from day one

i did not make this up,

but i was told
that this earth
that i walk upon
is only a sphere.

and all i know
is that i stumble around
all day
in this suit
made of skin and hair
and
the only thing
that i can prove this with
is a map of scabs
and souviners
surrounded
by the circumference
of everything
since day one.

as i walk further
down a path
of circles,
everything
that i know is
nothing
and it's the only thing
i have left.

for l.k.

you sleep there,
like the smartest person
in the world,

right now,
all you are,
are all my bedsheets,

and somehow
i always feel like
i wake up
in the bottom
of an ashtray.

you have the gall
to wake up
and walk in this room
and hug me
like you own me,
even if i'm drunk.

and in the morning
i know,
that all i'll have to give you
is a cigarette
and a hangover.

but i can promise you,
that if we try,
that one day
we will be the only two living
people left.

lakeview hospital

i remember that day
when the bulls drafted
joakim noah.

you just had surgery
and i chain smoked
cigarettes in the parking garage,
of that hospital,
somewhere,
on the northside
of chicago.

the radio station said
that he wore a seersucker suit.

they cut you open right in the middle.

i did not know
what to believe.

i remember the nurse,
joking
about something that i cannot even remember,
i don't know,
but i had a feeling
that you'd still be alive.

your room overlooked
a million skyscrapers
and i sat in that chair
as you rambled on
about the flowers
and the previous visitors
that could never comprehend
clairvoyancy.

in relation

it always begins
quicker
than i can imagine,

like a late friday night,
mid january,
in an empty pool hall,
in oak park, illinois.

her legs are legs,
and her ass
is the table.

i just want to go home

and the next thing i know
is that i'm jilted
in a red car,
gleaming
past a reservation
in the northeast corner
of arizona,
right where some navajo
sells rugs
on the border of new mexico,

we speculate
on the time
that we will cross
the threshold
of albuquerque, new mexico.

we were not even lost.

and two years later
i wake up
in her bed,
in chicago,
on the corner of belden & sacramento
and the only thing
that i can remember
is this dream.

threaded by four

somehow i breathe
and the only thing
that confirms this
is the noise of my leather belt
rubbing
up and down my belly
like some boat
caught on an ocean
at night.

it's only friction
and even the tiniest of sparks
will burn a continent
to the ground.

here
on land,
i've got my arms
plugged into situations,
hugged by soil,
trying not to make everything wilt.

i squeeze
whatever is left
of my eyes,
and imagine
a better atmosphere.

cycles

the lull
of heavy machinery
occupies the distance.

over here,
in a maze of beer
we follow a piece
of greased up genatelia
attached to a string,
protruding
from our heads.

the angles
never lead
to any cents.

and every once in a while
when there is nothing left
but the drone
of our own image,

the sound
of that heavy machinery
gets
a little bit louder.

lineup

you place her picture
on the freshest part
of your wall.

you place her picture
next to your last,
and the ones that preceeded
your last.

and for each one
of those,
you had painfully constructed X's
out of felt tip markers
and memories
in the shape of prison walls.

this wall
has always been there,
but the pictures and their X's
have been weathered.

you pin her picture
next to the others
with the clearest
of tape.

you turn around
and walk the hallway floor
back to your computer.

you respond
to her email
that she wrote you
from her vacation in spain.

plate tectonics

your dust
meets
my dust
and in theory
mountains are formed.

we meet
in some epicenter,
divisable
only by the reality
of earthquakes.

and just as the rubble stretches
and becomes awake,
we imagine
that something beautiful
is formed.

versus

we touch brains
and all this means
is that a conglomerate
of facts
and webs
have been spun
into a fiction
that wears us
into something of comfort.

and during the meantime,
we are absorbing the rotted sections
that bruise
the other persons'
parts.

we are no better than
evolution,
the side
that makes us survive
everything
that eventually departs.

trappings

there they go again,
placing their bodies,
and vodka,
and cigarettes,
all within the parameters
of a steeltrap jaw
that clasps
around my chest
when excersised.

they decode everything
that i am weak upon,
like
i'm the result
of some gun.

they've shot me before,
a million times over,
but there are enough holes
thickening in me
to mount
a resistance.

and some are good,
and some are bad,
and i swear,
they all compete
for who is
the loudest.

i don't think
they'll ever understand
how to measure
the depth
of these teethmarks.

broaching winter

it's october
and somebody said
it felt like 78 degrees
today,

i didn't believe them.

everything
from here on out
will just become
colder
and colder,

until we are made
of parkas
and fleece,
and the only noise
that we hear
will be the saving grace
of the defroster.

i swear,
one more winter like this,
wrapped in the fluff
of dreams
that eventually turn
into natural disasters,

and i don't think i'll ever escape
this season again.

when i'm there,
and the weather hits,
there are no faces
upon the heads
that remain
in the sun.

the outcome

it's a suit
made
of lead,
filled
with water.

it's a protective coat,
manufactured
by practice.

there are holes
in the chest
proven in years
by the outcome
of scars.

this suit
doesn't float
but it protects
against
rips in the skin.

the next opponant
forgets the water,
and you can't even remember
to sharpen your blade.

the changing

once again,
it's the season
of clothes,
with nothing
to wear
but frost.

skin just isn't an option
anymore,
it's already been peeled,
fried
beyond repair, hanging,
left to wilt
on the naked tree
by the last day
of summer,

and we aren't even aware
as we are being
measured.

repetitive measures

i keep clicking
this mouse,
for hours,
like there's going to be
some holy message,
from a sender,
whose typeface
is like a blanket.

but
there is nothing that indicates
that someone
is trying to
contact me.

i've set myself up
this way.

my ipod plays,
and i haven't uploaded
any songs
since the beginning
of
last summer.

everysong
just bleeds
into everyday,

and right now
all i can hear
are the cicadas
going off
in my head.

i click
the mouse once more,
like this time
it'll be a prayer
that's finally been heard.

catch

the human brain
is a human child,
caught
in the center of
a human storm,
gripping nothing
but
a butterfly net.

and
at the end of the net,
the brain
contains a swarm
of mementos,
covered in it's own mucus,
secreting a thousand beliefs
that can never be proven.

we will either keep
or let the captives
go.

the better blood

this is a great society
of sharpened knives and
blunt objects
forced
into hearts
and backs.

every man, woman,
and child for themselves.

they will find you
with their pretty faces
and promises,

but all that they are,
are bloodsucking bats
with fangs disguised
as pillows
that'll make you fall
asleep,
as they feed.

it's a war
and you don't even know it.

but goddamn it,
there are always one,
or two,
or three people
that'll make you believe
in the possibilty
of something better.

spontaneous human combustion

i sit in this chair,
sprawled,
watching an entire population
detonate
by the intention
of a wick,

and all i can do
is light another cigarette
and stare
at my lighter
like it has
an answer.

there are literally
a million people
lighting themselves on fire right now,
who are not buddhist monks,
but who are compromised
of gasoline
and flint,

combustions of meat
that eventually end
in the pasture of ashes
that form stars.

