the concept of booze

i'll tell you
what you do,

you need to grab
that really long
neck
on that bottle of
booze.

you need to choke
it
like it's only
your last meal.

you need to see the skin
on your fingers
go white.

you may not
remember
any of this
in the morning.

you might think
this bottle
is nothing
but
your mother.

but you'll drink
it,
and you'll think
it's cleaner than
holy water.

but it's not,
and yet
it almost is.

it's only something
attached
to your personal noise,
that makes you think in terms
in your own
validity.

drivethru

it takes exactly
one cigarette
to warm up my car
in
a ten degree cold.

i hear a song,
circa the 1950's,
something about love
of course,
some song
i've never heard before,

but it kept me interested.

and
something about the guy's
voice,
that sounded so sad,
singing
something about
how
this girl
should allow him
to prove his love
to her.

next thing i know,
i'm going through
a mcdonald's drivethru,
thinking about slaughtered cows,
thinking that even slaughtered
cows have love.

but i'm sure,
these cows
never see the stungun coming.

i order the number 5,
two burgers
with a coke.

it's only hunger,
but
i'm trying to think
that something is wrong,

burns

we take
these names
to mean
anything,

and all they usually are,
are just bits
and pieces of smoke
heading for some type
of fan.

you
will never believe
it,
the pronunciation
of a lie
tied
to a burning cigarette
in somebody's
hand.

you will think
of it,
only as a noose,
so that
the burning cherry
will burn
that noose
that you hang from
loose.

and then
the only place
where
you really are,
is at the bottom of an ashtray,
looking up,
imagining shapes
in the smoke.

hallway

the sounds
in this hallway,
bounce
off the walls,
searching
for an escape.

the walls,
in this hallway,
are always
just a bit crooked,
enough so
that the angles
have crumbled.

sometimes,
when your just thinking,
you swear
that you can even hear
ghosts.

and when i'm standing
there,
searching
for that room,
guided by the hand
of voices,
it's then
that i realize
that i'm lost.

saturday afternoon kitchen

the midafternoon sun
sits
in the windowsill
like an old friend.
i wear it
like a blanket.

all i have
is this coffee
and some thoughts
that evaporate
with this light.

there's a tiny fly,
stuck,
between the screen
and window,
trying to find
a way out.

i open the window,
light another smoke,
and the tiny fly
has found an out.

i take another sip
of coffee
as i stare
at the backporch door.

movement

a plane flys over
the city of phoenix
at 2:05
in the morning,

westbound,
probably going to
either san diego
or l.a.

i'm in the lounge
chair,
drinking my beer,
smoking a marlboro,
not thinking of much,
just studying
the hue
of the early morning
clouds.

no doubt
there are people sleeping
on that plane.
no doubt
they were sleeping
in their own beds
just twenty four hours ago.

and i'm thinking,
in one week
i won't be in this lounge chair,
at this house,
with a stream of tiny mountains
watching over me,
anymore,
like i have been
for the past three months.

i won't be
in this town either,

just in another place
where
the restlessness
will reset.

religious findings

i clutch
this bottle
within
the bones
of my hand,
like
it's some holy grail.

within
the guts
and bile
of this bottle,
the opiates
create the battle.

and when i'm high
i'm most likely lying
to you,
to her,
to some god
i haven't yet met.

in my laboratory,
when there is just me
and this bottle,
and i'm searching for
the creation
of the perfect excuse,

it's there,
that my findings
just turn into
a fading buzz.

and it's always then,
that i realize
that my life
trenched
into this religion,
has won.

survival skills

everything
just melts
and fades
into stew,
and the remnents
become
the glue
that binds us
to what
we have become.

we are
the victims
of a lineup
of memories,

and sometimes
it starts out good.
then,
something always
happens.
a period is placed
on the head
instead of a crown.

and sometimes
that place
was never any good,
and the only thing
we have to show
are sleaves
of scars.

still,
underneath the stewed muck,
it's really incomprehensible
how the individual
survives.

