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.