maybe you’re 24 years old
but you still look underage to me
the clairvoyance of my mind can read,
in text, the preoccupation of your own mind
with mad love,
materialistic inadequacies,
the standard practice
to contemplating suicide,
stewing on the embitterment
of fleeting thoughts from
actions made by chief adversaries,
your appearance,
your attire,
your insecurities,
your petty grievances,
your suspicions of infidelity,
disillusioned to the poisons of life
and the fragments of clarity
the fog of quietus hasn’t quite
reached the imprisonment
of your own creation
and the blue jays of despair
haven’t came pecking on
the crumbs of your viability
you haven’t been through
enough bullshit yet,
through and through,
to let that all go
the callow is seeping
out of your bone marrow
and written in scripture
on your 12 year old face
I bedded down with Frankenstein
I bedded down with Dracula
I bedded down with the Wolf Man
I bedded down with the Mummy
I bedded down with the Creature
from the Black Lagoon

and the end results
were a carbon copy
of fundamental flaws

oozing with slime,
homemade monsters
that wrapped me up in sheets
and laid me to rest
upon the catacombs
of their one bedroom apartments

but after feeling ghastly,
my decision making
became quite hasty
and acted
as if
I were the
Invisible Man
I can’t write lyrics to a song
or letters to a person
I don’t read too well
and I received the letter D
throughout those adolescent
years in English class
I have no business taking a stab
at poetry or partaking in literature
and yet,
here I am
exploiting the ones who are
untouched and unexposed
to the senses of this
jarring plausibility
with these fucking poems
that plague my mind
I didn’t ask for this
it came to me
I shall continue to rest my weary head
down in the dirt and waste away
these missed opportunities on sleep
so the world can carry on
one more night
without me
there’s very little involvement
when it comes to writing
all you do is
sit back
lose a piece of your sanity
lose a piece of your soul
fill the waste basket
with crumpled failures
while the typewriter does all the work
and sporadically,  
smash the bottle against the wall
or through the window pane
when it’s really gotten to you
she looked back and asked, “do we have enough candles?”

“enough to start up the Great Chicago Fire all over again.” I replied.

and she said,

“to watch that whole city burn to the ground would be quite the enchanting piece of captivating imagery.”

we lit the candles,
and danced with demons
like Indians in celebration
upon a pile of burning books
as we sang songs with sirens
under our drunken culture
while the troubadours
and lyricists without hats
played the diabolical lutes
and hellish harp strings of fire
on chaotic imperfections
we piddled on the face of society
and bet against the fixed fight
as the troops of tomorrow
paraded down the alternative streets
like ants in the kool-aid on a warm
breezy summers day
half the neighborhood
was drunk with rage
and the other half was dead
rabble-rousers, blithe and tinkered,
all stood up at once
like agitated cobras and
torched the night sky with incendiary
controversy and we made love
in the streams of submachine guns
that flowed like the cocktails
of Molotov under the arsonists belt
until the napalm of our memories
glittered on the broken buildings
of our minds.
he worshipped his God
more than loving his family
and living life

and his God sent him
to hell for it

I sat back in my lawn chair,
whiskey on the rocks in hand,
sunglasses over my eyes
as I watched the flames
arise in the lenses

I took a nip
and smiled
head rested in the palms
of my hands,
elbows on the table
and my eyes are hypnotically
glued to the keys of the
somewhere in there
was the binary code
to my immortality
but the answers
are imponderable
and the sewers of my mind
are impervious to the
racing rapids of words
but the beer was half full
or maybe it was half empty
the duality of my mood
doesn’t matter,
nothing matters when
you’re the rightful proprietor
to a broken mind,
running around like maniacs and
lunatics loose in the madhouse
and your thoughts and ideas
are making threats,
so you wait for them to come
but in sheer disappointment
they never do,
just empty promises
which was worse....
way worse

the victrola needed to be wound again,
there was quietude
except for
the sound of the keys
but it was maddening
and I was wordless and
temperamentally untalkative

it wasn’t that my excursions
for immortal poetry
were unachievable  
but that I was just as
lazy as the music that
I played on the piano

it was just another bad hair day
for bald men and bearded women

and a good day for slow driving
in the fast lane in front of people
who are in a hurry

I guess
I was wrong
about Kansas
all along
My 100th poem! Also I let my oldest name the title and I think I’ll do that from now on. Kids have the greatest and silliest imagination.
time is constant
people are not
the skies are gray and
the church is closed
there’s a change
in the air
it can not be
seen or touched
like colors and thoughts
but I can feel it
I let it happen
rustling around
in the wind, wildly
and it comes
gushing up
through my nose
and into the psyche
I’ll be ready for it
I am not destined to
live the rest of my life
in the same place
where I was born
but en route for
greater things in a place
that makes me feel happy
I am the way of the future
so hand me the goddamn blueprints
you snarling sharp-tooth savage beast
the unbalanced mixture
of that putrid smell
of stale beer and a
myriad of ashtrays
lingers through the air,
revolving records
snarling at me and
impatiently waiting
to play the overtures
six pack of tall boys
floating around in
a bucket of ice just
lolling in the cubes
like a dogs tongue
while the flies fly an
unapologetic patterns
that taunt me
under this dimly
flickering light in
this musky cubicle known
as my living quarters
it’s easier to go insane
than a dentist
committing suicide
and my vitality is depleting
out of me like a ghost
searching for a body
cigarette holes burned
into my favorite chair
that sits in the south corner
where I have wondrous
conversations with
my dead friends...
all one of them
outside those blinds
they think I’ve gone mad
the neighbors think
I’ve been driven to insanity,
the women across the street
who is cheating on her husband
with a younger man thinks I’m insane,
the little girl who swings in the
backyard behind me thinks I’m crazy,
the little Indian man who runs the
corner convenient store thinks I’m mad
nobody calls
nobody contacts
nobody wants to deal with the lunacy
I don’t blame them
in fact, I wish them well
I wish their profiles are all
monotonous and feasible
as they want them to be
it’s safer that way
silence is the scariest sound
I’ve ever heard
so I’ll sit here and have the
raw materials of madness
sit on my lap and share a bit
of laughter together
while we wait for better times
but like the taste of French fries
that have been reheated
in the microwave
its just never the same
but of course,
I never made it happen
I have traveled to the edge of the earth,
riding along the shoulders of darkness,                       stumbling in hallways,
waking up on kitchen tables,
sick for days and
grasping for air,
each breath I took
was a moment
climbing closer to death
and there were
darker times in my life
where I breathed heavily
and slumber
were once used for
casualties and pleasantries
but now it’s a reliability to
escape from a life that
I created for myself.
sleeping in gutters,
my hair drenched
in sewer water,
whiskey burning
my throat and veins and
the horrid homeless man
stands over me smiling,
his rows of teeth look
like city skylines
jagged and gritty and
full of smog
in front of some
condemned building
where the devil
leans again a lamppost,
taking the slowest pull
off his brown paper bag
and playing the saddest
harmonica on the darkest,
gloomiest night
at the corner of
Everything Avenue and
Nothing Boulevard
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