my kindgom

i drink a beer
and this is not a throne
but actually a chair
i put together,
that i bought
at IKEA.

i swear
i'll quit
one of these days,
but this cigarette
tastes so goddamn good.

i judge
from my third floor apartment window,
my tower,
these noises
that make me their feast.

it's just about closing time,
and the drunks
that mill about the street
below
are only looking for a place
to go,
just so long
as it's never home.

i haven't had
a decent conversation
with another human being
in days
and this only happens
when
i just want to be
a little more new.

who i am
becomes itchy
and i move,
but it's nowhere near
the kingdom
i want to go.

so
i grab another beer
and proclaim
that i am the king
of all things
divided
by vapor.

divorce

this is matter
of brides
and grooms,

wood perched
in a circle of fire,

with someone
pleading
for mercy.

sometimes
all we have
is all we got,
and sometimes
this is the person standing
to the left of you.

hand in hand,
you listen to
the church bells in the distance,

but come to find out
it's only a lie,
a fog
that has devoured
the last two people
standing,

rendering
a body
into smolder.

they won

around
and around this merry go round
we go,

past the houses,
past the people,

the blur
of the gravity
makes us trust everything
or nothing,

where
a knife
looks like a bridal gown,
and a bridal gown
feels like
blood on your back.

we are bound to die
sooner or later,
many times over
again and again.

you trust.
you are sure of this,
even as positive
as the fact
that this ride
will eventually end.

but
that one time you were wrong.

it's too late
and everything has been branded
on every inch of skin,
muscle,
and bone
that their knife penetrates.

they walk away,
leaving you prostrate
on the concrete floor,
bleeding that trust from you
in tears,
like it was only a game.

everything just went to our heads

it's a forest at night,
and like little buddhas
we forage for pieces
of light

we fill our bags.

by dawn,
we arrive
at camp
with
collections
of ghosts,
freshly squeezed blood,
and intentions
that were framed.

we empty the contents
on the floor,
sort them,
and construct a temple
from what he had found.

we use glue
and a blueprint
that some stranger handed us.

we finish
by placing a crown
at the apex
of our temple.

and just as the first
few pieces
begin to unravel,

and tumble
down the walls,

we step inside
and pray.

beneath the transom

she's pretty.

naked,
she covers herself
in a blue blanket
as she
walks me to
her front door.

like a good catholic girl,
she gives me
a laminated picture of christ
shooting light
at the ground
through his heart.

she even puts her hand
on my forhead
and whispers a quick prayer
that i can't even hear.
she keeps her eyes closed.

i don't know what it means,
but it's supposed to keep me
safe.

she likes it
when i fuck her.

she encourages this
and even understands
when i have to leave.

sunday the 14th

i'm texting
and the three guys
underneath the bridge
are making a drug transaction.

i pass them
like weeds in the cracks
of a sidewalk.
i pay attention enough
so that i don't bump into
one of them.

they move their necks
towards me,
about 40 feet away.

i'm harmless.
they get back to their job.

i'm on my way to the blueline,
for some date,
with some girl that
i'm a little less than
enthralled with,

but i'm bored.

i'm staring out the window,
thinking about a conversation
with frank,
about a girl i was once with.

i never noticed it,
but there is some asian guy
sitting in the seat
in front of me.

i meditate upon a tiny mole
on his neck.
i want to pluck the strand of hair
growing out of this abnormality,

and if i did,
it wouldn't matter
to him,
to the girl
standing up
in front of the car door,
waiting for to get off at clinton.

and in the bigger scheme of things,
none of this mattered,
i liked her friend better,
anyways,
and i decided to never call this girl
again.

the ride home was basically
the same, it's
only more people asleep
on the train,
just after it turns midnight.

the completion of space

inbetween birth
and death
there's a filler
of booze,
and dates,
funerals
and kids,

and it's never enough.

some
just like sitting by a window,
watching the street go by
in the forms of cars
and schools of pedestrians,
and anything more than this,
is more than enough.

either way,
when enough weight
is added to the space,
then everything is complete.

generations

it's too late.
my thoughts,
my prayers,
my dirt
has already been splattered
on the bone white walls
of this apartment.

i pace this apartment
in circles
and in linear lines
waiting for the next kingdom
to come,
but it's never here.

the neighbors
down below
probably want to destroy me,
and i have my feet
and mouth as evidence.

and i know
that i'll never walk
these hardwood floors
in less
than a matter of years.

i know
that another girl
is preparing for me
in the distance.

i can see my face
in the gleam
of her knife.

eventually
i won't live here anymore,
and then i will dwell
in a place
where the walls
have been scrubbed dry
one more time.

in hindsight

i trust the gods
in their architecture.

i trust this house.
i trust this body.

i trust the spit
that holds this heart
over
an open fire.

i trust the outcome
that either places me
up
or down,
somewhere
where existence
isn't necessary.

i trust the odds
and everything that i'll never
be.
i trust in where
i am going.

but i don't pray.
i haven't prayed in years
and i don't think
this is something that can be
measured.

the gods
have already placed their bets
and our bodies are attached
to strings
that make us dangle.

i've searched for their blueprint
with maps and scissors,
and somehow
i always end
up
back here.

ulcers

this room has a belly,
and right now
i sit on a bed
inside it.

inbetween the fan's drone
and the motorcycle on the street,
i light another cigarette
just to respond.

the darkness is hungry
and i have nowhere to go.

the motorcycle drives away
and i swear
the fan is only getting louder.

when i think,
the thoughts just reverberate
in every direction,
bouncing
like blind lazer beams
within the stomach's lining,
until they hit me, launched
through every pore of my skin.

this is when i'm paralyzed
from the head up.

the search for definition

it's just words
stacked upon words,
that builds up the
phrase,
that's surrounded
by context,
that creates the point,
that has been pierced
by the entire meaning.

here we are,
sitting by the receiver,
with rabbit ears,
waiting for some voice
that'll lift us
away from this.

we imagine god,
but
this is mostly a prayer,
for the hopeful,
the squeezed,
the ones that carry something immortal
between equators
and
the width of their ears.

we nearly believe.

and when someone says
something
we either pick it
or we don't.

we are not pauses.

we are arms
searching through
the ether,
trying to locate a handlebar,

the culmination of words,
falling,
without a parachute,
not understanding
what it takes
to crash through
the skin
of the ground.

creationism

the act is over.

the girls,
the aggression,
the sport
has left me
for now.

i watch my hardon
pulsating
up
and down,
like it's out of breath,
as it slowly
fades away.

shower water scraps my back.

everything slowly leaves.
the proof slides down the drain,
and still,
some evidence is left
on my chest.

and no doubt
at some point,
either tonight
or tomorrow morning,
everything will come again.

our chords

all we are
are a series of knots
that never end.

we become them
while trying to get up
from the floor.

it's that easy

and we never pay any attention
to which chords
touch
those chords,
and before you know it,
we are tripping over this mess,
trying
to break our fall.

we reach for a hand
like handicapped babies.
and we expect
and demand that very hand
to untie us
at the center.

