I think of you
the same way
modern society thinks of hygiene.
You are severely undervalued by most
and eternally needed.

Now that it's past the time
that all reasonable people go to sleep,
I warm my engine
and roll alone through sick slickened city streets.
Roads rise up in strips
there polished black backs reflect up a red ribbon of road
beaming down from the two electric eyes,
telling me where to head to next.
With concentration my eyes pick shadows from the dark
and i slide past them
breaking there delicate images
with the water that whips off my balding wheels.
The radio blares stupidly
because he's a ladies man
because they aren't going to take it
because he has 99 problems
because Jesus loves you
because...
There is no reason for this.
For burning fossil fuels
as i rip through the frigid night.
No reason,
for singing the tune
to the words i don't know.
No reason,
for speeding up
and letting go.
No reason,
to let myself spin at last
screeching,
screaming,
and finally smiling,
through that final crossroad.
They will find me,
broken and content,
blood pooling and painting,
a polished portrait of my shortened and hurried life.

Bubbles
glide up lazily through a maze of smooth cubes.
***** and water
liquid platinum.
I'll sweat out devils water when I wake
panting
and thankful.

Serendipitous
Sirens
******
Seasick
Sailors to
Satiate
Sickly
Sensual
Seconds
Stalked full of
Sexually
Stimulating
Sentences
Second only to
*** itself;
Sad for
Seasick
Scurvy
Sailors
Syphilis will
Soon
Succeed
Sanity.

romeo is bleeding but not so as you'd notice
he's over on 18hh street as usual
lookin' so hard
against the hood of his car
and puttin' out a cigarette in his hand
and for all the pachucos at the pumps
at romeros paint and body
they all seein' how far they can spit
well it was just another night
but how they're huddled in the brake lights
of a 58 belair
and listenin' to how romeo killed a sherrif his knife

and they all jump when they hear the sirens
but romeo just laughs
and says all the racket in the world
ain't never gonna save that coppers ***
he'll never see another summertime
for gunnin' down my brother
and leavin' him like a dog beneath a car without his knife

and romeo says hey man gimme a cigarette
and they all reach for their pack
and frankie lights it for him
and pats him on the back
and throws bottle at a milk truck
and as it breaks he grabs his nuts
and they all know they could be just like romeo
if they only had the guts

but romeo is bleeding
but nobody can tell
and he sings along with the radio with a bullet in his chest
and he combs back his fenders and they all agree its clear
that every thing is cool now that romeos here
but romeo is bleeding and he winces now and then
and he leans against the car doors
and feels the blood in his shoes
and someones crying in the phone booth at the 5 points by the store
romeo starts his engine and wipes the blood off the door
and he brodys through the signal
with the radio full blast
leavin' the boys there hikin' up there chinos
and they all try to stand like romeo
beneath the moon cut like a sickle
and they're talkin' now in spanish about there hero

but romeo is bleeding
as he gives the man his ticket
and he climbs to the balcony at the movies
and he'll die without a wimper
like every heros dream
just like an angel with a bullet
and cagney on the screen

" 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."

I want to meet you all over again;
like it never happened that way in the first place.
Some alternate time and reality,
where logic didn't apply,
simply because we didn't need its boundaries anymore.
Then maybe
all those words and smoke,
and *** and coke,
could have just stayed choked down
and I wouldn't have to endure
these lonely thing's:
loyalty
and trustworthiness
and camaraderie.
Maybe then
in that place
at that time
something great could have happened,
and it all would have been left there.
Like all those wonderful dreams no one ever remembers having
and all those wonderful feelings and sensations
no one has felt, and so never will fiend for;
but then we wouldn't be here would we?
In this great silver lined grave
we have dug for ourselves
hoping some overlooked imperfection
could let us
just climb our way right back out
into the midst of the crowd
and insecurity,
or awareness.

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.

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.

