he will drink
to Black Sabbath,
smoke,
then take
his life;

not yet
though.

not just
yet.

the sun rolls around
my fingers,
and I juggle

the moon,
the universe,

the men
and the
women;

it all falls into my
palms.

the sun burns
my hands,
as I juggle
everything
the universe ever
had to
offer.

I’ve made friends
with the half-dead
spider
in my bathroom;

we watch each other’s
attempts at crawling
every morning-

him, in any
general direction,
and me,
to ease my stomach
into the toilet bowl.

he cheers for me
as I retch
and retch
and throw up
a little
stomach bile,

spit,
wipe my mouth,
thank my audience;

he’s my
best friend,
but he
doesn’t drink
unfortunately.

and let He waketh after death,
and live a life
without another
passing.  

mine soul will rest
and I will
shell on
forward,

baby,

shell on-
asleep; yet

fully grasping.

the pastor drives
to church,
arrives by
half-six

to ring the bells
for God
with a burning passion;

ringing those
******* bells
as if
Judgement Day
is just around
the corner.

my mother
is the type of
person

to ****
on a waiter’s tray,

force the
poor *******
to eat it

and only then,
potentially,
consider tipping.

some parts of the rain
really do welcome
the plant within us
to grow;

the stem chokes you
and the thorns cut up your throat.

the plant will eventually
bloom out of your mouth
and then, all of us,
will never know

of feeling cold,
nor of pleasantly
dry thirst.

and those who will know

are to be left
alone;
unbeknownst,
until they’re gone.