I am but a leech, desecrating in lilly glossed waters;
Clotting beautiful beads, like bracelets, across wet flesh.
Desire is a horseman in this world, coming to close the curtains on the day.
Why stop? For lashes from the scepter that was to guide us?
Fractured and rotten; yet we still cling for a taste of a crumb of the life once held within it's dead trunk.
Death. But an old friend and a forgotten enemy greedily tickling this slicken frame.
Fingers float tempting whispers to my every nerve and I long for my senses to set ablaze in those writhing clutches
Screaming from inside for release that teases and tingles like the ****** that never comes. Shaken and slightly shrunken
Light blazes at the doors, searing and scorching the very flesh that holds a withered frame
No longer seeking escape,
I slither back to the darkness I seem to have forgotten was home once before

You drink
You drive
And ruthlessly try
To have a good time

Down slicken oil streets
Pavement like a pistol
To my temple, meets

The cure to my cancer
And the answer
To my every problem

gooseflesh bulbs on the satin of her skin
like early morning dewfall;
her lips slicken
with blurry, mascara-tinted tributaries
(**** it—she can’t even die pretty)
so the wind carries her
like litter,
a years-old newspaper
with no particularly interesting headlines,
from the 12th story window
in the cerulean dress she bought
just for the occasion.
the dead-end city lights bear witness
to her own dead end into five thick inches of concrete.
and with its downtrodden palms
the city blushes her cheeks with abrasions,
shadows her eyes with bruises,
tattoos her lunar body with its worn-out brands;
it takes her in.
and the ****** kid on his paper route finds her there,
and stops,
and stares,
and wonders,
and eventually lifts his sneakers back to the pedals
and keeps on biking,
because there she is, dead on the side of the ******* road,
and what the **** can you do?

Journal

I sleep in in pools of sweat, awakened regularly by nightmares. Body clenched tighter than a rusted vise. Still, the nightmares are more pleasant than my waking hours.

Journal

It is late in the afternoon and I finally have a second to jot down yesterday’s nightmare, sleeping and waking. The dream began with a strong feel of reality to it. I was lying in the trench half asleep; my body folded awkwardly in the dry dirt corner that I had cleared for myself. My journal pages were scattered all about. Many discolored, some with dirt, some with blood, and others simply with the wear of time. The ink on each sheet was blurred to the point that I could not make out any of the words.
The only disconcerting thing was the quiet. I could not recall this much quiet ever, at least not for many months. There were no explosions or tinging of bullets bouncing off our make shift metal trench tops. I heard no one making lewd jokes or screaming out their night terrors. My voice had been stolen as well but I had no clue as to how or why.
I looked around and found no one, not even Billy or Captain Owens. At first there was a sense of panic, but I finally relaxed. I was alone. There were no machine guns or artillery firing, no one screaming orders. I could sit here and read my books in the sweetest solitude anyone has ever known. I gathered the unbound journal pages around me, and put them in their proper place and order. Then, I pulled out and old copy of Grimm’s fairytales.
Without warning I felt hot hands pulling on my, shirt. Hard fingers crawled struggling across my back and chest trying to pull me down. The harder I struggled the more their grip tightened, pulling me down faster and faster. My body was slowly being swallowed by the earth. The dirt consumed me inch by inch, stealing every breath I had and replacing it with clots of mud. I could feel worms trying to burrow their way into my skin. I coughed and sputtered in horror.
Despite my terror, I thrashed against the earthy hands. My eyes were clouded dark brown. I could feel fingers clawing at my face. Then there was a sharp slap stinging my cheek. I clenched my fist to punch the earth. Even so, I was still unable to see anything or breathe. I raged against whatever it was.
Then I heard Billy shouting, “Get up you idiot, it’s a gas attack.”
I scratched at my face struggling to find the air, until I finally realized what was going on. My face was covered by a gas mask, and Billy was yelling at me.  I fixed the mask properly to face and took stock of the scene. Everyone in the trench was either struggling to get their gas masks on or helping other soldiers, who were stumbling around blinded by the green gas cloud, attaching theirs. One man was even putting a large strangely shaped mask on a horse. Panicking, several of my compatriots rushed over the top and were mowed down by enemy planes. Amidst the chaos I stood stupidly, still not helping at all just coughing and wheezing. I turned to look back at my spot and in the foggy haze I saw dark brown dirt arms receding back into the ground.
A part of me wished those hands had strangled me; a part of me still does.

