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.

4:30 rambling about steak

it's 4:31
in the goddamn
morning,
and all
i can think
of
is eating
a
new york strip.

and
i'm not even
drunk.

i
just haven't had
steak
in months.

the t.v.
is making
images
in
the background,
and all it is,
is politics.

i'm not tired
yet,
and i don't think
i'll fall
asleep
before the sun comes
up
out of nowhere.

but at least i know
that
a cow
has been slaughtered.

of reigning gods

yesterday
is nothing
but a tear drop
in a bucket.

the problem is
there are buckets
filled with oceans
of these.

i believe
in rain,

and i imagine
that
i'll drown
in a flood
one day,
just as
every single inch
of my insides
is swimming
in unison.

most of the time,
before jesus,
or allah,
or buddah,
humans have prayed
to some rain god
or another
when
it was too dry,

and i just don't know
what they did
when they were
drowning.

acts of mundane violence

i drop
three icecubes
into the bottom
of the glass.

i pour a blanket
of vodka
on top.

instantaneously
the bones
of the icecubes
crack,
but
there is a purpose
to this barbarity,
i think
to myself,
and the vodka
is at least chilled.

i take
that first sip,
with my feet
still in place
where
i committed
this act,

and then
i continue
that conversation
in my head,
about something
i already have forgotten
about.

her pictures

i catch
your daughter's
pictures hanging
everywhere,
from the pages
of the atlas
inside my car,
to the belly
of my wallet.

you even cut
me two more
that you stuffed
inside that envelope,
with my credit cards,
and other personal
identification,
the last day
i ever saw
you
or her.

i always thought
that i'd see her
again.

i knew her
for two years,
and for that one year,
i took her
to school
most mornings,
and picked her up.

i was there
for all her soccer games,
and two of her birthday parties.

i played with her,
and we had our own
imaginary world,
me and her.

for that one year
i spent more time
with her
than any adult
in her life.

and i'd give
anything i had,
just for one more.

but tell me,
please,
now that your gone
and everyday
i slip
just a little bit more
from her mind.

please tell me
how i should interpret
these pictures
of a 9 year old
little girl.

the first phase

we are
the type
of people
that will lose
consciousness
in the arms
of alcohol's
breath.

and yes,
we must forget
about the drugs,
and the pretty girls
with shiny knives,
for
the time being.

if anything,
we have created ourselves
perfectly fucked,
in an image
that is more fitted
to us.

we are this,
the canvas,
and this skinny piece
of white paper,
folded
at the knees.

you
and me,
we will be lucky enough
to die
one day,
but my god,
we will die
with our hearts
dissected
on that proper steel
table.

it's that way,
and i promise that
nothing else
will kill us.

and when
they ask about
us,
long after
our bones
are nothing
but compost,
with some type
of bent halo,

we will laugh,
believing
that we were
some type
of god,
making belief
on this
stale earth.