the window pane isn't even cracked

after
i finish this drink
and this cigarette,
i'm going to pretend
like
i won't remember
anything.

but really
it's just my way
of rotting
to the best
of my abilities.

i couldn't had planned
it this way,
even if i tried.

it's morning right now.
the light
peeking through
the window
tells me this.

and
i finished that drink
and i finished that smoke,
and still
i haven't forgotten
a thing.

my first art show

passed out,
splayed,
on the concrete
floor,
swimming in
a river
of my own vomit,
right in front
of my paintings.

and nobody
was
sober enough
to take
that black
and white
photo
of
the scene.

4:30 rambling about steak

it's 4:31
in the goddamn
morning,
and all
i can think
of
is eating
a
new york strip.

and
i'm not even
drunk.

i
just haven't had
steak
in months.

the t.v.
is making
images
in
the background,
and all it is,
is politics.

i'm not tired
yet,
and i don't think
i'll fall
asleep
before the sun comes
up
out of nowhere.

but at least i know
that
a cow
has been slaughtered.

of reigning gods

yesterday
is nothing
but a tear drop
in a bucket.

the problem is
there are buckets
filled with oceans
of these.

i believe
in rain,

and i imagine
that
i'll drown
in a flood
one day,
just as
every single inch
of my insides
is swimming
in unison.

most of the time,
before jesus,
or allah,
or buddah,
humans have prayed
to some rain god
or another
when
it was too dry,

and i just don't know
what they did
when they were
drowning.

acts of mundane violence

i drop
three icecubes
into the bottom
of the glass.

i pour a blanket
of vodka
on top.

instantaneously
the bones
of the icecubes
crack,
but
there is a purpose
to this barbarity,
i think
to myself,
and the vodka
is at least chilled.

i take
that first sip,
with my feet
still in place
where
i committed
this act,

and then
i continue
that conversation
in my head,
about something
i already have forgotten
about.

her pictures

i catch
your daughter's
pictures hanging
everywhere,
from the pages
of the atlas
inside my car,
to the belly
of my wallet.

you even cut
me two more
that you stuffed
inside that envelope,
with my credit cards,
and other personal
identification,
the last day
i ever saw
you
or her.

i always thought
that i'd see her
again.

i knew her
for two years,
and for that one year,
i took her
to school
most mornings,
and picked her up.

i was there
for all her soccer games,
and two of her birthday parties.

i played with her,
and we had our own
imaginary world,
me and her.

for that one year
i spent more time
with her
than any adult
in her life.

and i'd give
anything i had,
just for one more.

but tell me,
please,
now that your gone
and everyday
i slip
just a little bit more
from her mind.

please tell me
how i should interpret
these pictures
of a 9 year old
little girl.

the first phase

we are
the type
of people
that will lose
consciousness
in the arms
of alcohol's
breath.

and yes,
we must forget
about the drugs,
and the pretty girls
with shiny knives,
for
the time being.

if anything,
we have created ourselves
perfectly fucked,
in an image
that is more fitted
to us.

we are this,
the canvas,
and this skinny piece
of white paper,
folded
at the knees.

you
and me,
we will be lucky enough
to die
one day,
but my god,
we will die
with our hearts
dissected
on that proper steel
table.

it's that way,
and i promise that
nothing else
will kill us.

and when
they ask about
us,
long after
our bones
are nothing
but compost,
with some type
of bent halo,

we will laugh,
believing
that we were
some type
of god,
making belief
on this
stale earth.

take drugs and stay in school

it starts out
with santa,
then
it morphs
into jesus.

and all along
your being told
what to do.

they tell you to study,
or else
you'll end up
on drugs.

so,
as a compromise,
after the drugs,
and after the studying,
you drink,
because
that's what your father
did,
and that's what his father
did.

then,
just after the rebellion,
they tell you to pick
a side,
left
or right, but
your wrong
either side.

our brains were lost
from the very first delusion
we were fed.