Journal

Dreaming darkly, I dared to climb some jagged precipice. My hands were dusty with gravel and moist with sweat making, each grip harder than the last. Barely a foot below my feet the sharp stones began to crack and shift. A section of the mountain started to move rolling into the shape of a clenched fist. The sound of stone scraping stone stung my ears. The fist pounded upon the side of the cliff shaking loose rocky bits, then larger bit of rock as well. Grey and black speckled stones pelted my head dangerously fast. Foolishly forgetting my current task, I raised my hands to protect myself. With no secure footing on the rock my weight pulled me backwards and I fell straight into the sharp stone hand. The monstrous hand shook me side to side.
Then I heard a moaning. At first I thought it was me, certain that in some concussed manner I was making noises without meaning to; however, I was not. Even though, I was hanging upside down by one leg, I could still see the face of the cliff very clearly and very literally.
One rock eye opened, up then the other, blinking rapidly as if they had not been opened for a thousand years. The irises were grey and jagged like cracked stones, but the pupils seem to be like a mirror. Inside I could see two reflections, one overlaying the other. The first was a young man, clean cut and shaven with warm hazel eyes and a smile. The other was an older man. His face was much leaner. The hazel eyes were bloodshot with bags so deep under them that you would swear he had been punched in the nose. His hair was now worn recklessly, and thin **** covered his face.
Staring fiercely at me but with a tinge of pain the mountain cried “my arrrrr ou hirtming meee?”
Without thinking I laughed. The indignation was obvious. The mountain’s eyes glared at me. Then another stony hand exploded from the rocky formation. Clenched in a fist the new limb violently pounded its own face, clearing a clutter of loose rock and dirt away until an orifice could be seen. Then it repeated “why are you hurting me?”
Before I could stop myself, I laughed again. Infuriated, the mountainous creature shoved my left foot in its newly formed mouth and bit down hard. I screamed in agony. Then I woke up. My entire body was pulsing with pain and my lower left pant leg was wet again. I tried to pull the fabric from my skin but stopped when an intense pain shot up my leg. I was bleeding again. Where the hell was the medic?
I was no expert but, I was pretty sure my leg was not supposed to smell like rotten eggs. I tried to stand but stumbled. Angrily I pushed off against the side of the hole and managing to rise again, only to wobble and fall face first in to cold wet dirt. Chewing on a bit of blood and mud I shuffled around in the dirt for a while trying to get up. I spit out the dirt but was too afraid to call out for help. Suddenly, I remembered why. I was the only one left.
      Last night we all went over the top. Captain Owens held the barbed wire back as we rushed over the rough incline. Bits of brown earth exploded around us as we pushed forward. Most of my mates moved faster than me. Billy was blasted and fell four or more yards from my feet. I pivoted around his bullet riddled corpse. Screams of rage and terror sounded in the darkness. I think, I managed a couple more yards before a bullet cut clean through my calf.  Even with a bullet in my leg, I managed to make it a little further until I slipped on some blood slicken grass. I tried to brace myself but fell face forward into a lump of warm sticky something.
When I realized I could not stand up, I began to drag myself backwards. The enemy’s bullets sounded a strange earthly percussion around me. Inch by slow agonizing inch across the cold, ******, muddy earth I managed to drag myself back down into our dank hole. I found my corner and decided to wait for help. I am uncertain if someone will come to help me.

Journal

This morning as the sun was slowly rising, I managed to pull myself up just enough to see the barren landscape. The grass is gone, the trees are gone. The earth is a massive wound, scattered with bullets and ****** bodies. Thankfully, the gas attacks had robbed me of my sense of smell, or the stench would have killed me. I think, I was slipping in and out of consciousness.
     As I was trying to pull myself out of the hole, I saw a red wolf running through the dead earth. A sharp spasm of pain set my whole body a spark, and I cried out. The wolf turned his head scowling and growling at me. Even though it was many yards away I could see it eyes. The irises glowed forest green, piercing me with an almost accusatory stare, as if to say this is all your fault.
We sat in a holding pattern for several minutes before it realized that I was no threat. Then it slowly sauntered over to the nearest corpse. After a few carefully placed sniffs the wolf began chewing on the face of the corpse. Even though, I should not have been able to, I could hear the crunching of the bones and the squishing sound of flesh being gnawed off the dead man’s face.
I closed my eyes for a second, and everything changed. There was no wolf, the chewed up body was nowhere to be found. In the distance I heard the sound of several wolves howling and running towards the ****** battlefield. I lost my grip and slid backwards onto a thin line of barbed wire that ripped my shirt and tore strips of flesh from my back. I would have screamed but all I could muster was a soft whimper and a moan before I passed out again.

