the kings & queens of self destruction.

this, then, is the moment we all fear.
perhaps just i.
i gave everything,
gained everything,
then it was lost.
i am lost.

anger & resentment beg at me.
you quit.
we weren't supposed to do that,
so i get angry & resent that this has become the healing brand.
this is all wrong.
i am all wrong.

backwards.
upside down.
sideways.

aloof,
awol,
amiss,
aloft,
absolutely
aching
at
all
angles
ascertained.

it's scary to know that i will never fully recognize myself again.
at least that self.
the one i loved.
it is stolen & absolved & ripped from my chest,

daily,

& with a pain i could never have imagined.
i see it still,
but it fades.
blurs,
darkens,
descends,

daily.

coming to terms with these feelings is something they do not teach.
cannot teach.
should not teach.
for it is much safer,
much more sober a belief,
to collapse at the pressure of commonality.
relief.
release.
rebound.

i cannot betray me.
commonality is base & weak & just a little too desirable.
if the laws of me allowed,
perhaps i would,
perhaps i should.
if only if only if only
i could.
i am a monster,
no better or above,
just a man with a curse & a heart that knows no end.

you are bound to will yourself to this though.
you will believe you've won,
& ignore & lie & cheat & rob & pretend.
but only you.
only you.

we both have lost.
we both are lost.
we both just want it all to get lost.

sadly, the laws of our reality do not allow us to bear witness to those crimes which we commit against ourselves.
we are the perfect pardoners of all we will never admit to.


pretentious pricks. 

it stays ugly.

it's hard to put one foot in front of the other
everyday
when you wake up & can't even find your legs

hoolicant's.

it was summer, 1999.
my friends and i were young, free, fast and alive.
we played rock n roller music and cared too much about us.
we'd drive from street to street in the middle of the night,
smoking cigarettes and cussing in jokes about fat people.
always looking for a school to skate or a friends basement to crash
or a neighborhood pool to swim.
we new the gate code.
it was ours to rule.
to reign.
to destroy and respect and rebuild.
we were good.
smarts and competence never infringing on fun.
life.
the balls of it all sitting in our back pockets as mothers made us pizza
and let us watch movies with their daughters all night long.
we got pulled over a lot.
we were the young ones driving around at suspicious hours in the rich burbs.
cop candy.
always guilty, but never doing anything wrong.
we championed convincing cocky policeman that our eyes were red because we'd
been in hot tubs and up too late.
that we wore toboggans in June because we liked them.
that we were just hanging out in that strangers garage, with the babysitter, and her ex-boyfriend was coming to pound one of us so we were hiding their, in the dark, with baseball bats, and we had no clue about a burglary at a house around the corner.
from which the dogs traced the scent straight to us and that garage.
no, i wasn't smoking weed.
i'm wearing patchouli because i liked it.
yes, you can search my car and call the canine unit.
i promise you, i'm not high. 
innocent.
misunderstood, absolutely.
but young and free and fast and alive.
rising up to climb whatever proverbial mountain we thought we were on.
 

     

you're just gone.

when we break, we break.
i mourn.
you will not be coming home.
you will not know me.
your life will carry on
& so will mine
...but apart.
unknown.
unshared.
undone.

please.

i want to talk.
talk so hard my teeth chip & tongue gets caught between the bite.
the taste of blood wouldn't even ruin the occasion.
take me away.
to a place of lies or truth or quickly compiled pieces of what i'd love to hear.
anything.

anything.

or we don't have to talk.
just lie there, in silence, 
or accompanied by tele noise.

whatever.

i could play with your hair & draw hangman on your skin.
grab your face like i used to & kiss it everywhere.
it's simple really.
the past.
the lost.
the truth.

or we could laugh.
tell each other terrible jokes or stories we've made up on the spot.

like then.

& we could cry.
we would cry.