Everything is absurd.
Nothing will ever make sense.
Looking for an answer, a purpose
is your only answer, and purpose.
I won't invent anything to believe in
or belive in any invention of man.
I Dont believe in anything:
rainbows
pancakes
jackets
parents
light
speed
love
god
­the sun
stars
smoke
fire
hell
kisses
music
sound
movies
death
life
re­ligion
answers
questions
nations
nationalities
race
communism
cap­italism
feudalism
nothing.
I don't believe in anything but
rain on summer days
and tectonic plates.
It doesn't make sense
but then again
everything is absurd.
I indulge
and elaborate.

There she was
with lollipop legs
and cream soda curls
as she kissed the crown
of her camel 99
and a cascade of carcinogen smoke
drifted up from cherry red lips
and she looked at me with neon blue eyes
and the liquor on our breathes
spelled both our demise
as we played cat and mouse games
under beaten black and blue skies
When it was all over
and I had tasted those cherry red lips
and felt the alabaster sway
of her marshmallow hips
she said it wasn't very often
you felt highs like this
we both let out a sigh
and then parted with a kiss.

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.

Drunkenly walk
and dance
and sing
along the sparkling sewers
of Paris.

So I was walking down the street the other day,
smoking my cigarette,
and enjoying it,
and singing fake songs to myself,
and I walk past a small car,
and it made me stop,
because its strange to see a small car on my street.
Especially a small car painted in bright clown colors,
and especially a small clown colored car filled with smoke,
and especially a small clown colored car filled with smoke and what looks to be clowns.
So I decided to investigate,
and I walked up,
and I tapped on the window,
and as soon as I did all I could hear was screaming and kicking.
I took a step back because
I mean
****,
what if it exploded?
And as the small colorful clown car door opened,
smoke poured out,
billowing and puffing,
very strange smelling smoke of all different colors,
and i began to wonder if it wasn't me who was tripping ball's,
as 1..
no 2..
no 12
huge bug eyed clowns crawled out.
Gawking and hissing and juggling crack pipes.
The first one asked my name.
I lied of course.
You never trust a cracked out clown,
not even with your name.
The second one asked me my age.
I lied of course,
because it's a well known fact crack clowns are pedophiles
and he might have tried to have his way with me
if I told him the truth about my tender young age.
The third asked me for a cigarette.
I gave it to him of course,
out of sheer terror that if I didn't
he might use his circus tricks
to pull a colorful rag out of his ***
and choke me to death with it
and I didn't want that.
The rest of them just kind of stared at me
or screamed
or sniffed my clothing and inspected me.
After a few minutes of all of this
I decided I'd had enough.
Talking with clowns is bad karma anyways,
and I started to walk away
waving politely
but no they weren't done with me yet.
They hog tide me
and covered me in clown make up
and adopted me as there new pet monkey
/clown driver
/lion tamer.
But of course,
when the police found me naked in a trash can at three in the morning a few hours later
still unable to complete whole sentences
they wouldn't believe ( or couldn't understand) a word of it
but I'll tell you,
if you ever see a smoke filled colorful clown car
just walk away.
We know the truth
its ugly, and juggles crack pipes.

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.

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.

I want to hear you lie to me.
I want to see the sweet syrup of deceit
fall slow and seductive from your quivering lips.
I want to pile these little white lies up on pancakes;
like powdered sugar for a freshly flipped soul.
I want to see your eyes hold firm in deception
chiseling the cold ice of your gaze into cubes
for chilling the sweet drink of my victory.
I love the instant look of
guilt and anticipation;
the bitten bottom lip;
the chest puffed out,
with a breathe of indignation,
for my knowing;
the tear filmed eyes;
the legs rubbing together nervously;
hands run back golden ribbons of hair over perfect ears,
and scratch at angel shoulders
where those wings we lost should still be.
Your adorable when you lie.
Lie.
**Lie me a river.

