There's this guilt
That sits
Like the world's worst ****
In the bottomless pit
Of my stomach, and it
Is making me sick
Like colic, and as
The clock tics
And tocs
That burden rots,
It's spoiling my blood
And clotting my thoughts
And making me think
It was all for nought.
I ought to start reading
These books that I bought,
Though none of those
I've read have said
How to deal with a stranger's
Bed that you wake up in instead
Of the one you shared
With the one you wed,
But my love is now
Three years dead,
And all the girls that
Have stood in her stead
Are like plastic money;
Not worth a cent.
But I can't make sense
Of how to move on,
I just can't believe she's gone,
Why did she have to die?
Why did her heart give out
At just about the best time
Of our entire lives?
Thirty five is far too soon
For a coronary infarction,
Let me tell you.

You keep it that way,
Unchanging,
Static,

A Rolling Rock gathers mold
If you leave it out long enough.

So I ask:
Have you had enough?
You can just laugh
If finding an answer is too tough.

I love to hear it.
I live to hear it
And be near it,
And live inside you

Like a parasitic child
That thrives on your smile
And feeds till it dies.

Would you let me?
I know the answer's no,
I can see it in your eyes.

Which is why I live you.
And why I love inside you
Like a heart that beats its
Metronome in ones and twos
Oh how I'm home when I'm
Inside of you

Curled and twisted and
Beating fast,
And waiting for the day
I can be free, at last,

At least

I'd get to see your face,
Instead of the shadow
That replaced it
For the last seventeen
And one half months.

Come closer, forget about her.
She left your side for a reason.
I'll make you forget
Your silhouette,

The seasons pass,
We get baked
Then wet,
With mild months
In between.

And still I dream
Of glorious spring
And the gloryless
Song we'll sing
When we are reunited

Like a corpse is reinvited
Into mother earth
To fade into dirt.

So will we all
Find our place, our worth.

Just keep looking,
First.

A shatterproof
Scatterbrain
Whips it over
Rough terrain
On his way
To get paid.
A motionless
Motorist
Waits to be
Saved
By a changing
Light
In an endless
Parade.
A dandelion's
Progeny
Released to
The wind,
Like memories
Fade
Into the infinite
Within.

I'm the spark
That started
The fire when
The retirement
Home burned alive,
I'm the guy who
Sold the quarter
To Cianci's daughter
That bought her
A place
In that lake
Of boiling water,
I'm the knife
In the mugger's hand
That ended the life
Of a family oriented
American man
For an American Made
Minivan that was
Worth less than
A single grand,
I'm the hand on the arm
That held the pen
That signed the plans
To build the bombs
That were dropped
Upon Japan,
I'm the disease
That multiplied the cells
That sent Bukowski
Swearing
His way
Down
To Hell,
I'm the wind
That fueled the fires
When the towers
Fell,
I'm the blade
That took the sight
From Oedipus
When he took delight
In his mother's kiss,
I'm the cold
Air in an
Empty grave,
I'm the corner
Of the stove
On which you always
Stub your toe,
I'm the snow
That slicked the road
And sent your brother
Into reality's
Reunion show,
I'm the smoke
That filled the throat
Of a crying infant
And choked it
Into a memory,
I'm the repititious lie
That sent the witches
To burn alive
In Salem
And Spain,
I'm the trigger
On the gun
That blew the brain
Of Kurt Cobain,
I'm to blame
For the way *******
Destroys the lives
Of the otherwise sane,
I'm the voice
That told Sam's son
To wipe the smile
From America's fat face
While satisfying
Their perverted taste
For people dying,
I'm the nails
On the fingers
That Barkovitch
Used to scratch
The long-walk-itch
When he ripped
Out his own throat,
I'm the one
Who swung the vote
To elect a bush
As dumb as a goat,
I'm the bullet
That pierced
The vest on
Kyle Joe's chest
And laid him to rest
In Exeter,
I'm the snake
That charmed
The leaf
Right off of Eve,
The way that
Hemopheliacs
Bleed
And
Bleed,
The constant
Antagonist
You seem
To need.

Or maybe you're just in a
Bad mood, and I'm still the
Same dude who sat with you
While the three day fever
Ripped through your body,
Stroking your hair and
Wiping the sour sweat from
Your forehead while you
Hallucinated demons that
Emerged from your chest,
Slightly below your left
Breast, to fly in patterns and
Synchronized formations
Through the caverns of your imagination.

