I put the pills in my mouth,
And lay on the couch.
I put the gun to my head,
So I become dead.
My legs are dangling my friend,
I've reached the end.
From the tree, the rope is hanging.
Where soon you'll find me strangling.
In my heart, there will be a knife.
For I am done with my life.
And if I chose to live one more day,
There will be a price I'll have to pay.
For I've always dreamed of dying,
And I'll never give up trying.
Every night I cry myself to sleep.
Hoping satin will have my soul to keep.

low, fast moving clouds
make me feel
like i'm standing
still on a mountain

wisps of cotton candy
and wind in my hair

there is a change in the air
a slower, colder
turning motion
all around me

my head in the sky
my feet in the sea.

When the writing is going well,
I am a prince in a desert palace,
fountains flowing in the garden.
I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow
and drink from a silver goblet,
poems like a banquet
spread before me on rugs
with rosettes the damask of blood.
                But exiled
from the palace, I wander --
crawling on burning sand,
thirsting on barren dunes,
believing a heartless mirage no less true
than palms and pools of the cool oasis.

Now mind is clear
as a cloudless sky.
Time then to make a
home in wilderness.

What have I done but
wander with my eyes
in the trees? So I
will build:  wife,
family, and seek
for neighbors.

                     Or I
perish of lonesomeness
or want of food or
lightning or the bear
(must tame the hart
and wear the bear).

And maybe make an image
of my wandering, a little
image—shrine by the
roadside to signify
to traveler that I live
here in the wilderness
awake and at home.

You deserve more than ink scribbled on paper
Thoughts crammed in spaces
Black letters on a page
A heavy handed mass of words.

You cannot own my river
but I will let you name the sea,
with its fortressed depth
and alien life,
all out of sight and out of mind;
the poisoned sustenance of brine.

Leave the blame at my feet
and forget me over time,
you can take the roads
leading north,
if you allow me to take the south,
with no chance of a future collide.

We can cut a deal over the reservoir
if I can retain the quarry,
it was never yours
from the start,
but you can play the victim's harp,
whilst I tattoo over my scars.

I will sing for the Star of Bethlehem,
you can fall into the arms of David,
you can make it out and
pay your dues,
shine lights onto your winter blues,
whilst I anaesthetise each painful bruise.

You can paint over the wallpaper
whilst I am replacing all my strings,
we can change the meaning
to our favourite songs,
I will sever the ties to unalterable tunes;
all of those words that lead back to you.

Me?
I was born a storm
A whirlwind of inner turmoil
Tsunamis tripping off my tongue.

You called yourself a philosopher—but
The only depth you cared about
was intravenous.



*The boy who loved God too much,
he tried to find Him

in his head.