it's no wonder why
we are a nation
finding salvation
inside the church
of a pill,
just as the bottle
is emptied.

ruptured tendon

been
creating nightmares.

writing them
in the front part
of my brain,
and then
they are acted out
on the left side
of my chest.

i hate this stage,
and i just don't know
how
to erase this.

for three days
in a row,
they wake me,
these dreams,
with the gentleness
of a chainsaw.

and i can't even remember
the guts
or the faces
or even
why.

if
any
of
these dreams
or these thoughts
leads
to any concourse
of contentment,
the plans
surely
haven't been traced,

and the only thing
i could ever draw
is knots.

hosts

the nectar
is pulled
and streched,
then chewed.

it's that easy.

it tastes good,
so
they will come
back
for more.

the best parts are
sucked
below,
past negativity.

then
of course,
there is nothing
left,
but cracks
in the wilt
of the host's body.

and
by this time
the nectar has
already been digested,
leaving nothing
behind
but waste.

nobody knows
where the soul of
dead nectar goes,
but

there are always
more bees.

a thought of two years

if
you hold my hand,
i'll hold yours.

i'll hold yours
like it means
everything.

we'll watch
all those movies,
eat
side by side,
with the precision
of a clock.

we'll fuck
on beds,
our parents beds,
we'll fuck indoors
and out.

we'll do this damn near
almost every day,
multiple times,
some times.

i'll even show you
what my tears look like,
when nobody is looking.

you showed me yours,
and i'll never tell.

but then,
all of a sudden,
a wall appears
that breaks our grip,
and there is always
some celestial body
that disintegrates
into the very being
of dust.

you go your way,
and i'll go mine,

and there will always be someone,
to watch that movie,
to break that bed,
to catch that tear.

and there we go,
once again,
disappearing into
the distance,
this thing called
us,

and really,
it's no different than
the other her's,
or
the other him's.

but maybe,

one day,
as
your trapped
in traffic,
one of our songs
will appear
through the radio,

or maybe,
i'll pass by some
stranger
on the street,
with the same replica
of your eyes,

maybe
we will remember,
something good,
even if it's just
for one minute.

because you could just walk away

as we wander
from here
to everywhere,


but really
nowhere,


it's just a matter
of
physics,
that there will be
dirt,
and shit,
and magnetic
debris,
that will eventually
form a film
around our eyes.


and within the haste,
of this journey,
you will never remember
to wipe your eyes.


then,
every once in awhile,
when you are tired,
and your feet
just need to take
a breath,


you will sit down,
on the side of the road,
almost like roadkill,


and there she is.


she is actually willing
to wipe the shit,
and dirt,
and debris
from your overexposed
eyes,
for free.


you let her.


and she cured
your fatigue,
every night,
for a lifetime,
if you let her.


but to you,
sitting is just a
disease,


and there is just everything
that you haven't seen.


you stand up,
and peer
into the darkness,
worse than a thief.

campfire reaction

we take this life,
in which we are granted.
we place it on a stick,
and hold it
next to the fire.

we turn the stick,
and
are never satisfied,

we just toss this meat
into the fire.

what we burn,
never
makes any sense.

and all we have
are these thoughts,
and these reactions,
and this bottle
of cheap wine,
and still,
it's never enough.

and my god,
if we only knew
what enough
is,
we'd be settled
just a little bit
better.

and i'd even bet
that
we'll never be happy,
until each
and every piece of meat
that
we feed this
flame,
combusts
into
some piece
of perfection,
that we place
right before our faces.

a struggling of noises

it's been
a brutal summer.

nothing but
a dagger
slitting into
tiny pieces
of my brain,
everytime
i think,
on any given
hour
of the evening.

on most nights,
i'd just sit outside
on the patio,
drinking,
until
i forgot
what i was trying to
remember.

all that you can hear
up here,
is a space filled
with crickets.

at first,
you want to kill them,

then,
after a while,
you begin to understand
what
they are saying,
and you appreciate
the diversion
from the sounds
and echoes
that are
thrashing about
your insides.