Journal

I don’t know why I bother. It hurts so much. My lips are chapped, my skin is fevered fire, and the blood I have lost. I should be dead. I would have shot myself, but apparently in that mad dash I lost my bayonet and pistol.
Last night, or was it this morning, whatever that last time I passed out was, I dreamed I was sitting in an open field. The earth was quiet growing and glowing with lush green foliage. The clouds were cotton ball cumulus forming a white, light blue, and grey chimera. There was a shimmering pond of pure blue water. Not clear but blue water. Inside the water I could see a distorted rippling version of the sky.
Within the watery reflection a black dragon danced in and out of the cloud. Its scales rippled silver, grey, black, and green as the beast twisted and turned with more grace than a world class contortionist. Its sinuous body straightened as it burst through another batch of clouds, dispersing their massive puffiness into tiny little puffs of white, grey, and light blue smoke.
I turned my head from the pond to see if I could spot the monster in the sky, but it was not there. My gaze found its way back to the pool were the beautiful beast was getting closer and closer, but when I looked back up it was nowhere to be found.
Again my vision returned the blue body of water. Ripples began to rapidly form on the surface and collide with a loud and thunderous crash. The dragon was closer in the reflection but still nowhere to be seen in the air.
      I could feel its breath at my back and see its teeth in the reflection. Its long snout curled in a viscous grin.  The mouth dripped steaming acid drool burning my skin. Two rows of teeth filled the top and the bottom of its mouth.  The outer rows were jagged and yellow, while the interior rows were dark brown and flat.
By the time I realized that I should, run it was too late. I felt the fierce face of the famished dragon envelope my torso and chomp down. My body convulsed with burning agony. I screamed, as I felt the furious beast chewing and swallowing me. I awoke to the sharp stench of sweat, ****, *****, and ****. My pants were stuck to my body, and I could not stop shivering. I manage to find another pair of pants. Painfully I struggled to remove the contaminated britches. Switching out the ****** and ****** pair for a slightly cleaner pair, I sat mute.

Journal

The sky is dull grey with no clouds. It’s just another dreary day, so if this is anyone other than myself. Then let me say hello or goodbye. It’s all the same in the end. We come and go in such a rapid succession that it seems almost pointless. I do not know the exact whys and how’s. I am starting to think there is no rhyme and reason. These dreams waking and sleeping are no worse than the horrors of reality.
It could be real or not, I am uncertain. As I write this, I feel I may die soon. Which means that it is up to you to figure out what all this means. Because, I am tired of struggling, searching, and hurting. I am tired of the bullet, bombs, and bayonets. I am tired of seeing my friends bravely face down a gruesome death. I am tired of the darkening of my soul. My spirit is too heavy with the horror of it all, but most of all I am just plain tired.

stagering in your darkened rain of pain
slicken and soiled from your stains

with the skulls of your past lying in dirt
with these feelings of lonlyness, pain and hurt

as i look into your empty eyes
which show nothing but immortality of hate

stricken by the path of bones from your past
with empty  hearts scattered in  your trail of blood

i can only see that your only about pain and misery
which your feelings inside only comfort you with hurt

the only time you smile is from the death of a loved one
the times you cry is when no one loves you

why do you do the things that you do
why do you tell me that  *i love you

Rhythmically reducing time
for you
for I.  
Coagulation increasingly lessens the beat.  

Off-written and wrecked,
We can’t turn home as
Junkies and
Dealers.
This home,
Washed out in familial gossip of relapse and resurge
After our firefights
Against venomous appetites.
Yet here we light this pipe, you and I,
With a reprise of shell-shocked war stories
Reanimating the grind
Of addiction’s battle.

Promise by the world,
A mind’s conviction and a 12-step program
Would naturally manifest in abstinent purity
And after,
Serenity.

Through the itch
Still
We are lumbering on, yet raging.
Violently insisting that these dreams are vouched for and
Stances held
       Should leave our slicked soles immobile.

Smooth winds crinkling past twigs
And I with you, my dealer,
Am a lubricated branch on smooth-weathered granite grade.

