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.