& reach & grab & grasp & sputter.
blind to the loud & deaf to the brilliant.
we could never see the noise or hear the light.
but it's there.
fucking rioting.
under nose & stitch & twitch & promise.
& pieces of me see.
& pieces of you.
scrambling against time to get all back together. 

short fat brian.

when i was a kid
i shot rocks.
& there was always this tiny little shit.
rudy faced, short fat brian.
that's what we called him,
short fat brian.
he smelled like maple syrup
& apparently didn't have a mother
that routinely licked her thumb & cleaned the
caramel apple off his face.
he rode his older sister's childhood bike
& covered the pink racing stripes
with black electrical tape.
we all knew,
but he seemed to somehow
never catch on.
i think that's what bothered me the
most about short fat brian.
i was beyond feeling sorry for
someone that didn't have the brain
capacity to figure out that the people
around him didn't like him.
it just made me angry at him instead.
looking back, maybe he was on to something.
as i get shorter & fatter,
i find myself not really giving a shit
about your opinions of me just like he did.
he was just way ahead of his time
& ours...especially ours.
what a kid that short fat brian.
really taught me a thing or two.
oh,
& i sucked at shooting rocks.

teeth & muscle.

i've packed a bag & dropped my head.

put on a new shark skin suit & one foot in front of the other.

thy kingdom come, thy will be done

& folly will be your druthers.

the spinning wheel of holocaust arms & words & spit

will get mindlessly out of control here.

i'm an action hero. 

doing my own stunts & secretly hoping i'll get injured so i can collect the compensation.

i've whittled my bloody, boned out fingers to the point of 

shameless, & my heart needs a bath from all the smog it collects in the open air.

who cares?

i wouldn't be a man if i didn't dare a little.

i'd wash up in a rusty old basin somebody used to clean carcasses in.

i'm not dead meat.

hail a cab or take a train.

just make sure it's the roughest ride to get me there.

the long way around so i have plenty of time to shuffle & re-count.

i'm made of grit & steel & old baby doll heads.

the kinds of things that make a place cold or strong 

but hauntingly familiar & nostalgic.

i have no enemies.

just cowards that are too scared to really feel the way the want about me.

got to go.

the lease is up.

electricity's been shut off for days 

& i haven't had a hot shower in months.

if you find me or cross a path i've been down, flash a grin

because i'll already be wearing one.

sometimes teeth & muscle are your only friend against it all.

hush.

i met a man in town today.

he was old & rugged & had the streets he lived on

all over him.

i sat with him for a while & we smiled & shared some cigarettes.

conversation light, about life & memories & war & brokenness.

love & losses & wins & trades.

out of town & in town. 

good food & dark alleys to watch out for. 

i took his picture & gave him a few bucks for holding so still.

as i turned to leave, he handed me a needle & thread & told me i was

going to need it.

i was confused & he picked up on that from the look on my face.

he slowly stood up & gently took my head in his hands.

he then proceeded to thread in a zigzag line from my top lip to my bottom & so on.

he cut the ends, tied it off & nodded with a smile.

i smiled back & realized the favor he had done me.

i gave him two more bucks & the rest of my smokes.

see sea si.

i stopped a train in the rain

with my bare hands & a faulty bullet proof vest.

i eat glass & fire & sharks

& swallow hard, squeezing my eyes tight.

sometimes you just can't stop the flow.

the mixture of blood & salt runs down the wall. 

smeared together by the remains of your face & nose.

but disfigured & wounded is how i will find you.

i'd go as far as dying if i knew i could keep it up after my heart stops beating,

but a dead man fights no more.

so limp, crawl, struggle i will

because i believe in all of it.

& i believe in you & You.

"carry a torch into the darkest of places 

& suddenly you can see all you've been missing"

without me.

it's raining hearts in Cleveland.

falling from the sky in unaligned patterns.

crashing & splashing on the streets & sidewalks.

who would have guessed it would fall here?

a tireless journey that weaved it's way through months & years.

two feet that carried the hurt of ghosts & long forgotten faces.

names & places that crept their rotten fingers back across my eyes.

washing away the dirt & oil baked into the asphalt of my neatly paved dreams.

the sun sleeps for a few hours & the moon takes it's place in the sky.

the stars lend their eyes to you & to me, as somewhere we are both counting them

in our lawn chairs & over-used lazy-boys.

fragments & broken words still desperately cling together to form a bridge.

a beaten path that would surely crumble under the weight of just one of us.

when will we build something suitable for human consumption?

when will we realize that what we can't see, eventually really does disappear?

drag on. away.

show that sparkles last.

maybe your the same without me.

without me.

adrift.

a man called Storm & a man called Peace

are arm wrestling in a truck stop.

in a city, hardly known, just outside the state line.

i raise a glass & look on as the weather patterns change

& threaten our little home.

it's a sick feeling really when you don't know the words

but say it anyway. 