it's like we were never aware
of the capabilities
of those hands
connected
to our wrists.

a study of the storms at night

at night,
just after the storm hits,
it seems to just wash away
all of this neighborhood's inhabitants.

when you smell
that mixture of rain
and concrete,
it's like smelling a garden
of freshly birthed stone.

more reinforcements of lighning
march closer
in the distance.

not one person is walking their dog,
but there is a symphany
building
from every single window a/c unit
in this neighborhood,
and it never sounds bad.

you don't even question where
everybody has gone.
you just accept this stretch of concrete
for whatever mood
it has taken.

i remember those times
flying late at night,
somewhere over the belly
of the midwest.

i remember watching the lightning
show happening below.

i never thought of the people
protected by shelter,
underneath the noise
of those clouds,

and i suppose i still don't,
down here,
where gravity weighs the most.

that room

the energy
in the room
was a magnet
and i was only a fragment
of steel.

i never considered myself
weak.

they sat me down
in a chair,
kissed my forehead
and
before i knew it,
everything in that room
wore a halo.

i'm not a religious person.
but the beauty that reflected
off of every object
made me give thanks
to some higher power
that i
cannot even see.

they asked for my arms,
so i gave them each one
without any questions.

they plugged me in
with tiny tubes
burrowed into
each of my arms.

they turned on a switch
and then all of a sudden,
the energy from that room
slowly poured
underneath my skin.

i was convinced
this made me glow.

then,
they were standing right behind me
and i felt some light pings
on the top of my head.

what they whispered
in my ear
was delightful enough,
better than any fairytale.

i didn't even worry
about the tapping going on
behind my eyes.

i trusted everything.

the room would smile
and i ate it
without any apology,
ever.

i even made a statue
of the room,
hung it on the mantle
like it was some holy alter.

the room was so goddamn gorgeous
that when i closed my eyes,
everything revolved around my head
like it were in some orbit.

i left every single piece
of myself
in that room
without even thinking.

i didn't even have to sell myself.
i just gave it.

then,
out of nowhere,
that switch was flicked off.

the energy had stopped
and everything hurt.

i couldn't even see them
anymore.

i was drained
and that machine
with those tubes
sticking from my forearms
had sucked most everything
from inside me.

it was then
that i noticed
that the nail
they starting hammering
at the top of my head
had finally pierced my guts.

it was too late.
blood was growing
on the floor.

i looked around,
stunned,
studying every square inch
of that room
to see what went wrong.

i was weaker than i thought.

every single star crashed
and then it hit me,
that everything beautiful
about this room had vanished
into nowhere.

a pond by my parents house

it's just a pond
that somehow
has been collecting water
all these years.

it wasn't near much.

the neighbors
in the development
a few blocks away
would simply just walk
their dogs
or their spouse
around this very pond.

that's all
it was used for.

back then,
in highschool,
i worked at the grocery store,
in a strip mall
only a few blocks away.

mike and i would punch out
on break
and smoke weed
in one of our cars.

we were stoned
before we returned
to either facing shelves
or stocking
the dairy section.

i also had a girlfriend.
her
and i
would park right before that pond,
go underneath that tiny bridge
and smoke even more weed
and mess around.

after highschool
and after that girl,
i never even learned
how to live
in the same town
for more than four years.

i moved
from state to state,
out west,
city to city,
like it was some goddamn obligation
to my country.

i never thought twice
about this pond.
i hardly thought about the girl,
or even the weed, or mike
for that matter.

i was just moving.

then
about 18 years later
i'm at this wedding,
for one of my highschool friends.

i'm standing there,
on the patio of a six story
marriott hotel,
the same hotel
where all the out of town guests
and people in the wedding
are residing, for at least
that one night.

i notice that pond.
and it is it,
a time machine,
with the same grass,
with the same water,
and mud beneath
that water,
as it was before.

it's like nothing grew here
but the concrete buildings
that overshadow
this very pond,
since the time
of when there was highschool.

i grab the girl
whom i messed around with
on an earlier bridge,
where the bride and groom
exchanged their vows
in front an audience,
in front of a representative
of god.

that girl
was at the after party
at this hotel,
on the very shores
where i partly
grew up.

i grabbed her arm
and walked her down there.

i wanted to go underneath
that very same bridge
only 100 feet
in front of us
and smoke some of her
weed.

it didn't work out like that,
instead we talked
and only made out,

this is not how it used to be.
it never is.

sights and piano sounds

the piano plays
slow
and high,
in the tune
of every single
sad song
that has compelled you
to put it on repeat.

the ones that remind you
of her
and everyone else,

of all the good days
when something
or another made
sense.

you listen for a frequency
that is familiar,
a frequency that is true
to something
that was once
you.

at these times
you want to rip your guts out
and that thing
they call a heart.

you want to rip them out
because of how good they gripped you
then.

but now,
it's just you,
alone in this room,
lighting another cigarette
like it's your only friend.

the images
you see are color
but you know
they were once black
and white,
and a picture will always trump
what words cannot visualize.

the piano doesn't help
but
there's always
a new song
to hear about
tomorrow.

it

it
shouldn't be complex
but it is.

it's never a cure
but it helps

it doesn't need to have fangs
or poisen
that injects with those fangs.

if it's legit,
then there should be no excuses
for war.

you take care of it.
you craddle it like a baby bird
without a nest
because you are it.

never take from it,
ever.

you give to it,
you feed it without any thought
and then you can live with it.

because
if you don't care for it,
when you neglect it,
you scratch it with those talons
just because you can,
because you didn't win,
you make it that much more difficult
to accept it.

and when you take from it,
without returning it,
you ultimately start fires
inbetween the letters
of it,
the ones that give you it.

you leave
it in ashes,
never looking back.
and you will never understand it
as you search for it
again.

then,
just as you're blaming it,
the possibility is real
that you never deserved it.

diplomacy the size of a fist

after all the fucking.
after the happy promises are
flushed
and sent down the hell
of plumbing pipes,
just before the bed was made
for the final time,

you sit at the table
with her,
and this table already holds
too much tension
to begin with.

you want peace.

you want peace,
and sometimes
you want a piece of their throats.

but once you lock eyes,
the sentiment is reciprocated
in the form of a basket
made of sharp points.

from you,
from her,
every negotiating tactic
is a grenade that lands
on your
or her lap.

and you just have to accept
the fact
of explosions.

you're a vet though,
you've been through these before,
enough to at least know
the parameters
of a civil discussion.

but still,
too much blood
has been measured
in somebody's corner.

and this is the first time
she refuses to shake
your hand.

weather report

you're never really sure
when
the temperature rises.

it's too late
when
you are bathing
in your own sweat.

the a/c unit hanging in the window
is only enough to cool
the room it rescues.

heat makes steam
and this entire city
is choking
on the haze.

a hangover doesn't help,
but you believe
that the alcohol
from last night
is finally trying to escape
your skin.

you take a cold shower
but really
it's just an aspiran
that eventually goes
away.