In descent I tear at the throat with embarrassed tears.
Cries that only slicken the stone.
So of it, I swallow what will fill,
And beg you to do the same.
As fingernails rip from flesh
In grip of a still frame I can hear the 12-step program bid out again.  
“Let there be sweat till the clouds run red.
Let trailing beads glisten while
I the blossom
Begin budding in the fall.”

Blades of wet grass slide softly across the bottom of my feet as I stride across the rain slicken yard. There, barely ten feet in front of me sits an echo. A small boy with goofy looking black rimmed glasses, and thin brown curly hair, sits planted firmly on a makeshift rope swing twists around and around, winding the swing up, than spins in circles as the tension in the rope is released. Smiles, and laughter play out in the shiny day. Innocence wearing its sweet face. The unknowing a better fruit then the bitterness of truth.

I turn away to see a shaded landscape filled with vine trees. Their thin string things whipping back and forth in the wind. Another echo haunts my heart. The young boy, no longer bespectacled runs, jumps, and grasps a handful of vines. He swings in and out of a fantasy world. He is alone in a world crowded with imaginary friends. Pirates swashbuckle as he and the lost boys of Neverland fight and fly. Now the tree rots from the roots tilting at an uneasy angle, and is slowly dying.

A dog barks out into the evening sky as the last bit of the sun’s rays disappear.  The new night is marked by the howls of several other canines. They feel like mournful howls. My mind slips back to younger days and I recall how I would rise at five in the morning to walk both of my dogs. Such sweet shaggy friends, very wary of strangers but oh so loving to me. They are both dead now.

I slip a photo out of my wallet and stare at the crumbled visage of my grandpa. Dark glasses cover his old eyes, but there is a playful smile edging its way across his face. This is, was the face of a happy man. Now, he too, is just another dead thing. I am just another dead thing.
One step becomes another as I make my way to what is left of the old two port garage. Its dulled colors seam to match my mood perfectly. Cracked windows and grey broken siding marking its age like the rings of an old dying oak tree. Small and large rocks painfully embed themselves into my toes and feet. This was easier when I was lighter or at least wearing shoes. I stare at the decimated building imagining the way it was before time ate it all up; standing sturdy with a dog house to the right of it and a car, tools, toys, and other potpourri parked safely inside.

Then, I remember the sawhorses. Those old things with white paint chipped or chipping away. I rode them like unsaddled horses until my **** and ***** ached. Swinging light brown cardboard swords like I was a hero fighting monsters, never realizing the real monsters were human beings.

They took this from my family, those stupid bankers with their stupid mortgages. There is so much history here. Shades and shadows of the past to interact with. Sensations to stir passing passions. A tear coalesces, followed by a stream. I struggle to suppress it.

Squeezing my sore toes together, I pick up mud in between each digit. The cold sludge feels good on my dry skin. Suddenly, I realize that this is it. This will be the last time I ever come back here. A part of me wants to cry some more, but I refuse to yield to that part. These feelings are merely specters of a past long since departed.

The specter of the small boy stares at me from a distance, and I can’t tell if he is looking at or through me. Can he sense my pain or see my disease? My stomach is swelling while I’m stewing in a sea of sewer smelling tumors. I can almost feel the cancer eating me up from the inside. White cells massing like a mad army to march on my various organs. Each ***** slowly consumed until enough fail and I fall. It makes me so ******* angry. While greedy business men plague the world with their wicked intent, extending their lives with wealth and perpetuating human suffering, I have to die.  

I slap myself. The stinging warm pain prevents me from becoming too immersed in my own grief. I refuse to yield to this depression. I go back to the vine tree with a glint of mischievous intent in my eyes. Hands outstretched I charge forth fast and furious. My fingers grasp several thin slips of dried and dying vines. It is only a couple of feet off the ground but for the briefest of moments I fly back in to Neverland. Then the vines snap, I crash into a small ditch, busting my ****. A jolt of pain passes from my posterior to my neck, jarring my spine. When the pain passes I laugh, my face filled with a childlike smile. I guess I’m not dead yet.

She’s stealing the friction
the heat I’d spark
if it was my skin
pressed against yours.
She’s stealing my thoughts
my filthy whispers
the ones
I’d breathe
in your ear.
She’s stealing the sweat
that would slicken my chest
if it was my body
sliding along yours.

She’s stealing
but she’s not.
It’s given.
Relinquished.
I bet you beg her
to take you in her mouth.
I bet you beg her
to enter you
again and again.

And that’s what shatters
my ignorant shield
and loathingly grips
my untouched body
with the physical reality:

When she touches you
you touch her too.