"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 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.

I want you
and you turn away
like the earth itself rotating
to get itself away from the sun.
I know I'm not the source of life on your planet
but
I need you
and you scoff and chuckle.
That scoff, a body flying off a motorcycle
the sound of skin being ripped away
by the hard embrace of the concrete.
I hear it slide to a stop against the telephone pole.
that ******* chuckle,
the sound of all the ribs breaking and stabbing into the heart
but
I know you.
This sick ******* game you play.
Egging me to react
a horse under the whip.
Come on,
buck up,
kick, bite,
raise high your front quarters and strike me down.
I'll only brand you again with shame and horror.
I can see that look on your face
you are guiltless
and amused.
But
I can't now,
I can't repeat this pattern.
You want me to lung at you in rage and lust.
Not this time.
Not hunched over the counter
Not knowing it'll repeat itself in a week.
Hearing my name and obscenities
with that ***** smile on your face.
Not this time.
You only love the worst in me.
You love it when I draw blood,
and break memories,
and scream,
and shatter all the dishes,
that you begged me to keep safe just hours ago.
You get that look
that look cats get beating mice to death.
Amusement.
You get that look
that happy look dogs get when they bring home a dead pigeon for us to eat.
Misunderstanding.
You get that look
that look the devil gets when he hears an infant crying out helpless in sheer terror.
*Satisfaction.

Oh the dark.
Oh the presence of others,
knowing neither of us is
looking
or judging.
Oh sweet nights wrapped in the
foggy,
bewildered,
utterly abandoned,
sheet of drunkenness.
I long for you.
You being an abstract thing.
Unable to find you.
Even when you exist
souly in my imagination.
You are comfort
in the dark.
You are purity
embodied
and abandoned.
I reach
but my mind races away
wrapped around the flickering light of the T.V..
I'll find you,
the hopeless romantic in me cries out
I'll find you.
Even if I don't know who
or why
you are.

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.

“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.

The heady aroma of youth
that nostalgic mixture:
perceived immortality,
mildly tainted innocence
determination
endless drive,
little know how,
and too much energy
and sadness.
With this stench you face the world each day
unafraid
and in pursuit
of some yet unnamed dream

Cigarette in the Sunday sun
Its cold despite its overbearing presence
the overbearing presence of
planes overhead,
dogs barking,
screaming children loosed from morning service,
grinding steel wheels on a rail road track,
cat calls,
coughing,
laughing,
cussing,
imagined smiling.
The world spins,
tips,
teeters,
and I dance on its edge
songs strangling my lungs.

I wear scars proudly
they form ruby red bracelets
and bubbled ivory emblems
stories as twisted
uninteresting
and sad
as twice smashed
roadkill

You are perfect.
Beyond any comparable specimen
photo shopped and filleted under the surgeons knife
splattered puffy lipped across every magazine
in the dime and nickel drugstore isles.
Like some olden goddess drunken ancients
sent prayer and virgins to.
Like a pop culture piece painting
portraying perfection multicolored
and gleaming.
Like the way the sun breaks into every color of the spectrum
when it hits the clouds just above the shore line
amazing even the coldest of hearts.
Like a piece of water frozen and glimmering
with all the brilliance of the sun itself
turning fields into fiery displays with the morning dew.
Like the first message sent across the nation via telegraph
amazing everyone
and bringing wonder and mystery into the world again
as if darkness and desperation never existed
in the first place.
Like all of these things.
You are perfect,
and I don't know you.
I don't know anything about you.
The sick
the chauvinistic
the sexist
the slum dog
and cannibal
and primitive
the ****** and unforgivable
the pure drive
and urge
in me,
wants to walk up brazenly
chest puffed out to you
to say only three things.
You are perfect.
What is your name?
Will you lay with me?
But I cannot do these things
you know your perfect.
I can tell by the way you walk
the way you brush away looks like dust.
Full of pride brought on by good genes
and disdain for others.
I am a gentleman
and I could never say such things
to a person as self satisfied
and perfect in physicality
as you.

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.