even the streets
have been stripped of people
due
to the weather,

yet
it's a fine excuse
to forget the glow
of her face
that has
melted holes in you.

when you can't breath anymore

it changes, billy,
everything just keeps moving
into something we will never
be able to comprehend.

it never stops,
the thoughts rush through you
like a million haunted monsoons.

the faces,
those goddamn faces
come and go,
and sooner or later
you begin to lose track
as they settle
into a burning coating
over your chest.

eventually
we cry less,
but goddamn,
we remember each and every teardrop
bled
on that silly alter
that someone had the gall
to name love.

and this hurts even more
when nobody is looking,
when it's just you
in that room
where somebody left you.

they will never understand this, billy.
they were just born with better
survival skills.

sometimes
when i think of you,
i understand that thing
you had done.

the lopsidedness of grooming

in between
some of the cracks
and pores
of our very own
human skin,
there are still pockets of shit
that we never properly
learned
how to wipe.

this is when they point a
magnifying glass
very carefully
at the desperation
of our flesh.

you might be 85%
or 76% clean,
still,
to them,
it's like you're some monkey
flinging crap
at the metal bars
in some zoo.

they are superior to you,
or
at least to them, you are
a rung,
just a support beam
to validate their weight.

there isn't anything clean,
so
they'll flush
you, just as you're picking
the pieces of
dried up shit
inbetween the folds
of their skin.

red meat

what they do
is pretend
that the human heart
doesn't exist.

you can even offer them
yours,
on a silver tray,
and it's not even worth
an appetizer,
to them.

they'll never believe
in any sacrifice
you offer.

they'll only take this to be
a gospel
in the form
of a turd.

and even if they only believe
a moticum
of this sniff,
it's never enough.

and still,
here you are
pretending
that everybody
is a cardiologist.

desert mountains

these mountains
are only the remnants of the earth's
bones, that are stacked
like collections of fallen giants.

at night
and during lighting,
you can catch a glimpse
of these graves after
each and every strike
made by a bored
and angry sky.

the thunder speaks above us
like we are nothing but ants
in a world
built by the hands
of something we'll never comprehend.

everything is loud
but we hardly pay attention
to anything
up above us anymore.

the decaying bones
of these mountains
will continue to build
in the color of rust,

always,
as we move in closer
for a better look
the next day.

i'm really not photogenic

they are only perfect pictures,
of people,
and groups of people,
and everybody just seems so natural
and happy,
like they were born that way.

i see them
and then i look in the mirror,
and all i see are factions
of ghosts.

i just don't want to be here
at those moments.
i'm not big enough
or evolved enough
to comprehend any words
of a buddha,
or the actions of any artist who
has the balls
to lock themselves in their studio
apartment for days,
without phone,
protein,
or sex.

i'm smart enough to realize
how a thought causes avalanches,
and right now,
i've buried myself
once again,
in a past full of yellow snow.

people think i'm not afraid,
but i am.
i'm scared as fuck
that i'll die alone,
without one person understanding
at least
90% of my sum.

when i bleed,
i gush,
and my chest is covered
in these memorials
that already have roots beneath
my skin.

you love them,
then they are gone,
and you're gone.
you're lying on a bed,
alone,
wishing like hell
that every picture
ever shot
did not feel like bullets
festering
inside your chest.

the placebo effect

the problem is,
is that this world
continuously gets sucked
through
our ears and eyes,
causing derailments
and explosions in our brains.

we couldn't avoid this if we tried.

we are the distraction
and we are the fix,
the curiosity
brought upon
by some god's experiment.

it's no wonder
why
this is a planet stacked with
junkies and dreamers
and fundamentalists,
searching for some kind of
cure,
when really
this is only the placebo.

the life of names

i.
the earth is flung,
around a star
at 67,000 mph as a matter of fact,

we have nicknamed this star
the sun.

there are an infinite amount
of stars
named the sun,
but each planet
in our own family
has a real name.

the earth just runs around
in circles,
like some dog
chasing its tail,

it never stops.

ii.
here,
on the skin
and within the pores
of this planet,
the same guy
begs for change,
between the train cars,
i've seen him before
and i recognize the pitch
of his voice.

teenagers move
from car to car.
another homeless lady has made
a bed, in the seats in front of me.

the white couple just wants to get
the hell of this moving train.

and the only thing i can do
is just stare out the window
like i'm going to see something
for the first time.

iii.
i'll be back,
they'll be back,
you'll be back,
even
if none of us want to be
back
hunting circles
on this particular line.

iv.
every single one of us has
a name,
even those dogs
that chase their tails.

v.
nobody ever explains what happens
after we're dead,
when the last human being
who remembers our name
is gone.

the songs you remember from your mother's car

you remember
some of the songs
on the radio,
in the back seat
of your mother's car,
when she listened to music.

you didn't really pay attention
but
you were always going somewhere,
safe,
protected from the darkness
of beings.

and as the years have passed
inbetween now
and then,
everything has happened.

the bullies aren't kids anymore,
they become the bottle
and the cellophane baggie
that lead you to the bottom
of a squad car.

jobs have fangs,
feeding on nothing
but your veins.
and love is a chinese star
caught
on the jugular
of some of your years.

monsters are breastfed this way.

then
much later,
one of those songs
from decades ago
explodes somewhere
inbetween your brain
and celestial radio.

nothing is safe anymore,
except
for that thought
in the backseat
of your mother's car.

you remember this,
as you are drunk
and alone.

who they were

you never forget
skin
and the heat
emanating
from those pores,
like heat lamps
on
the coldest day of the year.

they'll wrap you,
warmer,
in a way that only survival
can dictate.

then
everything just seems to happen,
somebody cuts the chord,
they slowly begin to float.

sometimes you'll reach
but it's never enough
to hold.

you reach
with nothing on the ground
but your toes.

they float further,
into the mouth
of the horizon,
until
they are nothing but pinpricks
piercing your eyes
and working their way
into a ventricle in your heart.

then
they float even further,
beyond blood,
until they dissipate
into scattering wisps
of ghosts.

june

i sweat, even though
the only thing i am wearing
is a pair
of cut off jean shorts.

no a/c
in this apartment.

i've just been too lazy
to install the wall unit i bought
two weeks ago,
and the hair
growing out of my brain
and face
feels like wool.

i almost like it this way
and i did leave
a few windows open.

early june in chicago
is spun of humidity
and girls wearing
mostly skin.

the calendar
that god made
was intended this way.

right now
all i can hear are the screams
and moans
permeating through
the mouths
of every single bardoor
on this block,

and all i can do
is listen
like its a piece of noise
flung out
by some mother nature
desperate
to give birth.

i light
one more cigarette
just as
i'm offering the remnants
of the previous one
to the bottom
of this beer can.
(a beer can
actually smoke.)

and here we are, somewhere
between the lines
and pores
of this earth,
where water cannot even help.

pilgrimage

we trek this earth
shedding
nothing but the fragments
of our minds,
our hearts,
our youth
on alters constructed
of everything we have lost.

we deem these in memorials,
a conglomerate of symbols
stacked in bricks
on locations
painted
with the patterns
of our blood.

