sub-compact

if you are in pain

then my heart aches
too...

at high noon i puked
all over my brand new
shoes

now it is 2:40 in the morning; i am shopping
for sub-compact hand guns and drinking
coffee

i can still smell it on me.
i can still smell it on me!

stumbling down a hallway that i don't own,
punching 11 digits into a telephone
i don't pay for...

big surprise: no answer-

there is something worse than cancer growing
inside of where a bloody, coronary entity
used to beat

me up and taste my blood, love.

moving backwards through the same hall
nothing is true when lies suffice-

(indeed, all is false)

a mistake made. i call then i fall
and begin to fade...

that airport toilet stall will never escape
or evade my memory- yet, you have left
an impression and i am leaving-

a free for all that comes less than cheap...

the working poor no longer even inspire
grief; they are worth every piece
of my teeth, though

don't you know that you can never, and
will never, know anything?

it is now 2:50 and the gun is in the mail,
the dog is on the bed, the cat is the bag.

jet lag and a broken heart catching
up to me finally-

lean back into the nicotine breeze,
kiss your own feet, and open
those eyes a bit too wide

when you feel- not hear- my body
leaving this existence.

in a few minutes.
in a few minutes!

unsure

i finally grew up just to find myself in my second childhood-
once upon a time, my love, i was
the little engine that could

now, somehow, i'm the little engine that can't
and my teeth hurt and i'm in desperate need
of a bath

i am more or less decent at math
yet i cannot equate the date
that'll set you back on my
path

an ache in my spine,
a pain in my back

my feet hurt and no reflexologist
alive can change the mud back
into dirt

i'm certain that i'm unsure.

drink my food

i'm trying to keep a good attitude
regarding having to drink my food.

i flipped all your photos sideways
so i could lie on my side
and gaze at your face.

i rolled-up instead of squeezing the toothpaste
in order to save a buck and prevent waste.

only i can prevent forest fires, smokey told me-
but he forgot to mention who would end them.

i am currently on fire (with desire) for something
it seems i will never obtain or achieve-

for this i pour another drink
and commence to grieve,

all the while i force a smile, of course,
and try to keep a good attitude
about having to drink my food.

liquor squirts

she's got the liquor squirts and everything hurts,

she sucks up the mud from
sterile water mixed with dirt

she hikes up her skirt then ties a ribbon which is
really a tourniquet to the only place left to get
a hit.

diet coke nose wearing pepsi cola clothes
slurring his speech in each direction this
tepid, cold wind blows

covering a face with panty hose
then robbing a bank in order
to put the currency in his
body.

eating cold soup on a string
looking like an onion ring
dream

nothing nourishing about these
catastrophes

it all simply vaguely stinks-

no need for trophies when all you're doing
is losing

faith at godspeed,

waking up with the shimmy
shakes to the reality
of a fake dream.

automatic

i am certain that my ghost will hover over your skin
and kiss it when sleep permits.

a shotgun is easier to obtain- or rather, faster,
than an automatic or a semi-automatic

so i guess i'll get a shotgun

i ain't no hunter, though

and never have been

(in fact i'm a "vegan")

(damn, i wish i had some heroin....)

i ain't no hunter kid, and i never have been

but i guess it's not hunting when the prey or the victim
is sitting right in front of you and IS you

this may be true

however, i do not believe in truth anymore

i believe in god but my faith is sore

i believe in my heart yet it's so broken that belief
causes me grief

i believe in this woman named liz but come on,
there are a million trillion women named liz

what's so special about believing in her, then?

och, anyhow- it's rushing up on 7 a.m. now
and pretty soon it's off for another bottle
of booze then a shotgun...

i thought i was the world's daughter but in truth
i'm only the world's son.

it ain't over till it's done.

i am wrong

i can be my own best friend- and, i can be my own worst enemy...

tipping back my drink is an action i can make easily.

in fact, it is an action i can complete on repeat;
it's a bit scary.

it's hard to take charity when you feel unworthy.

it is difficult to feel competent when you know you're smarter than that.
when you understand that you are more intelligent
than every miscreant.

money and time spent.

her parents have come to "visit"- unexpectedly- again.

i want to strangle the both of them. i know if i were to spend
twenty minutes (or less) alone with them i would kill them
so hard.

