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.