this is never silent,

it's only the noises
we create
when we backtrack
the footprints we have made.

wilderness survival

all this is
is paths,
and all we have
is the company of strangers.

and it's so easy for you
to grab a hand
like it's nothing
but
a piece of wood
for the fire.

your hand is a match.

it's so scenic
at the head of the path,
nothing but the face of god
in sunsets, and
the rocks just seem to glow.

everything is sucked in by the eyes
of a beautiful bloom.

and on we go,
further,

until there are clouds
charging like horses in war.
the storm feels like it'll never
end,
and you believe it.

if you make a left,
over that rickety bridge,
you can start on a different path,
but you have to promise
to set the bridge on fire
at the end
of the cross,

and you do.
that bridge only has the strengh to hold
one more.

you take it.
you take the backpack
with the supplies
and left us there
with nothing
but the bruises
of thunder and lightning.

you even had the strengh
to not look back
because
a new stranger
is always waiting for you.

but we survived.

we survived
knowing that storms
eventually ends.

we aren't the only ones.

shuffling comes first

roads upon roads,
stacked up
in easy piles
of neat.

then
a foot comes along,
blind,
trampling the roads
like a house of cards.

everything scatters.

intersecting cards
have the reaction of bombs,
everywhere.

face up,
face down,
somehow connecting and
pulling apart,
all within the space
of a single breath,

and
there is no regard
to forming any sense,

just an absolute
in continuation.

a duel

one voice explains
why
you're a dummy.
another voice
makes you believe
that
you're filtering
the thought patterns
of god.

but really,
most times,
a bottle
of wine
is
the deciding factor.

you interpret
why they hate you,
why
they laminate you
into something that fits.

we are only
the consumption of shapes.

somebody
once lied to you
in the explanation
of the word forever,

but still,
you believe in a theory
that will never end.

and it's not until
that arc,
on that circle is complete,
that a goddamn thing
will ever be proven.

the impatience of a vessel

in cigarettes,
enough smoke has been inhaled
to calm the nerves
of a small army.

there have been
enough drugs gathered
and heaped
into the size of a mountain,
that even a circle of recovering addicts
could never resist.

there has been enough booze
to make a lake
and float a boat.

i've wrapped the clothe
around the stick,
and dunked it
in a vat of gasoline,
handing each one of them
the matches,
while wearing nothing
but a blindfold.

and still,
through these prayers,
it's never enough
to even make
the outlines
of a face.

after the belief of honey

early on
before
the toxins of people
penetrate
the skin's pores,
you imagine two hands
completing a whole,

you were young,
just a byproduct
of beliefs
that had no holes.

you made prayers
in beads of the trinity
to the flesh,
to the story,
to the belief,

a sum of hope
that lead
to the expedition
of proof.

years later
in the inevitable landscape
of wars,
the cosmology of the word
forever
is captured
and handed
one more smoke.

the only security she left you
is handcuffs.

you understand this
in only a theory
that the guillotine
can provide.

paper trails

we comprise each day
in the form of faces
and blood
and languages
that we may
or may never understand.

we lay them down
on sheets
of loose leaf paper,
and consider each piece the sum
of one day,

we stack them by date
and consider the results
collateral.

day by day
the pile grows
faster,
reaching for an end,
a conclusion
in the form of ceilings.

the process leads to a blurr
in repetition,
until
the facts become the wind
that knock the stacks of paper
into the fragments
of oblivion.

the counterintuitiveness of horticulture

the seeds
of death
have already been planted.

the farmers
have cultivated us
in strains
of tears and empty bottles
that make
even the strongest growth
wilt
underneath the vacuum
of their shadow.

we are brought here,
miraculously empty,
fed on light
and the purity of liquids.

we grow,
open,
not even aware
of the meaning of trust.

something happens.

a farmer forgets.
a farmer has nothing left
but
contaminated water.

a farmer will slit you
for nothing more than seed,
and the only thing left to grow
is
the genetics of memory
and hope,
that the next field
is tilled
with just a little more light.

medically speaking

i've had this headache
since i've been awake
this morning.

for some reason
it just occured
to me
to chase an advil
with vodka,
just before
i go to bed.

work didn't help anything
and neither did the laundry.

a typical day
is spread between
clocks
and daydreams,
both competing for
the same resource.

the cigarettes and drinks
fall between
the numbers
and the coloring
that comprise
the absorption ratio
of what it takes
to survive
the usual day.

and right now
between the splicing
of vodka and advil,
there is not much difference
between
the placebo
and the cure.

her dream

"i had a dream about you the other night.",
she says.

"oh yeah?",
i say.

in her bathroom,
i take my eyes out.

"what was your dream?",
i say.

"you and the girl,
whose going to direct my script
were talking.",
she says.

i stare at my eyes
in her mirror.

"so when i saw this,
i scratched your face
to shreds.",
she says.

"hmmm.",
i say.

"you know i would never hurt you
in real life.",
she says.

"i know.
i know.",
i say.

i flip the lightswitch
down
and walk
towards her bed.

a bedroom overlooking the street

the light
bends
where the ceiling
meets the wall.

it's just another angle
in the refraction
of streetlights
interpreting the night.

tonight,
there is only one
conversation
occuring between
the drunks
on the street below.

i did not pay attention
to what they were saying.

i light this cigarette
and it is not going anywhere.

this is what it's like
when
a bedroom is quiet.

inbetween

as a child
projecting dreams
into the summer sky
with nothing
but my eyes,

i couldn't had imagined it this way,

counting the steps
from my apartment door
to
the liquor store,
(183 steps.
to be exact.)

i wanted to be
a 2nd baseman
for the chicago cubs.

and inbetween that time
and now,
the drugs
and booze
and women
and the vagabonding
have happened,

and i'm not really sure
that anything
has happened.

i watch
as this cigarette
wilts
into ash
on an empty beer can,
and understand
how appropriate this is.

et tu

the romans
had nothing but
shit and cum
masking their way
to the next world.

this was their badge,
their heirarchy,
when
there was nothing else left
to fuck.

we raise our flag
and murder our daugters.

we kill our lovers
out of nothing
but the thrill of
necessity

morality
has become nothing more
than a secondary fixture,
planted
upon the conquest
of a collection of bodies
that have been injected
by our decay.

processed meat

they come
for you
everyday,
with words
and smiles
in the guise of velvet
and halos,
blanketing
their pitchforks
and torches.

you propose a hand
and they accept this
in the habit
of cannibals.

the days become drums,
each day sprouting louder
and louder,
with the growth of gasoline fires,
spreading
to each and every cell
in your body,

and each beat blooms
more and more
until becoming a symphony
of monotonous noises.

it's then
that you're hit with the belief
that you are reaching
for nothing more
than the loudness
of being deaf.

and it's at this point,
with the smoke
and thunderstorms
in your ears,

and the buckets
are only there for milking
your eyes,

it's then
that you recognize
the process
of how meat is really consumed.

the play

the face
is a variety show.

