hallway

the sounds
in this hallway,
bounce
off the walls,
searching
for an escape.

the walls,
in this hallway,
are always
just a bit crooked,
enough so
that the angles
have crumbled.

sometimes,
when your just thinking,
you swear
that you can even hear
ghosts.

and when i'm standing
there,
searching
for that room,
guided by the hand
of voices,
it's then
that i realize
that i'm lost.

saturday afternoon kitchen

the midafternoon sun
sits
in the windowsill
like an old friend.
i wear it
like a blanket.

all i have
is this coffee
and some thoughts
that evaporate
with this light.

there's a tiny fly,
stuck,
between the screen
and window,
trying to find
a way out.

i open the window,
light another smoke,
and the tiny fly
has found an out.

i take another sip
of coffee
as i stare
at the backporch door.

movement

a plane flys over
the city of phoenix
at 2:05
in the morning,

westbound,
probably going to
either san diego
or l.a.

i'm in the lounge
chair,
drinking my beer,
smoking a marlboro,
not thinking of much,
just studying
the hue
of the early morning
clouds.

no doubt
there are people sleeping
on that plane.
no doubt
they were sleeping
in their own beds
just twenty four hours ago.

and i'm thinking,
in one week
i won't be in this lounge chair,
at this house,
with a stream of tiny mountains
watching over me,
anymore,
like i have been
for the past three months.

i won't be
in this town either,

just in another place
where
the restlessness
will reset.

religious findings

i clutch
this bottle
within
the bones
of my hand,
like
it's some holy grail.

within
the guts
and bile
of this bottle,
the opiates
create the battle.

and when i'm high
i'm most likely lying
to you,
to her,
to some god
i haven't yet met.

in my laboratory,
when there is just me
and this bottle,
and i'm searching for
the creation
of the perfect excuse,

it's there,
that my findings
just turn into
a fading buzz.

and it's always then,
that i realize
that my life
trenched
into this religion,
has won.

survival skills

everything
just melts
and fades
into stew,
and the remnents
become
the glue
that binds us
to what
we have become.

we are
the victims
of a lineup
of memories,

and sometimes
it starts out good.
then,
something always
happens.
a period is placed
on the head
instead of a crown.

and sometimes
that place
was never any good,
and the only thing
we have to show
are sleaves
of scars.

still,
underneath the stewed muck,
it's really incomprehensible
how the individual
survives.

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.