What do infants dream of?
Do they dream of wombs?
Places dark
and comfortable
and perfect beyond comparison.
Sedating heartbeat above regular
and comforting
like a vascular clock.
Always keeping time;
always breathing life.
Do they dream of mothers *******?
Soft pillows of nurturing flesh.
The source of life on their planet.
Flowing ivory elixir,
from soft rose *******.
Do they dream of us?
Of grotesk giants
that pinch cheeks
and speak in meaningless howls.
Smiling oversized faces
that clean the **** that builds below
where that sweet tube once provided life.
Gnawing white stumps
eating indigestible hunks of flesh,
or plants.
Do they understand love?
Can they dream of pure emotion?
Without the words and representations of it interfering?
I wish to be like this.
I wish to be swaddled,
to have dreams about nothing,
and real.
Dreams as pure and amazed
as a teary eyed infant.

The essential creature comforts
must be abstained from
in this bland
bleak
ball point tapping
room.
Only for long enough
to listen
and leave.
Granted regularly
some brief reprieve.
Fulfilling deadly habits
the streets filled
curbs run rampant
with wickeder habits
than mine.
To solitude
I'll resign.
What words
describe my presence
an inability to
define.

She asked me how I was doing.
She had a look to her, a sincere and open look, a look that invited honesty and expressed compassion.
It painted her face with invitation.
But it didn't just sit thick and flat like paint does.
It didn't just hang itself dull and useless around her head like a dollar store party banner.
It beamed out.
It reached a comforting hand.
It spoke, and so like a fool I told her the truth.

I told her that I was thinking about the universe.
That I was thinking about my significance as a human in its whole scheme.
My importance on this little rock.
This little rock floating as lonely and forsaken as it does around that star we named the sun.

I said I was thinking about how lonely and forsaken I felt.
Just me,
and how could a single person feel like this.
Swimming in an icy pool of his own thoughts.
Maybe these where the only things isolating me from all of my fellow men;
wrapping me in a blanket of isolation;
a blanket as thick and unforgiving as a strait jacket.
A shield.
A shield surgically attached to me,
and the weight of it's breaking me,
if I cut it away it would **** me.
The open wound bleeding out thoughts and emotions
into a ruby pool filled with letter and symbols
misspelled words and distorted swirling grease slick memories
an alphabet soup of insanity.
Maybe this is why I am alone.

I said I was thinking about love;
about who I could share it with;
about why it's important;
about why I don't feel it;
about why it makes me cry,
just as much as it makes me laugh.

I said I think about fantastic nights of true splendor;
about road ways paved with gold;
about endlessly open and kind people;
about everyone i ever cared for being with me:
Happy.
Laughing.
Like they describe the heaven I don't believe in.

I said I think about god.
About a sad man in the clouds who looks down on us in our darkest hours and seems to do nothing.

I said I think about evil,
or Satan,
or sin,
or abominations.
All of the things that seem to show up just when I feel safe to shake me and tell me to run;
run away from my comfort;
run away from my happiness;
run away from the truths I thought I found.
All of the things that shake me and tell me not to trust:
not to believe,
not to give in.

I said I think about other people.
How beautiful and serene some of them seem to me.
How some of them seem just like I am.
How I wish there was something I could do to make them feel better.
How I could sacrifice.
How I could bring them to a better place than I find myself.
How I could make myself useful, or decent.
If not in anyone else's opinion at least in my own.
How I could have an effect,
at least on this tiny rock spinning jut as alone and scared as I am
around a sun destined to destroy me.

I said I think about ending it all,
or starting over.
Becoming a different person:
a different face,
a different voice,
a different name,
a different body,
in a different place,
with different clothes,
knowing different people.
Knowing people who know nothing of who I really am.

I said I think of how I describe myself
and how its irrelevant to who I actually am.

I said I think about sadness:
and anger,
and chaos,
and i cant keep it strait anymore.

Once I was done spilling these things.
Once I had peeled back my shield and bled out for her.
She looked at me with those open loving eyes,
and without wasting a moment,
or displaying hesitance;
She Said:

"I know just how you feel"

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.

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.

Sometimes
in the dark of the night,
in the abyss of forsaken forests
when tree's take on new meaning
and sensation's in the light of the moon;
you can look up into the sky
and see a million stars
floating ghost like in the heavens.
They sing a lullaby
and bliss into the air.
They sing most beautifully
when they know your not listening.
Humming, swooping low into the night,
whispering dreams,
and nightmares
You lay your head down
in the cold wet embrace
of the grass and the weeds;
and listen to the ground breath,
and hear it,
beating,
growing,
**filled with life.