Maybe I'm still the guy who
Held you through the night
Your mother died, wiping
Every tear that you cried,
Spending that hour sitting
Outside while the jewel
Encrusted air surrounded us
Like a never ending chasm of
Golden despair, splitting
Myself like a uranium atom
For you to be warmed by the
Reaction inside.

Maybe I'm still the one you
Saw from across the smoke
Filled dive saloon with a pint
Of Harpoon, who saw you as
The only shining light in a
Darkened room, who talked
To you and told you stories
And complimented the
Sundress you bought off Tobi,
Even though you
Told me really,
The weather
Wasn't quite right for it.

Maybe I'm still the one you
Wake up to in the middle of
The night, sweat sticking us
To the sheets and each other,
Because the heat's been
Broken going on seventeen
Weeks and we fell asleep
Without opening the window again.

Maybe I'm still the man who
Makes you breakfast every
Morning so you can sleep in
A little bit, so you can read
The latest Dig with your
Coffee and cig before you
Head to the ******* lab that
Makes you feel sick twelve
Hours later, the man who's
Waiting at home after to
Listen to your complaints
About the day and say the
Things you want to hear

"You're totally right,
They're completely wrong,
I love you dear,
Your hair is a song
That fills the air
And fills my ears
And fills my stomach
With warmth and light"

Maybe I'm a fool.
Maybe people don't change,

Or maybe they do, overnight,
And I'm to blame.

Either way,
I still feel
The same
As when we took
The same last name
Ten years ago
Yesterday.

She said it again,
So I repeated myself too,
This time with the

"What"

In "What did you say?"

With the strongest
Emphasis
I could muster.

She's saying it again,
And I still have no clue
Why she would **** in
Like Colonel Custer
Did to the Indians.

I bid her adieu,
And left her to wonder
What my answer could've been
If she didn't adjust her
Opinions based on
Her audience.

But anyway....
The fraudulents
Won't go away.

They hide behind me,
Trying to scam me,
Like I'd just walk blindly
Into a ****
Double whammy
Or something.

That thumping.
That thumping.

It's chronic,
And constantly bumping
Against this cage.

My patience is thinning
With each year I age,
Leaving me feeling
Like Greenland.

Is it so much to ask
For new beginnings?

A different page?

Anything other than
Feeling the same?

I suppose that it is,
And I just have to accept
That I'm asleep in a grave,
And all that I see,
All that I feel,
All that I know
Are all that's left.
The last static spasms
Of a decomposing mind.

I saw my sister today,
We got lunch at Union Station.
It's been years,
So I noticed the changes
In how she looks,
How she acts,
How she reacts to my
Shortcomings as a brother.

I told her to think of
Everyone she knows,
Or has known,
Or will know,
Or has seen
In person.

On a screen.

In a picture.

From a moving car.

In a dream.

I told her to think of all these people
Who have lives, and credit cards, and vacations, and stressors, and morning showers.
I told her they're all dead.
They are gone, forever,
And never coming back.

Worm food.

Spirits.

Contradictions.

I told her we are all dead,
And our imagined lives
Are just contrived efforts
To reconcile that truth
With ourselves.

All this empty time,
The moments that
Happen over and over
Every day
That we cannot pin down
Or really remember,
Except when they're happening,

Like walking up the escalator
From the subway,

Or making some *******
A ****** sandwich at work,

Or eating breakfast,

Or riding the elevator
Up to your floor,

Or taking a ****,

Or feeding the cat,

All these moments that happen so frequently and uneventfully
That it's as if they don't happen at all,
They're just static electricity
Discharging in a rotting brain.

Last ditch efforts to maintain
A sense of order,
A coping mechanism for the
Emptiness where God should be,
Filler to hide the reality
That nothing is happening,
That nothing is reality.

I told her we can
Fill that space with
Whatever we want,
That death is what you make it,
It's your death to live,
Your own make-believe
Joys and sorrows.

With a furrowed brow,
She didn't say anything
Until she asked for the check,
And said she had a bus to catch.

I said good luck with the baby,
I'll babysit when it's born,
If you want me to.

