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.