it's so hard to lug this broken heart
around town. i want to drown.

i fill the bathtub up and curse my luck.

i hold my breath and swim shallow breadths- i toss my stale bread
out into the ocean for the birds and pelicans to feed upon.

i'm so confused. oh shit! it's dawn. and i am wrong.

post script: fuck the fact that baghdad is burning- my asshole is burning
and there is a lot more learning for me.

i feel not so much like a newborn baby but at least as if i am only three.
bright, big question marks light up my eyes

whereas the rest of my kind's eyes
are cha-chining with dollar signs.

such funny designs. such strange patterns.

i don't even remember writing this- last thing i remember
is listening to the drone of a dial tone,
popping a pill, then reading a review

for a movie

which said it was "delightfully witty"

i remember thinking "i wish somebody
would say that about me"

then i must have fallen asleep- it is now 6:43 in the morning
and i guess i have started mourning my broken heart early.



i can be my own best friend- and, i can be my own worst enemy...

tipping back my drink is an action i can make easily.

in fact, it is an action i can complete on repeat;
it's a bit scary.

it's hard to take charity when you feel unworthy.

it is difficult to feel competent when you know you're smarter than that.
when you understand that you are more intelligent
than every miscreant.

money and time spent.

her parents have come to "visit"- unexpectedly- again.

i want to strangle the both of them. i know if i were to spend
twenty minutes (or less) alone with them i would kill them
so hard.

it's so hard to lug this broken heart
around town. i want to drown.

i fill the bathtub up and curse my luck.

i hold my breath and swim shallow breadths- i toss my stale bread
out into the ocean for the birds and pelicans to feed upon.

i'm so confused. oh shit! it's dawn. and i am wrong.

post script: fuck the fact that baghdad is burning- my asshole is burning
and there is a lot more learning for me.

i feel not so much like a newborn baby but at least as if i am only three.
bright, big question marks light up my eyes

whereas the rest of my kind's eyes
are cha-chining with dollar signs.

such funny designs. such strange patterns.

i don't even remember writing this- last thing i remember
is listening to the drone of a dial tone,
popping a pill, then reading a review

for a movie

which said it was "delightfully witty"

i remember thinking "i wish somebody
would say that about me"

then i must have fallen asleep- it is now 6:43 in the morning
and i guess i have started mourning my broken heart early.

dead link

stumbling and tumbling through a skating rink
in a dream.

my roller skate wheels were made from the eyes
of every person i've ever let feel
me.

they were bleeding.
they were bloody.

i followed a dead link which led me to a page of nothing.
i stood on a stage huffing and puffing.

i became the big bad wolf. i huffed, i puffed, and i blew
this glass house of cards down. the roof flew
hard to the ground.

there were aces, hearts, spades, diamonds, and clubs
scattered all around. they were everywhere.

i somehow forgot to care.

instead we simply stood there with arms crossed
looking scared and lost.

bleeding

so many medicines are unsafe for me
because i consume more than three
alcoholic beverages/drinks
per evening.

maybe, currently, my stomach is bleeding.

i am sick. i am tired. i am sick and tired of all this needing.

centrifugal force. o, but of course!

you tie the bucket to a string, fill it with water,
then proceed to twirl it round and round
without letting anything
touch the ground.

you are my daughter.

my love is fodder for your hate. a broken phone date times four.
and i want, but possibly, do not need, more.

my arms are sore.

my back is sore.

my feet are sore.

my heart is sore.

i am a poor bore.

centrifugal force, and i have steered myself (and my health)
off course.

o, but of course!

bed made

I yell and tell my empty bottles to go to hell-

I ignore the smell.

I am ignoring the smell (breathing through
my mouth).

The smell which resembles rotten broccoli
but which simply cannot be rotten broccoli.

I want to yell. I wish to scream.

I am on my knees. I beg and I plead.

I tell the empties to go to hell
times three!

This is the biggest tiny game of kiss and tell
we have yet played.