the thoughts,
the curtains.

the stage
is just a collection of
footprints,
leading to here.

the actors
are every stranger
and everybody
you have ever known.

the acts
are nothing more than verbatim
with similar props.

the performance,
a subsequence of rehearsal
leading to some vague type
of currency.

we bow,

becoming nothing more
than
bouquet's of flesh,
prepared
for the next billing.

last april 4th

i remember that town,
forged upon a hill,
with nothing remaining
but artisans
stuck in crumbling buildings,
and ghosts.

we walked,
my god we walked
down that hill,
past the funny looking houses
on the side of the road,
past an ancient anglo arizonian church,
that was converted to an artist zone.
you peed there, back
on our way up.

the valley below
was everywhere.
the wind confirmed this.

you bought a miniature
mexican craft
of two skeletons,
one an old lady,
one an old man,
sitting on a park bench,
you proclaimed that
they would become us.

and exactly one year later,
to the day,
as i walked the early spring streets
of chicago,
on this night,
i wonder what became
of that couple
sitting on that bench.

the solvent

in this world
we share
the same space and width
of a granule of sand.

the sky
is only a clock.

we are weighed between
legends and necessity
when reality is born in the center.

we are measured in individual movements,
fluctuating
in mass and density
until
the solution is no longer the problem.

the preponderance of meloncholia

when the weight
of the human heart
is measured
in tears,

when every scab
has been peeled
and examined,
over and over,

the scars
become nothing more
than facts,

and the data
refuses to go
away.

you just stand there, lost
in the lab,
somewhere between the notes
and the evidence.

and it's then
that you just want this experiment
to end.

subsistence

the city,

several square miles of womb.

a collection of notes
written in the language of average days.

a meditation on repetition
that eventually leads to revelations
of birth and escape

with a hand extending
for a piece of light
in which to feed a forest.

in the year 2011

through evolution,

between the generations
of the debates
of gods,
and the monetary value
of war,

resting
in the house of
self serving matrimony,

the value
of the human heart
has shrunk
into the size
of a human tear.

and as humans
we'll kick and spit
at the altar of
fairness,
wondering
why it got in the way.

at the trial

where ever we go
to
finally die,
inbetween
that valley of
the living
and the grave dwellers,

where it's just you,
leading an army of
your own actions
to
the jury.

hopefully
you'll be there
on the stand,
awake,
ready to respond.

and on the stand,
there will be your witnesses.
there always are.
hopefully
you will have enough
to place in the scale

and there will be victims,
there always are.
it's their blood on your fingers.

and god help you
if the victims outweigh
the witnesses.

a quiet maritime dilemma

at
4:25 in the morning,
the silence becomes
just a little bit more
than silence,
it becomes
a deafening noise.

there is no exclamation point
to this,
it becomes a sentance
that just won't end.

and you will thank your god
if you can hear a stray drunk
talking to the mortar
of a sleeping building,
only because
it's a distraction.

you should never want
to be like this,
in the dark,
reaching for ghosts
that make for
transparent shores.

it's just
another method for drowning.

you only want to go to bed,
and you wish
that your bed was impermeable
to the sound
that water makes.

drinking with mexican religious candles

i know my habits.

for example,
2/3'rds
of a bottle of vodka
just won't make the split.

i need more.

so i'll go to a
cvs pharmacy,
or to one
of the two
liquor stores
down the street and
buy more.

and
as always
there are tens
of thousands
of dead cigarettes
lining my ashtray
like it's just all
some great big fucking
pilgrimage to the bottom
of my being.

but really
there is just no place left
to go.

so
i'll just sit here, burning
this mexican religious candle
of mano poderosa,
and drink everything
that remains
in front of me,
just a little bit more.

the battle for drunkenness

nine
empty cans
of old stlyle
and one empty flask
of jameson
surround me,
calling for my surrender.

tonight,
i only drank
most of them,

and for some reason
i can't recall
which empty
i fell into.

i cannot even find
a fort.

right now,
it's just me
and a bottle of
tito's,
sizing the measurements
of eachothers stiches.

we draw.

sausage burritos

we are
an accumulation
of
memory scraps,
burnt,
torn,

collected,
pressed
and formed,

wrapped around
the choice
and discarded parts
of each individual.

we are
the human form
of art.

when a house catches on fire

the foundation.

my god,
i thought we dug
a perfectly fine foundation.

we both did,
enough to plant
a home.

the walls
were erected
just as easily as the roof.

we painted the rooms
with our blood.

it was beautiful.
you were beautiful.

and then
something caught on fire.

our blood
on the walls
started to peel.

i thought we could slit the neck
of the fire.

you didn't want to wait.
you couldn't bear to look
as i was searching
for the hose.

you left me there.

i watched you walk out
the front door,
you had called someone
and had a car waiting for you.

and by that time
the walls
and the roof
and all of our tiny trinkets
were shed
into nothing more than ash.

by that time,
i just stood there,
stunned,
nothing more than a corpse
waiting
for cremation.

and as i was left to burn,
without anything left
but tears,
i learned that not even tears
could put out any fire.

everything just burned,
for days,
for weeks,
for months.

and till this day,
you never even came back
to assess
or even lay a wreath
on the remains that you left behind.

an ocean of sees

we are perfectly capable
of drowning
in the seeing
of
the crying,
the goodness,
the stains,
the faces, dwelling
behind walls.

we outline
the cracks in the walls
with
nothing more
than index fingers
and eyes
that are used as
a measuring tape.

our ears,
the computer recordings.

we study.
we listen.
we paint the walls
with attention.

and goddamn,
we hone this skill
down the neck
of obsession,
becoming pros
in the backstory
of walls.

this isn't clairvoyancy,
just a lifetime
in the analysis
of walls.

before you start drinking vodka

there is
a tiny window
dividing
the booze
and
the next
relationship.

you need to think
inbetween
the vodka
and
romantic porn.

because
if you don't,
that goddamn reflection
poking you
in the mirror
will only grow deeper
and set
a more starving pair
of fangs.

and then you will become
nothing more
than a late lunch
for repetition's sake.

aspirin for the zombies

the night's wind
just blows us
like plastic pharmacy bags,
as if
the wind were nothing more
than
a child's whim.

and there are holes
within us,
that enable us
to be like kites.

some might say
that the wind is
a 50 foot monster
that takes up
too much space
within the emptiness
of our brains.

either way,
we are just searching
for something a little more
near
that will help combat
our zombies
that are scratching our brains
in the middle of the night.

the life and times of a balloon

we're just
helium balloons,
with nothing but
balloon skin,
and a brain
and other vital organs
playing the parts
of helium.

early on
you just want to break free
of your handlers grip,
just wanting to go nowhere
but up.

so you do.

and inbetween
there are other balloons,
competing,
and rubbing balloon skin,
until friction is created.

we just want to get higher
while looking down
at the ground.

we go higher
and higher
until
our guts
and helium
start squirting out
our asses
that are tied
in knots.

and then we sink,
little by little,
until
the ground appears
closer
than it really is.

