at day's length, arc of my spine or
hallucination i twist into desperation. divide.
falling into slow symphonies, movements, i
regain breath just a moment to gasp some regret. to think what happened or happens. willing, nothingness and me, we
touch lips and contract. an ocean if we could tear apart. some space, some time to time fulfilment could write arrears: the pain
was (is) all worth it.

yet, i'm still feeling worthless.

wondering how you win at love
do you have to wait
until it's over?
what's the victory then
in losing it?

somebody needs to think
of some new metaphors, because
all these tired old scratched-up symbols
lead to dead ends

forget about falling, stop calling it
an end, stop calling it a means
just stop calling it anything
but love

let it describe itself, let it climb
up its own legs, let it be
what you will it, what you feel it to be

let it be what you feel
can't the victory just be
the feeling of holding on
and staying?
losing, falling, calling it anything but
plain old groundbreaking
love
is what it really is

It got swept away in the storm of unforgiveable betrayal.

wake up on the other
side of noon, bottle of
whiskey within grasp.
start sluggin'. who needs
today. water runs in
slow patterns through
arteries, woodwork,
some stranger's teeth.
rain runs inside of
me, coalescing, cold,
pure. washing away
the troubles of yesterday
in exchange for this
new sky. it still
looks the same. in
exchange for this day's
melancholia: it will
persist and hang,
a fog to stumble on
below. a tired footstep,
to spurn dreams where
there's something else
here. to hide from
the nothingness that
falls in fat drops from
potential.

i find myself
inching
nearer to
you,

with every
day, hour,
minute
i am almost
there but
never
close
enough

i read that astronauts
can tell from outer
space which cities are
newly built because
electricians are making
streetlights out of
sodium vapor now as
opposed to mercury,
so now road outlines
glow orange

and newer cities tend
to be more geometrically
planned, all straight
edges and such, while
older cities are made up
of frantic curves and
corners

and i wonder if i look
to you like i have been
worn and used, am i
frenzied and dull, or
am i new?  maybe my
jagged lines have
been sanded and smoothed

maybe
i still
glow

whiskey drips down into the skyline
and my sober eyes close, refusing to resist
another heavy night
and i wake up drunk on too much sleep
again

this is how it’s been lately, maybe
i’m making up for those three weeks of sleep deprivation
but i think there might be something else keeping me
tied to the bed so late every morning
finally standing up, still tired
and the shadows never disappeared
from beneath my eyes

at any rate, sleep is not doing its work
bringing me deeper down into the sheets
as the morning runs its course
and still i don’t feel ready to face the world

the more i sleep, the less alive i feel
now tell me
is this how it’s supposed to be?