Guns are always next to the old television sets.
The kind that are called
“the sets”
“the tube”
“lonely night comfort and clean tooth money spender”, you know, your childhood gathered in small dusty screens.
I’m not sure where I’m getting at, something about violence being next to fishing equipment. Maybe that’s where Sundays are stored. That we’re all pawn shop children wasting away in places with  streets that are named after trees, the irony being that there is no life growing between the cracks of sweaty cement. On the driveways where skeletons are buried underneath like they own the land.
Where the living haunt the dead and there is no expiration date besides the milkshakes you refused to accept from that boy with the lazy eye.
I'm sorry if I sound insensitive when I say that these wars are always fought in vain.
That no matter how many people you save, there's always someone
drowning in the dark corners where no one wants to look.
Look.

You kissed me
and I felt air exiting my body.
I was a chimney,
and you're the fire that caused the fumes.

I kissed you
and air reentered,
but it was different,
it wasn't mine.

Your lips touched mine,
and suddenly I was a deflated balloon
with all its air,
gone.

My lips touched yours,
and instantly I was inflated
with a different air,
with yours.

You kissed me,
and took the breath from my soul.

I kissed you,
and told you that I didn't want it back

because yours
makes me feel more -
whole. //

*written on April 07, 2017

A reading of this poem is here: https://youtu.be/pAIgogKxcNA?list=PLBxuQsDqWVXmIytZbwojqP6VwFcC5xeZ

__­____________

He died that night.  His chin a mesh of wet, broken asphalt, blood and glistening white flesh.

What did you want?
A quirky dialogue, a dose of fiction and science,

a ******* poem

Jesus!  I said it glistened, didn’t I?

Damply reflecting his solitary and meaningless life that he had built up to be something more
something wonderfully significant

This must be a pathetic assault on the indignity of the world
It’s lack of acceptance for
My total loneliness

among the pattering drops and the dosed lights
hazing and incomprehensible
forted, feigning, but there

A physical barrier that pretends to be.
That’s kind of like the guy.  How convenient!  Are you following?

The lights were the last thing he probably saw.

but there in the peaceful death did he gasp one last word?

A cliche.  Is that better?  
An improvement upon self-referring, concept refraining, phrase

like a sustaining note struck by a hammer
struck by a white key
struck by bone and flesh
a resonation resigning to a precious exit, honoring the one thing he valued?
Are we getting somewhere now?  Did the alliterative foiled words help to unwrap the meaning of this poor ***** last breath?

No.
But I recall a gurgle followed by a splurch of blood and his eyes so fiercely clenched
cowardly denying the wet
moment as
he died that night

And I meant to leave the ****** apostrophe out
This is art

@Macbigicekeys

I found you
To later realize
You were always there.

Awake and a little bothered.
It's okay though.
I'm not that sober.
The usual routine.
Crush. Roll. Light.
It's my best past time.
One of my favorite outlets.
Forgetting to turn off the buzzer.
Remembering it's all in your head.
Being awakened with a reminder.
A reminder needeth be remembered.


Pause.


Don't forget to breath.


Okay.

Our shadows persist
whence we were collages
on times breath.

Elegantly dissipating from
the collection of momentary
fragrances.

Till we are silhouettes of
memories, notes falling
into life shattering within obscurity.

My voice is much more hoarse now
Whether from overuse or under-use I can't quite tell
As each word connects, the progression of my voice slowly fades
Like a shouting whisper I return to silence
Breath has become a dire marker in my attitude
Strangely it speaks like that of a slow moving drop despite it all
Calm and quite, as was I, as was the breath