It's like when you have the stomach flu,
and the first thing you toss up is your favorite,
homemade, blueberry muffins. How after that,
even though you've eaten them for 19 years,
just the thought of violet-speckled, baked goods
makes you want to hunch over the nearest toilet.

I don't remember when I stopped being able
to stomach irony.

All I know is I spend every morning gargling
minty antiseptics, trying to rid my mouth from
the aftertaste of dreams, but still its ghost lingers
in the back of my throat. I try to wash it down with the
taste of his ****, and the smell of his cologne. Thinking,
I guess, that one day I'll be able to love him like he deserves.

As opposed to wondering what happened between us.

Your catchphrase was," There's nothing to say."
It wasn't until now that I understood.  I wanted so
badly to find the right words. Wanted so bad to mend
what was  irreparably broken.  But you knew that every
time you opened your mouth, you were in danger
of coughing out your heart. Of spewing out a ******
mess of feelings that I didn't yet understand.

Now, as you come to me with olive branches, all I can
do is choke on my own aorta. So understand when I sound
like your broken record, that I'm just trying to hold it together.

Wind whistles ***** songs,
                      bamboo groves dance to its tune,
            the voice of my love wafts in fragrance
                                calling me from her hiding place;
                  my pleading heart, tender, love drunk, replies,
                           "Come hither, in a kiss fill all your fervor
                                               that would make me faint in its mystery"

(the city had fought the fortnight before)
fire burned through the little skirts
and plastic lunch boxes
carrying the nourishment of our future
doctors and worldshakers—

                                 Future
tax paying Americans
And beacon of the nation.

Wide awake, in the thoughts of a light bulb,
(Where sidewalk stairs politic with the devil,)
A raindrop fell and whispered to the asphalt,
“Tell me what you know about happiness…”
And somewhere, in the middle of a pineapple parade,
A Pepsi can smiled and danced the night away with Nyquil labels.

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

I don't need you
to solve
all my problems.
I just need you
to not
become one
of them.

Here I am just for you
Telling you in Times New Roman
**** the placebo affect
Remember when I was actually alive
Before I started cursing in front of you
I know your secret little bird
You won't say it aloud
But it runs down your arms and telegraphs over and over
From your fingertips
It won't slip from your tounge
You won't allow that
But your eyes smile 300% lone signal lights
I braved the cold and learned to listen to the wind
And I found a great maw in the earth
So dark and deep I could not see the bottom
I stood before it listening to the snowfall
Until
I fell inside and was made warm forever

We sat in a circle
chain smoking
between bowl packs
and bitter shots
We almost forgot
what it was like
when our lives
revolved
solely
around
crowd surfing
at cheap shows
We almost forgot
how it felt
to care so much
about
anarchy
and
atheism
We lost our hearts
somewhere
between
the
long shifts
and
hospital trips
We have so much
more
than we did back then
But we are so much
less
than we were back then
And he said
"I
would
overdose
tonight
if
I
had
the
*******
money.
I
would
end
it
all
tonight
if
I
didn't
sp­end
my
last
fifty
bucks
on
gas
just
to
get
here,
just
to
see
you
­*****,
just
to
remember
to
forget
what
real
happiness
tastes
like­
because
I'm
sure
it's
sweeter
than
*******
and
warmer
than
whisk­ey"
Well
"I GUESS THIS IS GROWING UP"
That empty laugh
That makes our ears ring
Because we know
just what it's
hiding