Your face is a bed made.

regret's sweat

If only the straight and narrow path were straight and narrow-
instead it is a wide breadth- and it is easy to stray, to get lost
on the way; the aftermath is both what happens before
and what occurs in the end. Laughter is hidden within
sobs and shrieks. We teeter and totter off the tight
rope as we completely forget how to speak right
or how to walk

Tonight

We talk of nothing; we solely listen to regret's
sweat glisten down our cheeks then chins

Wearing the grins of the sick
and/or incarcerated.

smack dab

Living- or more like dying- in the space between
nightmare and dream;

Constantly smack dab in the middle
of a hangover and complete
intoxication.

This situation is becoming
unbearable by degrees
which are increasing

With seemingly no hesitation or sympathy for the situation.

There is an electric appliance plugged in the wall
next to the bathtub just waiting to fall;

There is a string dangling from the center of her
ceiling; there is a chair sitting beneath, awaiting
feet to touch (then forever leave) its seat.

You feel a shiver rushing between your teeth
like a river; your liver aches as you break
off a piece, melt it in the middle of metal,
then suck it up with a syringe

You stab the needle smack dab
into your vein; such pleasure
after such strange pain-

A dab of smack; now all you see is black;
the ache in your back has dissolved
along with the alcohol

Used to clean the skin-
just a pin prick

Then everything is nothing
and nothing is relevant
yet all is precious.

in the slightest

This pixilated wilderness makes me miss
them things I've never experienced-

There are hawks that perch on power lines,
there are coyotes that walk through streets

There is nothing green except for money.

There are reservations that have no hesitations
to reserve using dignity-

There is a smell in many cities that cannot be
perfumed away;

There is pollution and concrete
that is gray

Today there was a tragic incident
that I was witness to,

Everything feels blue
and

Tomorrow there will be a thousand more
that I will never see. I long for
before

Yet admit I have no gauge of that page;
I mean, I can't fathom it in the slightest.

tragedy or for eternity

When I heard the scream I dropped my drink,
flung my cigarette into the wilderness, quit
smoking it then ran outside to see
what I could do.

There was nothing
I could do.

The blood had already been curdled. And, the woman
for all I know, was already dead and murdered.

It spun my head like a bad trip from acid,

That scream.

That scream was a nightmare of a dream; only
thing is it was reality.

I realized, tonight (for the thousandth time),
that people ban together during
tragedies.

Such a sense of camaraderie
when two planes struck
the buildings.

What to do? To
make it okay?

"Just make it through today,"
is all I can say-

Yet,

At least, I see thoroughly
currently how

Individuals unite
during tragedy

I recently, just now, realized that life (in a sense)
is a tragedy and if everybody would admit
that then we'd ban together for eternity.

hilarious/humorous

For me the best and only way
to deal with hangovers
is to drink the next day

Naturally, this method leads
to a cycle of a vicious nature.

That guy's mind is far from mature,
however he is 33 physically-

It is funny in the sense that it isn't
at all humorous-

For me the best and only way
to deal with hangovers
is to drink the next day

Naturally, this method leads
to a cycle of a vicious nature.

It is funny in the sense that it isn't
at all humorous-

I wish to feel victorious and triumphant;

Therefore- knowing I cannot possibly win-
I will quit in tip-top fashion,

I will stop working my job soon then
ride into the feeling of the moon.

Or, the feeling of the moon's breath
on my neck a second next
to impending death-

That is a more pretty way to put it.

Everything is terribly funny in
the sense that none of it is
remotely hilarious.

wooden bucket

You know you're an alcoholic/have a problem
when you down a shot of whiskey on your 30
minute lunch break (at the Wooden Bucket
tavern on 22nd street)

From a fast-food job selling
weenies,

Arrive 6 minutes late- and notice
absolutely no change

In your functionality

Due to the aforementioned shot of whiskey

addict

I am not an addict- I’m simply a habitual user.

I do not want to lose or confuse her.

I am a spaceship- my eyes are two flying saucers.

The hip bone's connected to the thigh
bone. Let's fly.

Let's shrink down in pink size
then travel through this phone.

I don't want to be alone-

I’d like to make you moan.

Time doesn't need a machine
to travel.

Most times, like tonight and right now, it seems somehow
that the New York City "art scene" was created/invented
in order to keep young intellectuals from doing anything
substantial or influential

(Within these communities they cheaply
inhabit) with their talent and minds.

