Handicapped by my brain
art and poetry are my crutches.
How long will they last?
Are they helping me stand?
or just digging a hole
for me to sink deeper?

This sorrow,
This song can't pierce.
This sorrow
Is rock-hard water.
It is two rooks
Fire and air each -
I feel their fingers
Dig under my arms
And make me fly.
This sorrow
Is my patience.

It's all I've ever had.

Somebody come and pick me up
(the heart of the bird is the weight of the bird)
I've been sinking into the universe
(the size of a needle eye)
And I'm beginning to really, really lie
With my autonomic nerves
And their will to life.

I'm depression. As real, as light,
As dark. As feeling, as air, as
Light. I'm as real as the sun
That isn't there. I'm as heavy
As its nowhere-
Ness. I'm the sum of sub-
Tracting parts, I'm the price
Of hell, a worthless dream.

My life
Is found, when life
Finds meaning (when was it lost?)
If you think
That means
It was me
Who gave
Up on God. . .
I gave everything
And nothing he returned to me.

Death to the saviors.
Death to the sayers.
Death to the forsakers.
   Nothing to arrogant nothing.

The greatest ******* pain
Is your child,
When he was just born,
And inside you,
And later, when he
Disappointed you.

You tried so hard,
Gave it a name,
Something you wanted it to be,
Gave it food and water - Your
Food and water,
And for your birthday,
You get a coffin.

Life
*****,
As the saying goes.
And I guess
Death is the Doctor
Who draws your blood
To replace some other blood.
As the saying goes
Around.

But maybe
Our dreams will get us somewhere,
When the end comes, when we sink our bones
Into that pillow the Earth, and in a thousand
The sun will abandon, and make it
No longer daydreaming.


But until then,
Let them **** each other.
So-called "family."

how'd I end up at the edge
you said you'd never let me fall
then quickly changed your mind
you said you'd push me off

here's your ******* chance
why don't you go ahead
and do it?

these edges—
another flashback,
another ****-up,
a little messed up.
a bad person: me—
forcing my apologies,
a true comedian,
always performing.
but who's watching?

always peering over that edge
edges that wait
for you to push me off.
I don’t know if I’ve survived ****,
if edges still bleed
all over the side of my high-rise,
rising.

one step
off this edge
and you get your wish.

****

that’s like saying
sixty-degree water isn’t hot
just because it isn’t boiling,
and it isn’t cold either.

my body feels heavy
after
fifty-ton anchors
pulling my frozen limbs under.
and i don’t like the feeling.
and it’s so ******* cold
to breathe.

i had a thought today:
the world would go on
if i were gone.
no one would notice.
it was comforting—
no one would grieve.
no one.
but me.
it’s no fun, you know;
i would know.

nonsense,
breathed in too many chemicals,
droplets of poison,
in my mind.
people who know you
will be affected,
or at least, perhaps,
some of them,
whether you want to admit it or not.

well, i think
there’s a difference
between people knowing you
and loving you,
or perhaps knowing you
is a kind of love,
but it never is.

i thought
therapy could help me get over
my fear of death,
so I could—
well, you know...

death serves a sweet martini,
and I could use a drink,
’cause i can't see
past the past.

Oh, man,
it's
Happy Hour