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.

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

Windows cracked open to morning light,
scrubbed clean by black boiled beans
mixed with milky white.
Stretch and wish something else
something better had happened
touch?
Feet fumble.
Back yells complaints.
The sun illuminates clouds
of lung pushed smoke.
It's cold.
Damp.
Light steams the dew on the grass
the green ground boiling ***.
Boiling ***.
Heat.
Hot.
Your body.
Lips hips fingertips.(New found tricks?)
Naughty.
I shake desire away from my mind
and suppress sensuality
with determination
or denial.
Your steps startle heart beats.
Eyes dart in avoidance.
Image of you wrapped in sheets.
I offer up smokes,
tokes,
jokes,
false hopes.
I have nothing I can count on,
but my addictions.
Walk, stumble, sigh,
body bathed with afflictions.
I stack wood,
by a hungry stove.
Fast food into a fattened black steel belly.
I made you breakfast,
but you ignore me.
Eyes speak cold truth.
You care too much
to feel like that
for me.

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.

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.

" *******"
" I'd drop a two dollar **** down dem lips darlin'"
Chuckling, howling laughter
" What did you just say"
" I said I love you"
" No you didn't"
" Yes I did, I said I love you"
" WHAT THE **** DID YOU SAY?"
"I love you"
She still doesn't know
and I still chuckle
whenever I'm alone
and it comes to mind
"I'd drop
a two dollar ****
down dem lips
darlin"

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.

Rollin with this one,
ya ya ya ya ya yikes bro.
I gotta go out of here.
Dont think about it,
fires burnin somewhere
I think
I dont know
but
where did that **** go?
Rolling numbers
40 of us
who was that?
I dont even know.
I heard shots fire and saw flashes.
Woop Woop
Dip
Woop Woop
DipDIpDIP
weeeoooopp
bumpcrackbumpbumpsnapslapcrash
I­ was somewhere in the bushes when it ended
panting out hurried fire water breath.

Only ten words and i still cant use them wisely.

How exactly does one find themselves in said situation
you didn't say anything about the situation yet
in description,
indisputably
incredible
incredible?
Not in any sense of tradition
Not in any sense that could bring sparkle and innocence to the surface of a child's eyes
Not in any sense immediately apparent to the unobservant man
cut to it *******
Clouds run think in the room
and with ink head to toe
and horns
and swazzies
and clantag black across the chest
and yellowed smokers teeth
golden oils burst hot in desperate lungs.
Relief.
Relief is what they name her
as her remnants drift from grateful mouths
as pale white and soulful as snow in reverse.
What's going on then?
They play a game.
They call it twenty five for missed medicine.
They say if the bell breathes smoke
on calls break the weak,
They hackle happily in a giggling choke.
But I could never participate in these things.
Is it a lack of courage, an overabundance of cowardice?
Its a lack of many things:
lacking history
or will
or wisdom
or faith
or a gut cold and steely enough to handle regurgitation
of my own lungs.
Not many do handle.
As is seen,
when a queen splatters palaces
with spigukums
liquid lowered expectations
only now could they take her seriously.
Do you?
I knew that fate from the start
and that's why I depart
to a cold blue board box
Roll, lick, pack, and light
delight
then again;
Who's to say I didn't enjoy it just as much as they did?

What subtle and suggestive words I wish I could speak to your sublime beauty.
If a picture itself is worth a thousand poetic words
and life itself is a collection of unending, unaiming, uncaptured pictures
then what sweet words could be said to you with these lips
with this pen
that wouldn't be better expressed in action,
reaction,
interaction,
interwinement,
*******,
well of course;
I am a coward
and I say nothing to you
and I linger on in null contemplation
of the slippy words I would weave
as they stay sadly swimming in my clouded mind.

