hosts

the nectar
is pulled
and streched,
then chewed.

it's that easy.

it tastes good,
so
they will come
back
for more.

the best parts are
sucked
below,
past negativity.

then
of course,
there is nothing
left,
but cracks
in the wilt
of the host's body.

and
by this time
the nectar has
already been digested,
leaving nothing
behind
but waste.

nobody knows
where the soul of
dead nectar goes,
but

there are always
more bees.

a thought of two years

if
you hold my hand,
i'll hold yours.

i'll hold yours
like it means
everything.

we'll watch
all those movies,
eat
side by side,
with the precision
of a clock.

we'll fuck
on beds,
our parents beds,
we'll fuck indoors
and out.

we'll do this damn near
almost every day,
multiple times,
some times.

i'll even show you
what my tears look like,
when nobody is looking.

you showed me yours,
and i'll never tell.

but then,
all of a sudden,
a wall appears
that breaks our grip,
and there is always
some celestial body
that disintegrates
into the very being
of dust.

you go your way,
and i'll go mine,

and there will always be someone,
to watch that movie,
to break that bed,
to catch that tear.

and there we go,
once again,
disappearing into
the distance,
this thing called
us,

and really,
it's no different than
the other her's,
or
the other him's.

but maybe,

one day,
as
your trapped
in traffic,
one of our songs
will appear
through the radio,

or maybe,
i'll pass by some
stranger
on the street,
with the same replica
of your eyes,

maybe
we will remember,
something good,
even if it's just
for one minute.

because you could just walk away

as we wander
from here
to everywhere,


but really
nowhere,


it's just a matter
of
physics,
that there will be
dirt,
and shit,
and magnetic
debris,
that will eventually
form a film
around our eyes.


and within the haste,
of this journey,
you will never remember
to wipe your eyes.


then,
every once in awhile,
when you are tired,
and your feet
just need to take
a breath,


you will sit down,
on the side of the road,
almost like roadkill,


and there she is.


she is actually willing
to wipe the shit,
and dirt,
and debris
from your overexposed
eyes,
for free.


you let her.


and she cured
your fatigue,
every night,
for a lifetime,
if you let her.


but to you,
sitting is just a
disease,


and there is just everything
that you haven't seen.


you stand up,
and peer
into the darkness,
worse than a thief.

campfire reaction

we take this life,
in which we are granted.
we place it on a stick,
and hold it
next to the fire.

we turn the stick,
and
are never satisfied,

we just toss this meat
into the fire.

what we burn,
never
makes any sense.

and all we have
are these thoughts,
and these reactions,
and this bottle
of cheap wine,
and still,
it's never enough.

and my god,
if we only knew
what enough
is,
we'd be settled
just a little bit
better.

and i'd even bet
that
we'll never be happy,
until each
and every piece of meat
that
we feed this
flame,
combusts
into
some piece
of perfection,
that we place
right before our faces.

a struggling of noises

it's been
a brutal summer.

nothing but
a dagger
slitting into
tiny pieces
of my brain,
everytime
i think,
on any given
hour
of the evening.

on most nights,
i'd just sit outside
on the patio,
drinking,
until
i forgot
what i was trying to
remember.

all that you can hear
up here,
is a space filled
with crickets.

at first,
you want to kill them,

then,
after a while,
you begin to understand
what
they are saying,
and you appreciate
the diversion
from the sounds
and echoes
that are
thrashing about
your insides.

and all it is,
is communication.

maybe they're right,

and maybe
i never thought
that one day
i'd be eavesdropping
on the conversations
of crickets,

but
it's too late,
and everything
always happens
like this.

it's already
september,
and i haven't
slept
in two months.

but
right now
i'm tired,
and all i want
is
to lie down.

three beers later

i wear a cubs shirt,
so
they try to speak to
me,
the couple selling hotdogs
in front
of the bar.

her husband
is from chicago,

so i say
"yeah",
and give them
the weakest
thumbs up
i could muster.

in here,
i purchase
a beer,
and am introduced
to these two guys
i've already been
introduced to
before.

one minute
of indifferent conversation
passes by,
before
i walk outside
for a smoke.

i study these people
outside,
50 something year old guys
with long
and dying gray hair,
trapped,
in their twenties.
girls
in their twenties,
trapped in some
rock' n' roll
video dream.

nobody here
is going anywhere,
except
back to this bar.

i find some open space,
begin my second
beer,
and the girl
to my left
wants to talk
to me.

and there's just nothing
i want to say
to her, or
to the wounded dreamers, nor
to coctail waitress
with the very small
skirt.

this summer
has already been
long enough.

every piece of a lie,
every self-sale,
every introduction
has already been
spoken, tonight,
and every single night
since
the the birth
of the first desire.

as politely
as i can,
i finish my beer
and navigate
through
a maze
of people,
until i find myself
back
on the outside.

to begin the next

you just
want to wear
the inside
of her hand,
like it was yours.

it's one of those
days
that there are storms,
hovering, over
the breath
of phoenix.

she's nowhere
to be found.

she won't return
your texts,
your emails,
your prayers.

you've done something
wrong.

she's gone.

you will never
hold her face
between
the skin
of your hands.

you know this,
worse
than than that one,
that
always make you
cry.

she's gone,

and all you can do
is spy on that valley
of lights
below,
and initially begin
imagining
the next.