and all it is,
is communication.

maybe they're right,

and maybe
i never thought
that one day
i'd be eavesdropping
on the conversations
of crickets,

but
it's too late,
and everything
always happens
like this.

it's already
september,
and i haven't
slept
in two months.

but
right now
i'm tired,
and all i want
is
to lie down.

three beers later

i wear a cubs shirt,
so
they try to speak to
me,
the couple selling hotdogs
in front
of the bar.

her husband
is from chicago,

so i say
"yeah",
and give them
the weakest
thumbs up
i could muster.

in here,
i purchase
a beer,
and am introduced
to these two guys
i've already been
introduced to
before.

one minute
of indifferent conversation
passes by,
before
i walk outside
for a smoke.

i study these people
outside,
50 something year old guys
with long
and dying gray hair,
trapped,
in their twenties.
girls
in their twenties,
trapped in some
rock' n' roll
video dream.

nobody here
is going anywhere,
except
back to this bar.

i find some open space,
begin my second
beer,
and the girl
to my left
wants to talk
to me.

and there's just nothing
i want to say
to her, or
to the wounded dreamers, nor
to coctail waitress
with the very small
skirt.

this summer
has already been
long enough.

every piece of a lie,
every self-sale,
every introduction
has already been
spoken, tonight,
and every single night
since
the the birth
of the first desire.

as politely
as i can,
i finish my beer
and navigate
through
a maze
of people,
until i find myself
back
on the outside.

to begin the next

you just
want to wear
the inside
of her hand,
like it was yours.

it's one of those
days
that there are storms,
hovering, over
the breath
of phoenix.

she's nowhere
to be found.

she won't return
your texts,
your emails,
your prayers.

you've done something
wrong.

she's gone.

you will never
hold her face
between
the skin
of your hands.

you know this,
worse
than than that one,
that
always make you
cry.

she's gone,

and all you can do
is spy on that valley
of lights
below,
and initially begin
imagining
the next.

laughing through walls

the walls
were skinnier
than i thought.

on the other side,
all i could hear
was your laughter.

you were with
the neighbors,

i was laid
on my side,
with my black hoodie
protecting my head,
in our apartment,
listening
to your happiness
eating through
the cinder block
wall.

i wasn't wondering
how
you could be laughing.

i was just trying
to remember
what we were fighting
about.

how explosives are made

you craddle
this grenade
within the heat
of your hands
like it's some jesus.

you guard
this grenade
with every ounce
of
fight you have
in you,
like it's your only
religion

but every once in awhile
you meet someone,
and the conversation
is good.
you are distracted
by their shine,
and all you want to do
is hover
in their shimmer.

nothing else exists.

but it's then,
when you forget
about that grenade
resting in your hand.

and you notice the pin,
dangling,
on the other person's
finger.

monolith

i think
if we close our eyes
really, really tight,
tight enough
not to let any light
in,

we can pretend
that we were
never there.

maybe
we could imagine
that there was never
any bed
where we played with dreams
until we molded them
into ours.

maybe those cities
and towns
that we captured
had no flag, and
and we were left
with the make believe.

but it's then,
at that moment
where
my eyelids
begin choking my eyes,
and everything inside
my brain
hurts.

it's then,
when i open my eyes,
and all that i can see
is everything i remember.

metamorphosis

it's that inbetween
stage, where
the amount of cigarettes
consumed,
just seems absurd.

where
the time wasted
on the internet,
on those three sites,
the ones where you just
click
back and forth
like ping pong,
and nothing happens.

when you realize you've thrown away
another night
down
life's neck.

the thoughts
are still there,
plotting to eat
what little sanity
you have left,
though they have just
a little less hunger
these days.

and
you notice
the fog
begin to lift
its heavy breath,

enough so, that
right in front of you,
is a real live mountain,
presented
for you to climb.

and your ready,
little by little,
inbetween the nightmares
and vodka,

you resume charting
a map up that mountain.