You are here.
You are surrounded,
engulfed,
great leaping majesty.
You are enthralled,
on some polished dance floor,
we,
us ,
it.
You hear your name,
but it isn't your name anymore.
You have no name.
You are it.
You are the crowd.
Saved,
mass hysteria.
You are possessed,
like the hounds of hell themselves,
barking,
snarling,
there are many heads in this slobbering,
sweating,
gyrating,
uncontrollable beast you find yourself in.
Like the first amebas to grow more than one cell
and slunk successful from the primordial ooze
you are the essence of life
and progress.
You are the crowd,
unrestrained,
untainted.
You are complete.
Every one moves as one,
an unchained energy,
unknown.
You want to scream out,
it screams out,
it is unparalleled,
unholy,
a movement,
a merging,
an unconquerable amassing of souls.
Screaming,
teaming,
shouting together,
the very fire that fuels the furnaces of hell.
Moved beyond the mortal,
and alone.
There are certain words
I wish existed
but don't.
There are certain times
when the guttural noises
I can bark out
do not satisfy the world around me
do not satisfy description.
Amazing
Fantastic
Starstruck
Bewildered
Brilliance
G­enius
Infamous
Indescribable.
None of these things come close.
None of these things satisfy,
satiat.
I am made mad by its presence.
What can I do?
How...?
Majesty,
heavens,
spiralling,
and unspoken.
Where do these things come from?
No where near.
No where here.
They are above us
and unforgivable.

It's only on days like this that i think about it
it being us and whatever i wished that was.
Past and future coliding into this infinitely sad present.
The window to my left shows only grey, and wet
because its only on cold wet days like this that i think about it
but it always changes , happy, or sad, or indiffrent, it, never seems to improve.
It being us and whatever i should stop wishing that was,
but to stop thinking is harder than it seems, i have to distract myself
and the window to my left shows only grey, and wet.
I seem to be eternally restless now, never able to settle or be satisfied
always changing; happy, sad, indiffrent, never seeming to improve.
I draw pictures, write words, hum songs, punch walls, and blacken my lungs with second rate tar
but i never stop thinking, with as hard as it is to distract myself.
Sure sometimes i can get my mind to other things, happier things, but
I seem to be eternally restless now, never able to be satisfied, or settle on real happyness.
The things i do settle on, are disturbing or violent.
I draw ****** pictures, write sadistic words, hum funeral songs, punch walls, and blacken my soul with second rate filth,
no matter where i turn all i see is sadness, and slowly i think i might be losing hope and sanity.
Sure my mind can sometimes get to other happier things but
they are all fake, to me at least, and i have nothing to be happy about.
I settle the disturbing or violent things i can do
on my guilt, i don't know what was dreams, reality, movies, books
memories of the past and future coliding into this infinitely sad view of the present.

The sweet static white noise
of laughter.
Friends chuckling,
mercilessly,
endlessly.
In the background of my existence;
friends.
To have a good friend.
A friend equal to all others;
a wonderful friend,
to connect with them on the deepest of levels;
on levels unparalleled by sober men,
but,
but you disagree with their
may be perspective
with their maybe a plethora of perspectives.
It's something that reaches beyond perspective,
and kinship.
Something that reaches beyond common opinion
and relation,
these vague things friendship is based upon.
It is a belief;
something that defiles logic,
something you hold dear,
that they disagree with,
it is inconsolable.
It seems to be
a perfect friendship.
A social enigma,
but that thing
that one thing
is what holds back
true bonding
and connection
and ultimate potential
for growth.
That's how I feel
when you say
you cant love me back.

He told me he was leaving,
to be gone for good and no longer tired.
He told me the decision was final
chrystallized
in the floating mush of his brain.
He told me he would leave in the middle of the night
unknown, unseen
like a thief
or an abused lover.
He said he had been thinking of it for a long time now
that finally something had made up his mind.
I asked him.
What.
What could make him want to leave,
want to leave this sleepy fishing village
settled endlessly in a saltwater fog;
a thick constant fog
that burned the lungs
and made cars rust in real motion.
He stopped.
He thought of how to say it
moving his eyes back and forth
as if bouncing the words he would speak between them
contemplating ping pong.
He took in a deep breath
of the briney breeze
and looked up at the cold sky
above my head.
" It happened three days ago
when I woke up in the dark
just a little before the day broke golden and grey
over the village
and as I saw light faint on the horizon
I stepped out onto my porch
with a hot drink steaming in the cold air
and watched the sun break the line of hills
and saw the dew glimmering on the leaves and bushes
and smelled the salty water
evaporate off the broken streets
and heard the first songs
of unseen and unknown birds
and listened to the waves crash in the distance
and tasted the ground that surrounded me
as it filled my nostrils
and as this beautiful scene unfolded before me
this tired foggy damp wonderful scene
that I've seen a thousand times before.
As it all broke open before my eyes
filled with all too familiar memories
I thought to myself
I have to get the **** out of here
I have to leave forever before this place rusts me dead and shut
I have to get the **** out of here
and I will"
Then he stood
and closed the book
that had laid open on his lap this entire endeavor
the pages flapped together in the wind
like the book was a cat disturbed from his khaki covered lap
and he bid me farewell
never making eye contact
or gesturing.
"Maybe I'll see you in another life
or sleepy town"
and he
my grandfather
was gone forever.

