sometimes I forget to breathe
when I think of her,
perhaps because the long unused
parts of my guts heart head
have forgotten what to do with
these sensations.
sitting, laughing quietly at ourselves,
at the absurd yet comfortable silence
that fills the air
as we, stunned, curious,
satisfy in simply breathing
the same air.
I stare at the tobacco stains
on my fingers
and imagine your kind, honest
smile in the dark.
i call myself a poet,
but the words shrink from my grasp
and settle somewhere, kindling.

we're almost home
I can taste it
the fumes and the fire and the rags soaked with gasoline
and I can hear the streetlight hum
burning the ghost of a last cigarette
and I can hear the coffee
plink
plop
in your coffeepot
a far-off howl
and a mother lost her son
with the needle
and thread
and the system is gone
and I solve my problems like a monster would
with matches
but these scissors
feel heavy
and I dissected my brain
found what left of my sanity
and I ate it with a scowl
burning bright into the day
and the philosophies of ages past
wise men
and a single lunatic
breaking me
softly crashing animals into my head
and I bit at the fist
and frothed at the mouth
the other day
and it croaked at me
scorching my brain
eating at my health
I fear I am losing my mind, lover
I cannot remember the last time I cried
or that I ate
all I feel is a mechanical
clickclack
like I am clockwork
and I don't know how to feed
this need
inside me
I hurt my head today
a soft noise
No matter
I smell oranges
as I lose myself
in my work
and I stitch up the seams
the acrid taste of a cigarette on my teeth
a layer of smoke and wind
and this mask smells like I imagine she would
and that ends it
and I couldn't move on
paralyzed with a shrug
and my mouth tastes of kerosene
my mouth tastes of kerosene
my mouth tastes of kerosene
the blood in my house
surrounding the bricks in my mouth
breaking through the store
and I ache
and my stomach is sick
and my mouth
oh, god
what have I done
I ate her sanity
and I broke his back
with the symbol
of red
my only regret
you must think I'm mad
but no!
I am better than that
a ghost
long gone
leaving
only kerosene
in my wake
rock the back
with the squeal of tires
I must escape
Thunk!
of a heart dying beneath my floorboards
drying slowly
like a bubbly sea
amid a soft drink
there is a cafe down the street
and I think may
order some coffee
two scoops of sugar
two tablespoons of milk
why is my coffee red
why is my coffee red
why is my coffee red?
why is my coffee red
what i have done
cannot be forgiven, lover
wash it off in the sink
my god
they see me
they see me
****
they see me
I regret
nothing
everything
I am nothing
I had a friend over today
to show how normal I am
that i am okay
and I am alive
and we spoke
we drank wine, we ate a fine meal
It was a party
and soon i came to realize
they knew!
He knew! He saw the blood
and I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed my hand
and why are they still ******
and he found out
he mocked me
sat there in a chair
and pretended it was all normal
until I ached
and burned
and soon
oh, god
what have I done now
his sanity
it's gone
i ate it
He is sad now
I see him
and he is sad
I taste his tears
they taste of salt and crackers
and I knelt
and I sat down
and finished my meal
would a lunatic do that? Would he finish his dinner with his guest?
No, lover.
No, lover.
The voices returned today.
They told me I was worthless
perhaps they are right
and perhaps
there is a bridge not far from here.
Could the water wash away the blood?
yes.
Yes, lover,
it could.

it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.

you can **** any time and
any place you want.
I don't need money or stability
to survive.
the global flakes of atrophy
and the dead stink of
routing fish clinging right on
human animals secures
me in antigrowth.
I am a bee or a *****
the auburn eye
scatters empty
and I miss the smell
of your **** on me

"that's a difficult question," she said,  "thus the answer will be difficult. for both of us. it isn't a matter of loving or not loving. does the sun love the tree? assuredly, the tree needs the sun, but does it love it? without the sun the tree would die, but without the tree the sun would continue shining. continue pulling satellites around it,  continue burning.
someday the sun well begin the process of dying. it will switch from fusing hydrogen for fuel to fusing helium. it will expand. it will enter its red giant phase. it will grow so large that it will envelop and vaporize the earth, tree and all.
so does the tree love the sun?"
I didn't know what to say. after staring into my eyes for a moment she walked off. it was so strange. dreamlike. I had never met that woman before. now she was gone.

torn out ripped up pulled apart
pried open crapped in
it's beautiful how the people
grow up like weeds
brainless mindless
some weeds are prettier or
more useful than others,
I'm probably one of the uglier
less useful dandelions.
I can't lead the battle charge let
some other starry eyed poet with
his face on the college paper
and dozens of limp boring
verses dazzle the illiterate
and academic alike.
id rather feed the cats or water
the plants drink beer and
hassle my neighbors
or lay in a parkinglot letting
the hot pavement cook my skin
or sit in my room amongst
perfect still aloneness.
for the last week I've been having
this recurring dream of a beautiful
woman ******* me in the *** with
a strap-on screaming about what
a piece of useless trash I am
blowing in the wind and how I
should **** myself.
she's completely naked except for
6in heels and bright red lipstick.
I can't begin to tell you how incredibly
hard I am when I wake up.
then I drink coffee on the porch
smoking
and stare at the world with
a tempered disinterest
thinking about the pros and
cons of skipping breakfast

this is a poem about happiness.
this is also a poem about how great life is, see? here's a metaphor
comparing nature to the faultless
form of a pedastalized lover,
here's a description of the
effect of changes in air pressure
and localized temperature
fluctuations
on physical matter in a given area.
here's a bland truism that
anybody can relate to.
here's a couple rhyming stanzas
about the ethereal shifting of
connecting threads which
cause all life to dance upon
the cosmic stage like food poisoned marionettes.
here's an ode to the wrinkles of
my ******* and
the bits of fuzz that occasionally
find their home in my *****.
here's a sonette to the drop outs
doing better than me
here's a dirge for the businessman
that hangs himself
and a jubilee for his widow
who earns nothing off his death
because he left his entire estate
to his catamite.
I'm writing a symphony in color,
notes of fermenting wood
dogshit and coffin dust.
the violas swoop and drone
the piccolos trill fast enough
to excise your gastrointestinal system
the barotone sax wheezes
and the timpani drum rumbles
(the flutes sit motionless because
**** flutes)
the pianists fingers are bleeding
hes banging with stumps now
his face contorted in ecstatic glee
as if the face of god has parted
the clouds just to scrape his gums
clean with his dietous ****.
and lo faint is the whisper
which climbs and slithers
between the
false,
bash upon life with both hands.
here is life here is death
let me show your life
let me breathe your wretching
like squandered
like roots in the soil,
paint your everlasting cave drawing
in the face of your kitchen
and dance around a fire
let the embers lick your heels
til pagan viciousness overtakes
your quivering form.
gasp it in