and all that your going to leave
behind
is the shell
of your ghost.

we are the targets

we are all murderers,
assassins,
afraid of getting caught.

we kill people everyday,
with words,
with actions,
with excuses,
with nothing but an emotion
wrapped
in a thought.

we are breed to react
to what's right there
in front of our faces,
squishing hearts and
dripping toxins on minds
in the process.

we are consistant like this,
and it never matters how much
we love
this person or that person

we put on our clothes
in the morning,
one head and
one limb at a time,
just like any assassin.

and we never think
about how many stitches
our targets will need
as we walk away.

the deepest cracks

the night
is the worst.

that's when all the shadows
come out of hiding.

and your alone,
states away
from everyone.

you might as well be
in the remotest cabin
in siberia.

you don't even remember
being this alone,

and with the nearest bar
being ten miles away,
well,
with this state's drinking
laws,
it's just easier
to drink alone.

i have a smoke outside,
and all i can hear are
the deafening sounds
of crickets
and traffic
that is too far away
to see.

i miss the sounds
of a 9 year old laughing,
of nothing but clutter
and chaos
and burnt food
on the stove,
in a tiny two bedroom
apartment.

i miss my family.

and there is nothing but
pictures inside
this camera of all of this,
and i just don't know how
to erase any of it.

on nights like these,
this is when
you notice how
the cracking begins
in your chest,
and swims up
to the highest point
on your brain,
better than any shark.

and then
you realize
where your own hell
lies.

the funny thing about ghosts

these ghosts
always reminding you
of scabs,
always,
and you know they're
ghosts.

they married you,
either
when you were passed
out
drunk,
on that one park
bench,
somewhere
in chicago. that,
or they placed
a silly little ring
on your finger,
as you were distracted,
as your nose
was being rubbed
in shit, by either
your mother
or your father.

there is no chance
for divorce
or seperation.

this wring
is actually an appendage,
around your neck,
cutting off
life to your brain.

they will follow you, even
when you run away
towards a safety.

it might take one month.
it might take 2 years.

they will find you.

and once they find
you,
the only thing you
can do
is set
an extra plate
for dinner.

and now less than one month later

i picked up the last
of my things, collected,
and left on the patio.

his car was still there,
and with the curtains closed.
i'm sure he was there,
as you were at work.

i parked next to him.

two years,
three months,
and eighteen days later,
it all comes down to this.

and if it seems
that i don't want to be
here,
it's probably because i don't.

the tears weren't even allowed
to dry after one week,
before he was allowed to
sleep in our bed,
smoke cigarettes on our patio,
into that jesus ashtry we got
in jerome.

and now he pisses in the same toilet
where i once pissed.

and it's not the fact
that i'm still paying half
the rent.

it's not even the idea
that i now possess the bedsheets
that both him and i
slept on, while you were
there.

no.

it's the way
in which you spit me
as the bad guy
when i mention that
i never want to step foot
near
this place,
that was once
my home.

when it's time for clouds

one day
these sounds
and thoughts
that permeate
throughout my brain,
will be nothing but
dissipation behind
the music of
crickets.

when that time
comes,
i want to playing
in the nighttime clouds.

i want to pinch
the moon,
and make it laugh.

i will swim
up there,
between the slits
in the clouds.

at this time
gravity
will only be
a fairytale.

and if your watching
on the ground,
where the crickets
make sense,
just know
that i'll be better off
up there.

1:01 a.m.

The summer was great for Miranda. She had met Tony just before things had ended with her ex. And well, the excitement of sleeping with a 19 year old boy was too irresistable to her.
Tony took the summer job at the Florida Tile Company because his father was one of the people who ran the company, and hey, it put some extra change in his pocket for video games. His first year of college was completed, and he was after all, becoming a man.
Miranda was in charge of Tony. He would help her with all the filing, in the billing department, that hadn't gotten filed in four months. No one had time to do that anymore.
She thought he was cute, with his tall, slim, awkward physique. He was nice to her, and she even caught him checking her out a few times.
It wasn't long before she made the decision that she had to have him. She was in love with the idea that she could get a boy 13 years her junior to become attracted to her.

