nothing new

the problem is,
along the way,
as your inventing
god, or
some type of
fix,

you'll go chasing
a piece of zirconium
in a hand,
whose master
has lost
any semblence
of a new thought.

and
the problem is,
is that we have dug
everywhere,
in pits of shit,
with our bare hands,
scrounging
for nothing
but another piece
of shit.

and our hands
are tired.

and we imagine
we're lucky.

and what we pull
up
is always
the same.

the inventions
are nothing
but
ninety year old people,
carrying the same wrinkles.

and you think
that you said something
new?

stocks and holes

the brain. sometimes
it thinks
too much,
causing
for interuptions
during the day,
that's like a blunt
magnetic forcefield
pulling your thoughts
up,
over the brain's crust,
until they bubble.

there is nowhere for them
to go.

that's why they invented
yoga, and
heroin, and
horrible movies,
about horrible people,
in horrible cities.

you sit there
with a skinny thought.

you sit there
feeding that thought
like it's some starving baby.

you feed it
until
it outweighs
the weight
of your brain.

maybe there's some cheap candle
you light,
or maybe
there's some dollarstore prayer
that somebody taught
you,
anything
that takes on the shape
of a pill.

but it's there,
always waiting for you
like your just some
puppy,
waiting
for some charles manson to appear.

and it's then,
at that moment,
that you forget everything
on
some list
thay you always swore
you'd remember.

the concept of booze

i'll tell you
what you do,

you need to grab
that really long
neck
on that bottle of
booze.

you need to choke
it
like it's only
your last meal.

you need to see the skin
on your fingers
go white.

you may not
remember
any of this
in the morning.

you might think
this bottle
is nothing
but
your mother.

but you'll drink
it,
and you'll think
it's cleaner than
holy water.

but it's not,
and yet
it almost is.

it's only something
attached
to your personal noise,
that makes you think in terms
in your own
validity.

drivethru

it takes exactly
one cigarette
to warm up my car
in
a ten degree cold.

i hear a song,
circa the 1950's,
something about love
of course,
some song
i've never heard before,

but it kept me interested.

and
something about the guy's
voice,
that sounded so sad,
singing
something about
how
this girl
should allow him
to prove his love
to her.

next thing i know,
i'm going through
a mcdonald's drivethru,
thinking about slaughtered cows,
thinking that even slaughtered
cows have love.

but i'm sure,
these cows
never see the stungun coming.

i order the number 5,
two burgers
with a coke.

it's only hunger,
but
i'm trying to think
that something is wrong,

burns

we take
these names
to mean
anything,

and all they usually are,
are just bits
and pieces of smoke
heading for some type
of fan.

you
will never believe
it,
the pronunciation
of a lie
tied
to a burning cigarette
in somebody's
hand.

you will think
of it,
only as a noose,
so that
the burning cherry
will burn
that noose
that you hang from
loose.

and then
the only place
where
you really are,
is at the bottom of an ashtray,
looking up,
imagining shapes
in the smoke.

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.