack jawed jugglers
eager to pedal wears to the weary
under the growing sun of a dieing season.
I am a beast in the cage of these streets
one way bars holding back barbarism.
My snarling is better suited for the trees
my guttural bark out car doors at street performers
better suited for stick beaten drum circles
spinning madly under the moon.
I lap from the sewer grates like a lost dog
too proud to die their like my hero
on a post above
to me
the raven quoth, what a bore.
Only men behind electric glass have seen me
on drunken nights
I confess my heart
and dance away my soul(s)
before their iron eye.
In this city I do not sleep
my heart glides to grassy groves
when my eyes close
to lock out the bright and unending
street lights that are suspending
my cowards heart above the darkness i still fear.
I am a child
take me to where the wild things are.

In
indecsicive
instances
I
instantly
interprept
irregular
inflama­tions as
illmatic
interpretations of
irregular
isolations
irresistable to
introverted
infadels.

This coat is still fresh.
It hasn't dried completely yet
and it smudges and swirls under the pressure of prodding fingers
yet to be believed
or understood.
I would have liked to see you when you were first made
standing cold
and untainted,
but no one keeps that kind of innocence for long.
You've been painted over so many times
so many coats.
Some of them are delicate
an airbrush of experience
barely noticeable if you go chipping away with too much enthusiasm.
Others are thick,
heavy,
dark and muddled,
confused,
they stain down deep
thrown on all at once
a slop drunk family letting buckets fly unlidded.
I can tell about those
the ones that didn't dry smooth
and formed misshapen globs of character,
and regret,
that bump and scrape, against the outside world
against its professional counter parts.
That's what makes you whole
that's what I admire.
When I look close
and run my fingers over your painting of personality
the bits that are constantly bending
and moving
the way they peel
and crack
and let me see
all those lost layers you've painted over to keep a secret.
I don't want to wash this abused collage away.
I want to spread and muddle it all together,
and use your hues
your pallet of pity and perfection
to help paint over those secret parts of me
that I don't want to be found either.

Its very rarely I get to see nights like this.
Eyes clouded with skyline.
white,
cream,
white,
burnt,
         white,
                  cream
the lights in the distance go.
Some speck of green hides in their pattern.
It's not its fault.
Just like it isn't the stars fault they've died.
I can only see there souls from here,
or now,
as it may be.
The branches reach up to cloud its blackened border.
Brittle vines reaching finger like,
grasping at the hovering skyline.
I forgive you.
Forgive existence;
but who am I.
A drunken juggler on the brink of the cities concrete shore;
contemplating the soaring skyline sparkling in the distance.