It had already been one month since Tony had gone back to school. They had talked everyday on the phone, always when she was going home from work, and then at night before she went to bed.
They had visited eachother every other weekend. He came up one weekend and stayed at her place. Then the following time, they had gotten a hotel room near campus, where they just stayed in and ordered room service. It was nice. She missed Tony, and that summer.
It was like clockwork, Tony would always call her at precisely midnight, everynight, Monday thru Sunday. It was now 12:15. Miranda was staring through her cellphone screen, beginning to wonder. With her lips pierced, she texted Tony "hi sweetie, everything ok?" Surely he was just in the middle of a video game, he had just gotten some video game that just came out last night.
She touched her screen to see the time. 12:18, and still no response. Tony always responded right away.
Miranda got off the couch and went into the bathroom to relieve herself. She flushed the toilet and examined her face in the mirror. Still got it for my age, she thought to herself. Not bad, hardly any more wrinkles besides her eyes since she started using that cream.
12:26. still nothing from Tony. She checked her phone just to make sure she didn't miss anything. She didn't, and she expected that.
12:27. goddamnit Tony, she thought to herself.
12:28 she couldn't take it anymore, "where r u??"
She hated herself and Tony at that moment. She loved that Tony had never let her down, and had always called her. She thought and couldn't remember ever having to call him, when he said he'd call her, since they had secretly gotten together. She was still amazed and proud of the fact that nobody had found out about her and Tony, especially with their co-workers. Though she was sure that Tony had probably bragged about his conquest to at least a few of his friends. She didn't mind this. She kind of liked to imagine that his friends would surely be jealous of Tony and his older woman.
12:40. Still nothing from Tony. Miranda was on her 5th cigarette since midnight. Now the thoughts starting creeping in. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. What if he's at a party. He's only 19 and in college, of course he's going to drink. FUUUCK. He's probably talking to a girl right now. My body has nothing on a college girls. FUUUCK.
She called him. Each ring seemed like an eternity to her. Then on the fifth ring his voice mail came up. "TONY", her voice jumped, "Just wondering what's going on. You've never done this before. PLEASE call me when you get this."
Miranda got up off the couch once more, went out to the patio to have another smoke. She exhaled a loud sigh just before she lit up.
She knew her and Tony wouldn't last forever. But still, she enjoyed his company, and felt amazingly younger each and every time she was with him. She figured one day she would just meet someone closer to her age, and begin an adult relationship with whomever this person was.
1:o1. Not a word from Tony yet. She went to the computer and logged into her facebook account. No messages, nothing written on her wall in days. It didn't surprise her. Since she had been together with Tony, she kind of had lost track of the outside world, as was her habit when she was involved with a guy. Still, visions of Tony and another coed kept piercing her brain like freshly made needles. She knew something was up with Tony.
"FUUUCK." This time she screamed. She hoped that didn't wake up her daughter who was sleeping upstairs.

the sinking in mud

out there
in the mud,
where everybody sinks,
i just want you to remember
how my eyes felt as
i held your hand,
promising to never
let go.

the sun was there.
it was always there.
i don't know how you didn't see
it.

and i know you.
i know how beautifully complicated
your insides are,
and i was good with what
i saw.

sometimes people give
everything, including
their burning flesh,
and it's still
never enough.

and here we are
back in the mud.

you sever my hand
at the wrist,
with that hand still in yours.

i handed it to you,
and let it slip.

and at this point
there is nothing left
to do,
but step back
and head towards the mud's
shore, fighting the urge
to look back.

the time it was easy

on
the count of three,
we'll take our sides.

you'll take a lover,
and i'll take my time.

nothing is ever
even.

i'll shoot
and
you've got a shield
made of blinding mirrors.

you'll shoot
and
i'll pretend
i'm wearing
a halo.

the center
of this earth
was once
comprised
of two people.