The engine's warm now that we're finally off all the main streets,
and sitting in the polished seats of our smooth white metal stallion
we strolled down the slickened scenic highway, silhouetted by the sun beams turned silver
bouncing off the cold bold face of a spherical moon.
The radio licks its numbered teeth back and forth with its spike red tongue
as the knobs are turned to tune and turn up high to hear,
those greats croon
"don't worry babe, we'll be there soon".
My foot falls heavy like a rejected lover when we hit the strait aways
and the wind cant move my whop slick hair on this bright night
can't move it for a **** thing
even with the top down and the whole world spinning against us.
I race to stay within the nights dark complexion
watching out for the only man who can slow me down
pink faced clown lookin to shout "bookim"
"Bookim danno".
My hands wrap white knuckled around the steering wheel
and I chuckle at the frightened look that begins to build up in your gorgeous hazel eyes
when adrenaline filled i swing wide left
to pass the only other car
on this rickety two lane highway.
Back on our side of those magical golden lines
I reach over to settle your shaking thighs
and you grab my arm like it alone could save you.
I picture us
hydroplaning off into a deadly roll through that golden field of wheat
the last thing I would smell would be dirt, dew, fresh spring ground
I smile at the thought
whatever makes you feel better I say
and so you squeeze tighter.
I slip my hand down and off your leg,
up onto the dash
to find and twist the radio ****, blasting out that sweet silky serenade of sleep walking.
I look over and blow a kiss,
but the wind ***** it out the back before it ever reaches your loving lips
and with eyes back on the road I keep on till morning.
Till I can stop with you at sunrise,
and we can rest
and hold hands
and share lips
and tell empty promises, as day breaks on the horizon
and light floods over us
in this stolen drop top caddilac.

I dripped down the rafters
into chaos
and frolicking fantasies roar.
Fare well to the redhead queens!
I sat back in chiseled thrones
and threw gold at the gods
and still no answer
was given for my offerings.
The night was thick on my breath,
bitter broke *** liquor stained my body.
My blood runs thin.
My trip throws me deep
where the flames lick sweat from my face.

" 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.

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 ****.

Slowly she raised her tired eyes
and began to tally for me
my innumerable inadequacies.
I leaned back tired and shaken
ready to ******* bitter medicine.
There is no sadder statement said about me than the truth,
independence and self reliance present themselves as virtues
but i have come to realize they are the only things
that have led me to be as proud
and as lonely
as i truly am.
Is this all my fault?
Is it in fault,
that i wish i had followed sheep like and blissful
into the norm that breeds satisfaction
or at least some numb equivalent?
For all of you
I will smile,
Wave,
Glisten,
Grimace,
Weep,
and bare wide my yellowed teeth.
Because the bliss that we call freedom,
is just the most subconscious part of obedience.

Its rare that I hear
the words truly express
things that seem so truly indescribable.
How am I to describe?
How am I to relay such thoughts to men?
It's impossible to imagine the dark from the suns point of view
It would take true pride
and blistering ignorance
to see oneself in such collosal
and lonely shoes.
the first wind chill spells geese in the sky
and the squacking made me think of you
so i took out my old 30 aught 6 and fired away
they said the stuffing was bad
but that the rest was perfect
and i think about the sky blue
but for an instant splattered red during some southern migration
good god himself was once a paradox
I'm sure something that has existed forever must be bored by now
worthless ******* that he is
Does heaven really sound that good?
i want debauchery and drunken laughter
and want my heaven to run red with immortal blood testing the limits of new found power
i want to be able to keep things strait
what am i talking about again?
wait
with who?
do i know you?
can i kiss you?
are you as drunk as i am?
Am i drunk?
no
no I'm not
**** a dog
a family insult by any standard
handed down through generations
of the worthless ******* in my family
******* too
but then again they weren't
do ******* get to go to Cornell?
yes
yes they do
I am lost
or confused
do you have a map?
i need a choreographer
Google maps hasn't made it here yet
that sky is still blue
the geese blood fell to earth
good gravity
cute gravity
why does gravity get its own laws?
spoiled *******.
How does this end?
wouldn't everyone like to know
wouldn't we all like to get our one on one
with some benevolent ****** in the skies
**** him
i would
in my one on one
its a power trip thing for me
I'm not gay
where was i going?
not here.
not ******* god.
I hope gods a woman.
Impossible
a woman couldn't **** things up this bad
unless her period was in proportion to eternity.
Men have drunken periods induced by testosterone flushed brains
We are ruthless, and indolent.
I miss the sun and beaches covered in drunkenness and freedom
I'm missing something
right
reason
who?
******!
Well at least I got that over with.