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.

Lethargic
Lobotomised
Listeners
Literally
Lactate
Loathing for the
Listless
Lingering
Lowlife
Lyricist.
              How
                   do
                     you
                         like
                             the
                                 ludicrous
                                             limerick?

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.

Its called public speaking
But I am utterly alone in front of this fake,
fiber board,
paper figgiting,
******* podium.
I can see it in their eyes.
They anticipate my words
as much as I loath them.
Cough,
clear you throat,
your a performer
a great juggler
bleeding in front of a room of razor toothed hecklers.
I'm sure they'll remember your name
they'll burn the ground you've stepped on
to cleanse it of your lingering, godless opinions.
They're waiting fruit in hand
to offer you prizes
or splatter you with disdain
and self serving amusement.
Speak
its now or never
the orators you admire
roll in their graves with laughter.
I'm sorry,
did you mean to be taken seriously?

In the wee hours of the New Year
with an empty bottle and lucky strike in my hand
hollow and clinking like funeral bells
signalling with little remorse the death of another year.
I look up at the dark night sky
and Orion's bullet hole belt buckled tight
and sighing out smoke,
I think of you.

With drowsy steps I drag drunken feet
into the cold indoors.
I shut out the lights
that illuminate the glass eyes of my apartment;
and hobbling slowly up creaky steps
holding the heavy weight of my lonely heart in my throat
I think of you.

I bump weakly into the hollow plywood door
of my hollow white room
and ******* from the rags of a days memories
I slip naked into the cold sheets of a burnt beat old mattress
and my thoughts are naked
and my souls gentle skin rubs naked against the threadbare sheets
and my prides moon bleached carcass lies naked as it always does
and my mind is cold and naked
reaching for something warm,
something comforting.
and
I think of you.

I shake myself to sleep on the lonely pool of springs
flexing, kicking
demons, energy
from my restless body.
Sleep wraps me in its velvet womb
silent and peaceful.
I think of you.

Dreams materialize from the pit of sleep
making me relive past pleasantries
obligations from other lives.
I am unsatisfied in imagination.
Feeling for something real
something worth remembering
something I can use in the darkness
I Think of you.

I'm sure the sun will rise
I'm sure I'll wake with a start
From some unremembered dream
I'm sure the cold will grab me
I'm sure it will lick sickly at my tired bones
I'm sure things will get better.
I'm sure I'll fill in the hole of a heart with black cement.
I'm sure my soul is sitting warm as a coal under an ash blanket of confusion.
But for now,
I think of you

I do not understand you,
your wants,
needs,
aspirations,
or fears.
I suppose you want me to give you everything;
but with an air of resentment;
as if you owe me something.
I suppose you want me to tell you a million entertaining and amazing stories,
but leave out just enough,
to maintain some unreal and foolish air of mystery.
I suppose you want me to come and save you,
to be there for you at every beck and call
but let you do things yourself to maintain independence
or dignity.
I may never call out to you for myself,
or express loneliness,
to avoid being needy,
or obsessive,
and yet my rugged independence is:
foolish,
childlike,
******* stubborn.
The consistent contradiction that surrounds me
leaves me speculating about you.
About your reasons.
More than i speculate on the origin of the stars;
more than i speculate on the meaning in life;
more than i speculate on the existence of god.
More than these things,
you leave me depraved,
and wanting more.

the ***** that I give
are in inverse proportion
to the ***** I drink