we sink.
we wither.
and it's usually
slow.

and sometimes
we just leave it up
to the wind.

and sometimes,
with the right conditions
we just explode
as we ride higher.

but we always
end up deflated,
on the ground,
nothing more than
leftover skin
without
any air.

good news

within the tiny cracks
of existence,
beneath the broken bottles
and cracked mortar,
there is a seed of light,

and if you are good to it,
watering it
with blood
and understanding,

the seed will spread,
with wings, and
a nightmare
clutched
between it's talons,
soaring up
until cracks break,
glowing.

when humanity becomes the roach

one day,
you watch,
just as the polarity
of hands
crumbles us apart
like burnt toast,
the cockroaches will evolve
into 200 foot creatures
that will seek
their revenge,
worse than any Kafka
imagination.

they will grow
and they will grow
and
within this process
their brains will bloom
into
a more intelligent form,
as
we just grow
smaller.

and then
they will either harvest us
like cattle
or
they will push us
back
behind their walls,
their cupboards,
their refridgerators,

at first
laughing at
the oddity.
then,
a few generations later,
scared enough
to call an exterminator,

they will not even admire our scheme
to survive
on nothing but
the generosity
of
the sloppiness
of
the dominant species.

just a walk

the sound
of the snow
and sleet
beneath my feet
echos
between the houses
and buildings
just before midnight.

it's loud enough
that i'm shocked
that it hasn't induced any dogs
into barking,
and i swear
it sounds like the teeth
of a 500 foot giant
gnawing through whale bone.

there's a history
in the other footprints,
in the snow
that my footprints step on
and over,
and sometimes they just blend.

someone wore chucks,
another person wore hiking boots.
i even noticed that some lady
was wearing heels.

i'm not walking anywhere,
just pacing an extended circumference around
my apartment building
in blocks.

i have my footprints to prove this.

tiny white flag

a tiny white flag
shakes
in the wind,
underneath
the empty storefront
awning.

the streetlight only
gives a purpose
to this scene.

a streetlight will never lie,
it'll just interpret
whatever the day has left behind.

i witness this,
on my green camping chair,
within my bedroom,
that i have deemed a nest,
just for this evening.

it's a quarter to four
on this wednesday morning,
and that goddamn streetlight
won't leave me alone,
like i'm nothing more
than a moth.

the tiny white flag is still there,
and right now
i just don't have a big enough ladder
to take it down.

afterwards

all
the empty
condom wrappers that collect
on the street,
every single voicemail
from them,
deleted,
that has gone to heaven,
and every other
single detail within the frames,
collected,

will collide
and mesh inside a jar
that is always open
within the outskirts
of your brain.

one day
when the voices
on the reel stops,
and after
everybody gets their
credit,

we will finally be able
to go home.

the odds

conservatively speaking,
i estimate that 50%
of the communication
that you digest each day
is just some sugarcoat
applied to the bullshit
served to you.

don't lie.
this is how you prepare
your communication as well.

maybe they would rather not see you
hurt,
or you'd rather
they not come after you
with a butcher knife
in hand.

now,
if your someone only seeking
the truth,
you might as well be open
to the idea of harakiri.

distracting fixes

distractions come
as free
and
habit forming
as the smoke
off of this cigarette,
that waits for me
in this ashtray.

it doesn't matter
how much
i trim
the people
from my everyday life,
the ones that hover
with some type of
string,
dangling
over my head.

no.
it doesn't matter.

it's these thoughts,
these texts,
the internet
on this computer,

they are just no good
for
any procrastinator
looking for that fix.

pilgrimage

if
anyone
of us
knows
who we are,
yell,
spit on a drunk
for jesus,
sell your soul
for
mother earth,
pretend
in the shape
of some great big
hallellujah.

the rest of us
will
make that all important
pilgrimage
to the next bar,
or the next preacher
of our chosen denomination,
who will give us that fix.

we will be the ones
who are walking,
lost,
searching for ourselves,
with nothing more
than
a little less wax
on
the candle.

tuesday night bar

i can just sit there,
with
a bar full
of people,
alone,
orbiting
my own space.

i can just sit there
content,
with
nothing but
an imagination
and memories
that could
choke a fellow
to death
on his own thoughts.

i see a pretty girl,
and i just don't know why
i ignored her
earlier.

i see a flat screen t.v.,
and my eyes
are only focused
on the scores.

there's nothing to it,
and sometimes
i wish
i were nothing more
than the glazed wood
affixed to this bar.

but
that girl is still there,
ordering another drink,
and the t.v.
just isn't showing me any more
scores
that i've already read
before.

and i'm not alone.
no,
the bartender buys me
a free beer.

this space,
this solitude
that i seek is never free.

then

i orbit,
with a little bit extra, i
buy myself
another drink,
and then i leave,
lost a little bit more
than before.

why monkeys are better than us

we're just cold to one another,
sitting in that wide open tree,
like monkeys
without
any food.

we lie.
we steal.
we lie some more,
and of course
it's just a matter of defending yourself with
flung shit.

and one monkey
will climb down
with scars,
larger than dead wedding vows,
attempting to land with
some type of gravity,
but really,
lost gravity
can only break
you in parts.

unknown geniuses

the problem is,
is that there a more geniuses
out there
than there are
fast food restaurants.

they sit there at night,
in their rooms,
in their jail cells,
sitting alone in a bar,
or just surrounded by
the noises
that there are no earplugs
for.

and every single one of them
can do something better than you,
enough so
to make them millionares.

but there just always seems to be
something in the way.

the progression of thoughts

image
and sound
fertilize the sentiment,
which sprouts
into a thought.

the thought
grows thicker
and thicker
until
there is no more room
to spread.

and then come
the words,
breaking windows
and shedding blood,
until
the silence
harvests the space
needed
for another seed.

a difference of interpretation

some of us
never read the owner's manual
to
our own lives.

as a matter of fact,
we probably burned it,
sometime
between birth
and highschool,

but
in our defense
we probably just wanted to
study
the effects of fire.

so instead
we learned everything
on our own,
and rewrote
that owner's manual
with nothing but our guts.

and if you ask just about anyone
they will tell you
that your guts
are just no substitute
for
standard black ink.

and then
you might nod
just to pretend that you're paying attention.

but really
you're just thinking in terms
of
the carcinogen content
of standard black ink.

sometimes being alone

sometimes,
when your drinking
alone,
in some bar,
or in
the confinement
of your own apartment,
all you can do
is think
in terms of
failed love.

it will haunt you,
turning you into
that little boy
that lost
a dead puppy
to a car,
on
the side of a road.

and sometimes
there is just nobody
whom you feel you can turn
to,
when you are nothing but
roadkill.

and then
you'll go to that bar,
and watch the two couples
in that place
face eachother,
nose to nose,
like it's some personal communion.

and they talk in terms
of politics,
of mutual friends,
of personal agendas,
and
both parties are just living by
that thread,
that connects,
that thrives
on the number two.

and there you are,
just sitting alone,
on that barstool,
watching the highlights
on espn,
wondering,
when you will become
that one
with somebody again,
with that girl.