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.

Everyone knows its a bad part of town,
no one lives there by choice.
Its this place called The Heat
down at the corner of holy gate
and 1-deuce-deuce.
There a girl there,
her real names Lucinda,
they say friends call her luci,
which is short for Lucifer,
and she works in The Heat
which is slick for hell.
They say she's called bass
"cause it look'a like a wide mouth bass
smell 'bout da same"
Nicknames and false alibis.
Luci works the Heat on taco Tuesdays.
They say she'll serve it hot for ten a song.
Fish taco Tuesdays.
They joke that it always smells like tuna anyways
even without fish taco Tuesdays.
They say on a good Friday,
The Heat almost becomes bearable
and every body watches old bass
swinging widemouthed and tasseled
around every pole in the bar.
But I can't bare it,
the kind of sadness in places like this
where they serve up breakfast
and Tuesday specials
for ten dollars a song.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

Swaying drunk in a friendly kitchen,
I look
and see
a pretty
white
plastic handled
pearing knife.
I reach and grab
and cut
accidental slice
of a left palm.
Nothing
felt
a coincidence?
of drunkenness
and
shock?
or
a repeatable
pattern.
7 & 7
sits down on the
stoop
so i can test
my hypothesis.
I punch in at the edge
and feel the skin pop
like a warm water balloon
thicker
oozing like pancake syrup
nostalgia
the sharp steel
drags across
unrestrained
by the remaining flesh.
It's always easiest
to peel an orange
once you
stab
through
the
rind.
I've heard it described
as ******
or exhilarating
but I'm cold
and numb.
So I thin myself
with 7 & 7
to help it leak down
to my cigarette tip
and stain
my pretty
white
plastic
pearing knife.

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.

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.

I often find myself in dreams;
in beautiful or haunting scenarios.
Cold and sparkling places filled with the most magnificent sunlight,
rays shoot between pillars and dye entire courtyards calidoscope cream colored majesty,
flowers burst spontaniously on walls, I breathe crystal clouds into the brisk air around me.
The wonder before my eyes bring me to my knee's
and my throat is run dry with exhaultations of pleasure.
Dark forests surround me,
with wet leaves that stick to the ground, the trees, my feet;
unnamed and unrecognized creatures screech in the trees;
my eyes dart back and forth to find a safe place to hide;
sweat runs down my hollowed cheeks;
my jaw locks my tongue between a painful cage of grinding teeth.
I can never succeed in finding anywhere comforting,
as quick and panicd as I fly.
Like a drugged rat in a circular maze my every sense is alive with panic.
The air smells rank, thick with decomposure and earth.
I know it, but the smell itself evades me.
Such unreal and haunting scenarios.
I feel life itself has become unbelievable.
Every clock I read scrambbles itself,
numbers twisting and contorting uncontrollably
like the strange uncomfortable shapes I bend myself into upon waking.
They are just as tired as I am.
They try to evade there duties and posts,
before I can figure out when the **** I am.
Then of course nothing is forever.
Time is only relative.
Infinity is just a sideways 8;
just like god is only real with a capital G.
The walls know these things just as well as I do,
afraid of there mortality they aviod being used,
and when I lean againt them for support they become unwilling,
dissolving against my touch and leaving me to fall perplexed to the other side.
To the unknown things that await me there.
In transition I picture them,
("them" even are an abstract
fuzzy features barely recognizable as human
but still formed enough to inspire fear, or love)
smiling or licking there lips,
forks and knives and plates at the ready,
to tear me open as I land.
I feel fuzzy as I glide or crumble through the wall,
pieces of me wanting to interact with its substance,
but no one of them is strong enough to hold me in or up against it,
and so I complete my way through at last.
My fears and pictures of the other side are null now.
They scurry and dissapate like cockroaches at the flip of a switch;
like drunken minors at the sudden sweep of a spotlight;
like the leaves of a dieing tree in a wind storm;
like the morals of an insane man;
like couples at last call.
I land with a soft thud on the snowy ground outside.
Even with all of this being so unreal, it couldnt be a dream.
Who would dream such mundane things?
Who pictures themselves as such a grotesk figure;
when the world awaits them,
and they could embody every image or hero they ever admired.
Who would create a place like this.
I suppose I would.
With a smug sense of irony I dust the snow or ashes off of myself as I stand
and wander off into the uneventul landscape before me,
but uneventful isn't appropriate to decribe this place.
It doesn't fit.
Just like entertaining doesn't quite fit a clown.
I walk like I'm on the moon
and with each building step and effort I float a little higher
like niel armstrong conquouring that awe inspiring ball in the sky.
I bounce light footed and bewildered through the desolate landscape
untill finnally I level off and soar up,
up above the buildings.
Forward,
forward through the wind and the trees.
Over,
over the slopes and the hills and the clouds.
Into,
into the stratosphere, and beyond the earth to where there is no air for me to breathe.
But I can breathe
and I gulp down sweet nothing with willful and unexplored ignorance.
Freefloating through space I find myself next to that american hero's immortalized steps
finally centered and landed on the surface of that cold rock.
People fear this orb as magical, or controlling
but i stand on it, and feel nothing.
I look down at my home
  at my planet;
   at all of the people I could ever know;
     at every experience I could ever hold dear;
at all of existence.
And my throat tightens up
my heart pounds like a fightened bird
trying to escape from the cage of ribs its trapped in.
I feel myself drifting off
becoming light again
falling asleep
or waking up in a cold sweat
wrapped lonely in my blankets;
but who dreams of these kinds of things?

