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.