Only ten words and i still cant use them wisely.

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.

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 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.

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?

That special mix of,
too nice, shy, slow to catch on.
Now. Always. Alone.

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.

" 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."

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.

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?

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.

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 ****.

I want to invent a religion.
It can't be that hard,
seeing that
All religions serve to answer
only four questions:

1) How was the world made.
{possibly when}

2) What is the human purpose ie.
Why are we here ie.
What makes us better than,
and able to **** everything else.

3) What happens when you die.
{preferably a cheery conclusion, also one that disowns other religions or acts}

4) When, how, and why the world will end
{ its comforting to know when and why you'll be ******}

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.

"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."

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 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.

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.

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

" 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.

“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.

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 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.

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.

It was as dark and warm
as the womb
when i stepped in from the cold chill
of my cigarette.

Movies and images
flashed on endlessly
in the abyss
of the darkened room.

I knew better than most
that soon sleep
and dreams
would set in refreshing
and familiar
as the face of a mother
to a wounded child.

I could see these patterns
repeated behaviors
forming themselves in the dark
and so I too
lay down my weary head
and my heavy bones
and slipped oil like
into the rough embrace of the sheets
and the unknown
and the loved
and the eternally forgotten world of dreams.

Sometimes.
Just,
sometimes.
Darkness and music is all you need
as thoughts run aimlessly in a hurried line through your head
just let them pass
          e
    v             r
o        you            

one
     by
        one.
Feel,
       hear,
              smell,
                        taste,
    see
            
but don't try to grasp these things.
Don't try to breed
              s
           h   a
        p         e
             s
from the darkness around you
or pick meaning from the sounds that play songs
on your tired ringing ears.
Do not define your touch, taste, or smell by your broken memories
and associations.
These are not the
f           r
      a
g  m  e  
              n
    ted  
past you grasp to experience.
This is
now
and living.
This darkness,
absence of light.
This music,
m     l      d
     e    o       y.
It will all soon fade to forgotten dreams as well.

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?

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

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.

“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.

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

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.

I have few questions,
less answers.
I have opinions,
few facts.
I know few things for sure,
few things about myself or others,
few things about reality.
I compose and orchestrate myself to be a simple man,
and yet,
I cannot figure myself out.
May be I am a simple man.
May be i am too simple.
Too simple for contemplation
or introspection
or any serious level
of revelation.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.