You know how when
You put a kettle on a stove,
Maybe for tea
Or something else maybe
You get the kettle
To put on the stove
And you put water in it
From the tap
Or if you're in
The inner city
Then maybe from
A jug
From cvs
Or rite aid
I don't know which is closer
To your kettle
That you're putting the
Water in
To put on the stove
But the tap smells funny
And tastes like minerals
And artificiality
So if you have a bit of money, Maybe an on-tap
Filter or brita
You turn the little
**** on the front
Of the oven
And you hear
The distressed, hurried
Sound of a component
Desperately trying
To do its job
It seems like forever
But it's just a couple
Seconds
The spark catches
The gas
And glorious blue
Energy leaps out
And causes
Instant condensation
On the side of the
Kettle you've filled
With water
And put on the stove
And then
Primordial chemistry
As old as old
Changes ****
Around inside
No time
For a chem lesson
Just listen
And then after a few minutes
A blast of
Piping hot
Shrill
Pure energy
Explodes out of the top
In an earsplitting
Harried call
To you to let you
Know the kettle
You put on the stove
Is now ready
For you.
All that pressure,
From so much activity,
Before you even
Turned the heat on
You walked around
Gathering materials
And moving about
And all the calories
You burn thinking
About it
And then the
Thermal activity
Which is breathtaking
In its simple
But ever so complicated
Perfect order
And predictability
And all of this simply
Amazing process
Culminates
In one constant,
High energy geyser
Of released pressure.
This is equivalent
To the results
Of one thought
About you.
What a life
As a kettle.
Yea.

You see, it's like this:

Every night, right around
Beer number 4,
With the beginning
Of the Daily Show
Airing on the tv
At the foot of my bed,
I look out my window
Diagonally to the left
Out onto the street that
Is dark because the city
Hasn't fixed the streetlight
Yet, even though it's
Summer and I'd like
To think that the kids
Walking the streets
With their hoods pulled
Up could be able
To have some light
To blow their smoke by.

Anyway, I look out my
Window diagonally
To the left
Every night
And I see a 1995
Rust spotted grey
Oldsmobile 88
Pull into the driveway
Of the green
Double level house
With the ugly
Maroon shutters
And then the same
Woman climbs out
In her scratched
Half inch heels
She bought at the savers
On route 44
And this night she's
Wearing her pale blue
Conservative skirt
And a delightful
Vertical striped
Button up
Office building secretary shirt
With the mix of cool colors
And her brown hair is
Pulled back in a tight
Bun that's been tugging
At her forehead for
The eight hours she sat
At her desk and the
Six hours she waited tables
At the ****** chain sports
Bar on Branch ave
For ****** tips
And ****** looks
From ****** drunk perverts
She has to smile at
And flirt with if
She wants to make rent
At the green double
Level house with the ugly
Maroon shutters.

She checks her mail box
And with weary eyes
Scans the envelopes
Of bills and spam and third notices
No letters from friends
Or family or old school suitemates
And she goes inside
To reheat her dinner for one
And I lay here in my boxers
Cracking open beer number
Four and listening
To Jon Stewart point out the
Obvious absurdities
In our ****** up system
That everyone seems not
To notice and take as
Just jokes on a fake
News program but are
Really symptoms
Of a ******* society
That puts value in all
The wrong places
And as I sip on
Rolling rock number five
And watch the woman across
The dark street fumble with
Her keys I think about
How lonely it is here in my
One bedroom apartment
And how lonely it is there
In her one bedroom apartment
And I wish oh I wish
One of these nights I could
Stand outside and smoke
A cig and wait
And when she gets home
Ask her how work
Was and laugh when
She jokes that it was terrible
And know its not a joke
Because it was terrible
And I'll ask her if she has any
Late night plans
Knowing she will tune into
The Colbert Report
And watch until she
Falls asleep in her full
Size bed
And if she smiles and says
No I'll ask her to come over
And have a drink and if
She says yes I'll give her
An Octoberfest because
Harpoon is classier
Than rolling rock
And then maybe she'll
Want another one
And maybe she'll see
Something in me.

As I open rock number six
Every night the same thought
Breaks through the cloud,
That if I could just do
What I want to do
Maybe this bed wouldn't be
So big and maybe
This heart wouldn't hang
So heavy and maybe
The tv would have an audience
Instead of a solitary observer.

I fall asleep again
Having never learned
Her name or which high
School she went to
Or what makes her laugh
Or what sad movies she
Loves to cry along with
Or which secluded areas
She likes to go to to think
Or what she thinks about me.