"holy **** it feels like years"

i close my achey eyes and breathe your silhouette.
i smell you, your skin and shampoo and funk,
scents on my pillow become cents in a jar.
i am working hard tonight to become
a mess and alone.
the rain slowed and disappointed me, i hoped
to be washed away.
i hear airplanes and apostrophe,
short of breath and epiphany.
meat-hook and drag me like something worth catching
and carving.
you may eat me alive without ever knowing it.

I am afraid of what I've made myself.
I am a Demon, you're beliefs 'n your loves
are enemies.
I've tried so hard to leave behind the
memories of what once was so
precious: emotion, wrathe, **** and wicked
lit like wicks and taken through
Daytona dark, the strip we marched, the
palms looked like black fireworks.
The ocean sang, the handclaps rang and waned,
and Bobby talked to me for hours. But
in the end I still felt alone, fell quiet,
the handclaps rang and waned.

he was your Door your floor for you to walk on.
lips to press against light making the day
look like night in comparison.
is
grammar all i get? does the wit *******
and leave my lungs like wind and puke?

music does it, four me.
1music
2what i already feel
3you
4everything else

i swell Crescendo a catalyst string cheese section
of bittersweetmorsel perferationperfection.
piercing me from the outside in and back again i'm
letting wounds heal the long way taking the scenic route
and enjoy the unfinished road.

thirty picturepoemsplay in my brain all at once- i
grab my butterfly net to try and capture as many
creatures
as
i can.

take my hand and
stroll be my leash and love
me taste good be
mine domestic life strife
rifles through my chest as i do my best
to keep it there.

there is no sun, no west,
no east.
night falls, morning comes like
clockwork.
but,
what does the night hide?
and what does morning make new?
i don't know when you wrote this
poem,
or if when you wrote it you
had a song-to-be in your head,
but i've rarely (at least not
first-hand) seen you wander into
the night; rather, you - much
like i often do - ignore possibilities
that another morning could bring,
and choose to grasp
a bottleneck as if you could choke
yesterday's throat. i would know -
i've blamed a lot of yesterdays.

and you went on to say that
rays of new sun beam onto
beauty that rests, as if it were
potential energy.
beauty is kinetic.
beauty does not rest. it is a killer,
and a victim, as it suckerpunches
you, and cowers. beauty is
not love, and love is not a victim,
and doesn't cower. those may be the
only differences, but i prefer to
think that love may have its
redeeming
qualities.

i don't care how sunny,
it doesn't shed light on a
**** thing, clears nothing up
anymore than night hides things.
but you were right:
"somewhere in time
something is lost"
but what did you lose that you
have not re-found and lost
again and re-found and....
there's no hiding, man.
we were always more alike than
most, and

i know what you're looking for -
love, for "things" to make
sense, for that orange-y
haze of childhood innocence (yes,
in my mind, childhood was orange,
carpeted floors, "playing house" (and
"doctor") and an electric *****
by the hallway that no one ever
played) to return, for the "real deal" -
whether in the form of a woman,
an oblivious grin, fruity drinks
on a remote sandy beach, or finding out
the hard way.

i'm finding things out the hard
way. i'm missing "things" (people,
smells, strangers (not to be confused
with the aforementioned 'people'), and
everything else i knew would
be missed. i'm realizing that
all the time in the world
doesn't necessarily mean an abundance of
inspiration. i do dishes wherever i go.

spinach,
baby arugula,
alfalfa sprouts
typos, misspellings,
guns, gods, lies, news,
jokes.
mushrooms, sauté
suite suit
suits
you well.
you are well.

i am no more lonely, but physically alone.
or yeah, maybe just that much more lonely.
i hate work. not equally, but differently.
i love music, because it's all i have and
my life depends on it. get me through this!


me?
i crave
***.
connection, even without ***.
love.
or apathy.
i'm not sure where to go, what do do....

25 in 17 days.
i thought growing up made sense.

you and me?
yeah,
our kids will bathe in paint.
look like that colorful zebra
from the brand of gum that i can't
think of the name of
she'll have your ears and nose,
and lips if she's lucky. my eyes, my short legs
my love of spicy food.
he'll have my hair and nose,
and good teeth, eh, maybe.
he'll be born with your tattooes. maybe my dad's sense of humor.
grow taller than any of us, turn into a tree.
span the view of sky from the tips of you and me.
she'll cradle this planet's ashes in her hands,
and he'll hold our hearts together with duct tape.
she'll have your voice and my phrasing,
a hybrid accent in between.
this is the best hallucination i've ever seen.

i want love to do
more than whisper,
but right now it is
more than shy.
and i want anger to
**** this blank page
like the best make-up
*** i've never had.

i don't think i will
survive long at this
rate.
my bones hold my
heart hostage, and
my veins are filled
with clear, sweet
poison, and lust.
sometimes it's all
i need.
sometimes i want to
give in, give up,
sell all my junk,
wander the streets
like the bravest
raving lunatic.
wild wide-eyed
******, soapboxed
symphonies of
sin.
the problem is,
i don't know my
own gospel, i have
no clear message.
just blood that
hates needles and
a head that loves
hands.