grasping at things
not meant for me.
they slip from
my hands so
easily.

feeling
    hopeless
          helpless
full of fear.

what does the future hold?
they say it gets better
and i'm screaming

WHEN?

Three bottles in
after a day of the same ****.

Can I compose a poem?
I doubt it.

Maybe another drink will help
then I can be like Bukowski
who has seen more style in dogs
than in men.

Well he isn't wrong is he?

I go to work
to listen to same old tales
of how his wife
keeps falling down
how there's another gun show
this weekend
how this week the diet
is gonna begin
how this company is sinkin'.

And I agree
it's all going to the bottom
of the dark sea
and for some reason
this thought makes me
happy.

In the tomb of my memories
I lie stretched out like some limpering anusmachine
staring into itself for eternity, transfixed by machine eye

I wish there was a nicer way to say this
but there isn't -

memory defines our actions in life
we are prisoners to our past
and nailed to our fates
such as whimpering
such as being pathetic in public
such as drawing from the circuits the
treachery of turds descending

Morning ****,
Oh the release.

And now there would come a time
a swift sharp clock on the bed
Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells
Like an angry little arm
Charming if not for the alarm

And everyday I slap the face of it
Like an unwanted *****
And she is silenced
Quick unlike
Said chick

But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry
Nor cool or heat
There's nothing bothering me

Time just ticks off and I laugh at it

But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men
And yet I am not called upon them
Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts
No masterman
who failing to raise his hand
Clams up
With such poor artwork

Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan

Now In San Francisco
Where the alley streets stink of ***
And the European facades are just that
Crumbling
Poopy
And full of ****
And what yet are they dreaming to be?

The church that survived fire
Great conflagration
God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that,
Now did he?

He's a water-sign
Dolt
And water only jolts your mind
When it scatters true light,
Ain't that right?

But it's all the same
Just different hues
And the news
Isn't new
Just Blaring and yelling
And speeding television crews
Riding their stories
Up and down the many stories
Trying to build a city of angels
On a bituminous hill

Shills

No life skills

And I walk the city streets with a ugly old leather
Brief
Casing the joints and rolling my own
Unhappy and alone
Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet
And he has no road

While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air
Going god knows where
Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball
Perpetually trapped in the machine

How bout Nippon
Or Hangujin
Or Han Chinese
Or Berlin
Anywhere but when
A little ways along the state
Of "in"

All these strange things

endless weight
and the stars still shine

sickening pressure
yet my heart still beats

deep down
enslaved raging butterflies

its too much
anxious heat

no relief
it goes on and on

a dramatic end?
endearing yet frightening