and now,
if your going to believe
in absolute
concrete foundations,
they don't exist.

we made fragments
out of them
with sledgehammers.

and all we'll ever be
is a trillion tiny
pieces.

the only thing
we can hope for,
is that we're thankful
for this dust.

one piece

there is no skin
to protect us, and
the buzzards
are just pecking
at our meat.

we lie here,
exposed,
in the afternoon
july sun.

shade is only
20 miles away.

i can see his big face,
with his big fat smile
eclipsing the sun.

and this doesn't help,
because i'm here,
and he's there,
and the lines of communication
have been snipped
by a beautiful brain
that cared
just a little too much.

but i'll see you.

i'll see you just as soon
as my flesh is picked
clean,
and my brain is intact
in one peace.

boys and girls

there you were,
off the plane,
and the only thing we had
were footsteps,
everywhere,
from museums
to the grocery store,
all the way to hood river
and back.

we flew
that easy.

then the move,
from me to you,
let's bunker down
and
learn to be a family.

our debts are almost paid
off.

and let's go buy a better bed
and rent a bigger home.

you'll beat me
at our one millionth game
of rummy.
you always do.

in ten years time,
we'll even own our very
own artspace.

we even have a name
for it.

in the meantime,
let's buy cultural figurines
from second hand stores and
give them names.

you'll go to my family
funeral.
i'll go to yours.

and what we have
is always enough.

but now
we both know, enough is
just never enough.

and now,
there is a boy
sleeping in our bed,
probably on the same side
where i once slept.

sitting,
with your body
stretched across
his,
on that same movie couch,
where we posed
for new years pictures.

yes.
some day
that bed,
and that sofa,
and the deck of cards,
even the figurines
that we gave names
will be replaced.

you'll always win
at cards.

and someday
we'll forget that we
even lived
there.

the process of anosmia

on this patio
a random breeze
carves me
like a butchers knife.

i still don't know
where it came from.

i can still smell your
scent like a bee
on a bloom,

but it's a little less
than yesterday.

i still don't want to
believe
that the human heart
is nothing
more than a kite
on greasy string,
with icicle hands
trying to hang on,

but it is,

and memories
will one day turn into
fog.

in five years
these mountains
bowing before my eyes
will still be here.

and in five years time
this scent
will be nothing more
than a shrub
on a tomb.

my shoes in this town

this entire town reminds me
of you, and
there ain't a damn thing
i can do about it.

we left every inch
of our footprints
with their halos,
and well traveled soles
everywhere,
mountains,
roads,
and shopping malls.

everything
is the only thing
i can remember.

and now
that your gone,
and i'm still inside
the oven
that is this town,
the only thing
i can do
is measure
for a new pair
of shoes.

when my head falls off

one of these days
my head
is going to fall off.

it's not going to be
tragic,
hip,
or comedic.

it'll be more like fresh
toast on the kitchen
floor,
waiting on a dog.

school rd.

a crow
sits on a stopsign,
and
there is never
a cloud
in the sky,
just people.

there she is,
existence, and
not a care
in the world.

goddamn.
sometimes all there is,
is give
love.

and how beautiful
it must be
not to care,
when you give it
all away.

and if you care,
some crow will eat
you.
it's like this,
and it never makes
sense.

in between albuquerque and phoenix is flagstaff

the sun sets
in my eyes

this table,
on san francisco st,
flagstaff, az
has always been
here,
somewhere

i once slept
in this town
a million times,
while
making hangovers
as easy
as
microwave food.

there were girls,
drama,
bars,
and books,
just like any other
town.

i only stopped here
for a moment,
to get a coffee
and
embrace
the chest
of
some stupid
nostalgia.

in a few minutes
i'll be gone.

the sadness as we become strangers

they say phoenix is
an oven,
around the 4th
of july.

this parking lot
is hell,
and there ain't a damn
thing anybody can do
about this.