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.

I stagger cold through the halls of my indoctrination.
I do not wish to be seen.
A thousand ******* eye's gawk silent from there checker pattern perches
and my chains and prizes jingle
and attract stares
with each bounding step.
I can no longer stand my hours in this house of heresy.
Loose lipped **** lovers
spill secrets over bile chowder
chuckling about a days delicacies
and social secrets.
Second rate at best,
they all know there lover boy on the Hollister bag
probably takes it in the *** more than the average ***
and still they swoon blind batty eyed at the queens that prance the halls.
I am unamused
Feel abused
giving out my finest hobby to any takers.
I'm being used.
How am i supposed to ******* death sweet and smokey at this rate.
Like some fluff tailed hair
I hustle off with my ticking life in toe
the numbers at my waste spell ruin.
I'm late.
I'm late.
If only I had some red haired queen of hearts
to behead me.
A better fate.

We sit together on low whipping cream white plastic chairs,
opposite over a fake fiber board table
covered with cheap and flavorful fair.
The aroma of chili, coconut milk, tea, and greasy noodles fills my mouth and nose
and above us the deafening pattering and smacking
of heavy rain drops landing hard
against the Plexiglas roof  fills my vacant ears.
The night set's in as cold and comfortable
as a fattened fish
at the bottom of an icy lake
and with the sun fully gone now
and the square or street outside empty
the Asian owner opens the garage style glass door,
its metal tracks holding milky white paper orbs full of light above our heads
and he tells us we can smoke a single cigarette in here
safe from the cold and biting rain.
Your eyes watch thousands of minuscule silver streams flow
between the network of cobble stones
like tiny rivers raging mercilessly,
violently,
into the darkened abyss of the storm drain
falling hopelessly over its silent brink.
But my eyes only watch you
with the constant sound of the downpour
sedating my sickly mind
I watch your slender hand
lead up finger tips
to the cold white rolling paper
watch it settle comfortably
between the rosy red of your plump and postured lips
they let back out curved and milky clouds
reminiscent of the sweet swaying of your hips.
I crack a sincere but tired smile,
and put the price and tip under my plate.
We both stand and stretch
and head off slowly, huddled warmly
knowing its been a good night
and finally i feel happy
and i can tell you do too
as a smile spreads slowly across your face
like a tired cat stretching for a long days rest.