so you go home
and your apartment is still
empty,
the paintings
and pictures still
haven't been hung
on the walls,

and the two people
whom you've texted,
still haven't replied.

you just imagine staying alone
forever,
or until
you're finally dead.

so
you pour yourself
another drink,
and write this,
a homage,
that is constructed
from nothing more
than being your final
drink.

your sum

it's funny,
when your alone,
in your room,
doing nothing but drinking
a can of beer and
lighting cigarettes in your mouth
like it's some epiphany,

you think back
in your memory warehouse
about those other times you were
alone
in a different room,
or a patio,
or a even a graveyard,
inbetween the different states.

and every time
when you were alone,
you faced those same dusty records,

except then,
the records wore
a little less dust.

you measure yourself,
by distance,
by girls,
by everything
that you almost accomplished,
and still
this beer isn't enough,
this cigarette tastes like
every single one you've smoked before,

but your head and
your heart
are in perfect unison
reminiscing
about ghosts
and
images
that crushed
and
choked
and
beat you
into the perfectly evolving
bloodied mess
you are today.

stay a kid

just stay a kid.

your job,
your wife,
your boyfriend,
the debt collector
will always be there
with weights
and
demands that will
try to bury you
when
your not even looking.

build an igloo in the snow
while drinking beer.
tell some random girl
that you love her.
shoot a credit card
up
into travel
to moscow,
or mongolia.

stay a kid.
stay drunk for an entire weekend.
and laugh
always laugh,
my god
go to your fucking grave laughing.
nothing has to be this serious.

stay a kid,
and you'll always have
just enough.

watching a blizzard

the snow comes in
like a hurricane.
they say
it's the worst blizzard
to hit chicago
since
'79.

i stand
at my bedroom window,
looking out
like some old man
with nothing but time
and nowhere to go.

with the wind,
the pattern of snow goes up
and sideways,
and it never seems to be going
down.

there's a drift of snow
across the street
waist high,
and by the time i wake up
in the morning,
it'll be high enough to bury
most any sized man.

there isn't much visibility,

and i just don't know what i'm looking at
anymore.

with legs

we're just paths.
that's all we are,

and we're also
like headless ants
running around on busy streets.
sometimes,
usually always,
we run into other headless
ants
in our tiny section of the street.

sometimes we like them.
sometimes we tolerate them
and other times we detest
the presence of some of these
other headless ants.

then

after a while
or
after a long while
or even just for a minute
we run along being paths
and headless ants,
and we repeat
and continue.

happy drunk thoughts

it doesn't matter.

we've already drank enough
gasoline
and the remaining crumbs
of
our own heart's
to
last us a lifetime.

it doesn't matter anymore,

not this.
not the leaded thoughts
we carry,
nor
the smoke blown in our faces
that we wear
better than any cheap
checkout aisle makeup.

no.
we just need to accept,
that we are nothing more
than bathing peasants, stuck
underneath
a moon,
that provides
just enough light
to see.

early sunday morning. the loop.

the skyscrapers
don't talk
at 4 in the morning.

you can hear
the snow
and ice
crackle
and crunch
and echo off
the the steel and mortor
of the buildings.

the elevated tracks
just sit there,
like ancient monuments
that people have forgotten,
at least for the next few hours.

and it's snowing,
the streetlights
expose each
and every single snowflake
like a thief.

i walk underground
to meet the blueline.

chicago to nashville

it doesn't matter.

soon enough,
someone will be planting red
and yellow flowers
on our graves, that,
or our remains
will be plucked clean
by vultures.
in some desert.

let's go.
chicago to nashville
is only 8 hours
and
13 minutes away.
let's go,
preferably, quicker
than bowling balls falling
from a shallow sky.

it'll only be
for a few days,
but goddamnit,
let's get there before
there are roadblocks
and other processions.

we are just manual

none of us
are
ever that lucky.

we're born, and
then we drink all the time,
as we're smoking cartons of cigarettes.

then we die.

then we're reborn christians,
or corporate yes men.
still,
trying just to collect a speck
of sense
as to why
we are here.

and always,
something goes wrong.

that girl leaves you.
your kid outshines you
in
the fuckup department.

it never ends.

then you die
again.

and if your lucky,
when you wake up,
for the 50th time,
you'll just be,

knowing damn well, that
besides yourself,
there was never any control
you possessed
to begin with.

niece

i craddle
my niece,
less than one
month old.

she is sleeping.

i study
her face,
imagining
there's some great big
secret
revealed on her skin.

there isn't,
as far
as i can tell.

grandma
and mother
are toiling around
the kitchen table,
making some crafts.

those fingers,
my god,
they aren't even human,
but they are.
just the size of slivers.

she adjusts herself
in my arms,
and i'm left speechless.
i just don't know what to say
to this 10 pound pile
of
newly formed flesh.

i don't want her to grow.
i don't want her to get swallowed
by
the world's shit one day.
i don't want her to hurt
a boy, or
another tiny girl,
with words
and actions
that would make one forget
that this girl,
sleeping in my arms,
was once
a baby.

she opens those quarter size
eyes,
stares at me,
and begins crying.

her mom rescues her.
she just wants to be fed.

speechless

you can pretend until
a million different adjectives
mold
the proper sentences
in your brain,
comprising
that one thought
that is a lightning bolt crashing
through
your veins.

for you
any semblence
of
articulation has been lost
like some ancient language.

and
it's at times like these,
when your alone,
in your little apartment,
after a date
or a family gathering,
or even when your just drinking
within
a cirlcle of friends,
you can feel
that this world
is made
for other people,
but never you.

you might even wear this,

but it is always so goddamn hard
to explain this.

nothing new

the problem is,
along the way,
as your inventing
god, or
some type of
fix,

you'll go chasing
a piece of zirconium
in a hand,
whose master
has lost
any semblence
of a new thought.

and
the problem is,
is that we have dug
everywhere,
in pits of shit,
with our bare hands,
scrounging
for nothing
but another piece
of shit.

and our hands
are tired.

and we imagine
we're lucky.

and what we pull
up
is always
the same.

the inventions
are nothing
but
ninety year old people,
carrying the same wrinkles.

and you think
that you said something
new?

stocks and holes

the brain. sometimes
it thinks
too much,
causing
for interuptions
during the day,
that's like a blunt
magnetic forcefield
pulling your thoughts
up,
over the brain's crust,
until they bubble.

there is nowhere for them
to go.

that's why they invented
yoga, and
heroin, and
horrible movies,
about horrible people,
in horrible cities.

you sit there
with a skinny thought.

you sit there
feeding that thought
like it's some starving baby.

you feed it
until
it outweighs
the weight
of your brain.

maybe there's some cheap candle
you light,
or maybe
there's some dollarstore prayer
that somebody taught
you,
anything
that takes on the shape
of a pill.

but it's there,
always waiting for you
like your just some
puppy,
waiting
for some charles manson to appear.

and it's then,
at that moment,
that you forget everything
on
some list
thay you always swore
you'd remember.