Sometimes.

The bottle doesn't exist- remember?-
so it's neither half-empty nor half-full.

Lay it all on the table.

A so-called "respectable"
woman walks

Into the liquor-mart
behind the mall.

For some strange reason my eyes follow her as my thighs quiver,
(or was it my liver? maybe) then I see the most amazing thing:

She grabs a liter in a bottle then begins to stick it up the bottom
of her dress; she leaves the store casually yet in a hurry.

Everything is blurry. Especially my reasons to keep on living.
I rather hide than try to survive in an era where cigarettes
are 50% more expensive (overnight).

Something significantly wrong with my sight,
however not quite blind.

Only lovers left alive. Everything is blurry.

If you will hurry and be mine then we will live, we will thrive.

Only lovers left alive. I do not read minds.

It is better to put the needle on the record than in your arm.

Here is my heart. Take it- just take it!- please and already.

It is best to shoot hoops not heroin.

Mix the gin with the tonic then begin
to drink it.

This is my honesty on a string; wrap it around your pinky
finger then let's let this love linger
(into infinity) forever.

Only lovers left alive. Together
you and me shall thrive.

soul

A dead horse.

Of course, I've (accidentally) steered us off course.

I am naked in a photo holding a bottle.

I know these poems do not seem political-

But they've got soul

And soul is what will eventually ruin politics.

The bites itch so we scratch at marks left by ticks-

We are in a room apart.

Like Alyosha, we are wearing monastic dress
whilst running up the tavern steps.

We cradle a heart that ceased beating
two summers ago, however it
has once again began
to pump blood

As well as oxygen, from our chest
up to our head

I think, for the first time- in a long time-
that I am better off than dead.

diaper

desire...

burning. fire. burning. fire. burning.

a bird's wing caught in the windshield wiper. i put my grandmother in another diaper.

she shits down her checkered pant leg and all over her slippers. i clean it up then hold my nose so i don't smell the tough side of luck.

i hide underneath the sheets. i pretend to fuck you in my dreams.

everything is imaginary. the images form constellations and i begin to think that i am a magician; making magic happen were tragic things should reside.

i hide under the sheets.

i begin to feel as if nothing will ever happen easily for me. it's hard to be so far from a goal. it feels cold.

i am the opposite of a pullman train car; i feed coals into this fire and begin to soar higher.

i am high.

i am high as a kite and our strings become tangled. i am mangled. i am mangy as a sewer cat. you are a rat. i spit and i spat. i shit and i shat.

my love is fat but my heart and wallet are skinny.

this ending, once again, is our beginning.

it is time for mending. it's hard to find the seams when it seems everything is stitched to begin with.

this situation is hard to mend. it is tough to fix.

maybe we are forever gluing together glue- but at least we do what we have to. and it may not be fun, yet it's getting done.

let's get it done. let's get her done then melt into the meaning of the sun.

desire...

burning. fire. burning. fire. burning.

a bird's wing caught in the windshield wiper. i put my grandmother in another diaper.

genius

why don't we- i mean, i need- to bleed into each other.

it seems to be either one or the other.

my fleeting moments of sobriety. i can never be sober for more than a few weeks.

heroin. alcohol. cocaine. love. god. sex. it's all drugs and this is a vex.

i have been cursed since birth.

at least, i am a genius AND insane. i mean, mental illness without prolific tendencies would just be awful, i think.

do you see?

can you see me now that i've erased all doubt?

i want to get it out. i want out. my brother is my mother.

why don't we- i mean, i need- to bleed into each other.

it's always one or the other. today it is this. tomorrow it will probably be that.

it's okay- don't worry about, or after, me- it's simply a matter of fact which laughter may help alleviate.

time to go create. mine is yours to take.

puppy

She only loved me when I was a puppy.

Then, one day, when I aged, she threw me away.

See, she locked me up in a safe and tossed the key into infinity. Tough luck.

Fuck where "the buck stops". I don't want to break it off. I have been collecting rocks within this mist (in my fists).

Kiss, kiss, kissing and long walks were once the things that made everything okay. But now, I cry and yelp and moan into mother nature's telephone. Alas, nobody is home.

Nobody is home. And nobody is answering.

I wish I were still a puppy.