she arrives
with her daughter.
we smoke a cigarette
like zombies,
not really knowing what
to say,

we stare at whatever
is in front of us
and all i know
is that my brain
keeps getting in
the way.

people are walking past us
with their red,
white, and blue
cookies.

her daughter
is reading her book.

we sign the papers
saying
that our account is
seperated.

bobby,
the banker
keeps a respectful distance.

the divorce is finalized.
a future that won't be
is carried by the
wind
back to the heavens.

her daughter and i hug
one last time,
she kisses me
one last time.

and i hold her,
like i'm tattooing
my heart
in her chest.
i never want
to leave that little girls
grip.
ever.

we divide
in opposite directions,
walking back to
our cars.

if i look back
i know
they'd be able
to hear each and
every tear drop
hit the concrete.

i just wanted to wait
till i got in the car.

it is on this day that
i drowned myself
in a safeway
parking lot.

and they say it doesn't rain in phoenix

it began.
with two pairs
of feet,
walking to
the other pair,
making
one complete
footstep.

this happened
in chicago.

these conjoined
feet walked
everywhere,
underneath the best part
of the sky.

these feet made maps.

these feet constructed
a home.

and two years
later,
these feet seperated,

leaving footprints
of mud
everywhere.

after one week

the cars go by
like a cricket's dream.

the road,
to just to left,
feels like
it's 100 miles away.

and this table,
where i sip
my coffee, just
isn't stable.

it still doesn't make
sense,
even after one
week.

five ladies enter the
shop,
afraid to look
at me,
with a cloud of cigarette
smoke
hovering around my head
like a halo.

i don't expect them
to understand.

non verbal noise
is tricky.

stitching

the world clothes us
in skin,
and the only thing we have
is survival.

and upon this skin,
we have created
our own cuts,
and sometimes
somebody else
grips that knife
over our skin,
carving another
design.

and in the mean time
we are searching for
a home,
or a strip of land
to dig
a foundation.

these nights are cold
when the cuts hurt,
and
you just want somebody
who has a bandaid,
or at times,
just a warm body.

then
one morning,
you wake up
alone.

alone once more,
and the cuts still sting
worse than a million
bees,
and this hangover
just doesn't matter.

everybody
is just a stranger
again.

and one day,
maybe,
just maybe,
if we have a strong enough
thread,
we'll have the pockets
to hold onto
what we have.

the aftermath of the cutting of the chord, day one

i could be shot by arrows
a million times,
and this pain
won't go away.

it builds up
from the bottom of my stomach.
it runs north.
it builds up
to the top of my brain.
it explodes.

i've already paced
the patio a million times,
in the hopes that this makes
sense.

it doesn't.
and neither do
the stars,
or the times you wish
upon them.

it's the realization that your
alone,
naked,
without the ability to blink.

you remember the last
time
you shared a bed and blanket.
coffee and cigarette
on the patio,
and the last time
you held her hand.

you want to die,
and eventually you will die,
but your still numb.

born again

eventually
all the wooden jesus's and
their nails
will
catch up to you
like you deserve it.

when the only thing you have left is
spit,
and a friend
on
the other end of line,
it's always enough.

it doesn't make sense
that
we are all crazy,
shooting up every kind of nail,
in the hopes that we won't stop
running away from
them,

the nightmares,
always right there,
scratching the bottom
of
stomach lining,
worse than meathooks.

yet,
when the nightmares have
won,
and the nails have become
nothing
but a placebo,
and the only thing you have
left is digestion.

this works.

resurection

one day.
we'll all be dead.

and thank god.

it won't matter that she hates
you.

it won't matter your nothing
but numb.

none of this will matter.

the only thing
that will matter,
is that your home.

crowns

when the sky
falls,
when we are running
for a shelter
or a rock,
and we are tripping
on heads.

you can't find anyone,
not even the flash
of a stranger,
and you want to.

this is running
and there's too many
gasps.

the sky breaks
like a jigsaw puzzle.

you have nothing left
to do
but sit.

the remains,
and whatever is left
will crown
you.