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.

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.