& know exactly how to look.

a monster will crawl back in his hole for this.

he will lose his name & his pride & his dark green, matted fur for this.

then the crows will come.

circle the city & sleep on the high lines.

looking down on the place where the fields were cleared

& a metropolis rose like the devil with a handbag.

the streets will slowly fill with the faces of the nameless,

who's feet move in automation towards the places they don't even know they're going.

i will move quietly among them, 

having lost all but my soul.

a bright, glowing neon sign.

"open for business".

& this then, is how you will find me.

fleeting.

trains & planes will pass by.

passengers will wave at the blur, not really knowing

that i saw them & was waving back...

but i know.

from where i stand, there is no blur.

a very clear picture of your face & eyes & tears...

waving at what you don't even know is there.

so i run home & write you a letter.

telling you that i saw you, even though you couldn't see me,

& that i waved back at you & was sorry you were crying.

i'll never know if you received it.

never know why you were crying

or what you were waving at.

never know if it made you feel better that i saw you.

but that, that i will know...

i saw you.

& somehow, that is enough.

wendy bird.

you can come in through the window.

i wasn't aware i had one, but apparently

there are things i wasn't aware of.

sorry if the floor is cold. possibly damp.

it's where i live though & can be a lovely place

when it's not alone.

take off your shoes. we can dance or stare or shoot out the stars.

i'll stand on my head to watch you rise

because upside down you stand up so right.

what is your name?

i call you by title & close my eyes & recite history,

but what is your name?

i bought a new typing machine

to record the conversations of our souls.

upon second thought though, i'm afraid that might only

weaken the thread & break the line planted in the air.

so no, i suppose i'll just use it to write letters

of the things we ought to say on the outside.

keep the inside, in our sides

& the fingers lose, free of death.

you shine in your sleep.

did you know that?

i watched you tonight & you kept me awake.

searching for the forgotten switch when all the while,

it was your face.

i don't mind.

it's petty to fret about lost sleep over such a miracle.

take care.

the window is always cracked, now that i know

where it is.

you're on your way somewhere & it's stunning to watch you go.

keep the rocks out of your bag.

weight like that will only make you crack...again.

don't forget to come back from time to time.

i want to hear the stories you are writing.

out where the light is.

Some people live their lives not able to materialize

their hearts & souls.

Unable to produce a functioning image of what the hell is happening amongst the chaos & darkness & creation inside their cage of a body.

I am ailed with the opposite of this common cold.

I am not a hero.

I am not a coward.

I am not hurting.

I am not at ease.

I am not sad.

I am not happy.

I am…

I am a house.

An antiquing establishment,

shaking over an ever-aging foundation.

I am a basement.

Stewing below the earth

in a cold, musty air that has filled no lungs in quite some time.

I am a box.

A broken, locked up

crate that hasn’t seen the light in 20 some years.

I am the contents of this box.

A beautiful failure of a mess

just waiting to be discovered & revived & set to life.

I am a man.

Take me to the river.

Put me under.

Out where the light is.

the beauty & the loom.

i dreamed you were sitting at a loom.

i entered the giant, barren room but your focus would not be broken.

i walked among you. 

the two of you. 

dancing in the middle of this giant space with barely enough light to make out faces,

but yours i saw. 

shining like the moon off of freshly fallen snow.

god, you were beautiful.

& your hands moved with the grace of a child but the skill of an elderly worker.

your eyes never left the weave,

& your lungs moved in a rhythm with the shuttle.

the silence was deafening.

but noise would have only shattered the glass that was the air.

you were working with bright, new colors.

the only thing that seemed to move outside the atmosphere of the room.

i glanced down at my hands.

they were old & aged,

hard & scarred from time i apparently didn't know had passed.

you never shuttered.

never flinched at my steps or wavered at my whisper.

i stood close for some time.

watching. 

taking you in.

a pile of rags in the corner of the room caught my eye.

i moved to them & shuffled through & through.

old, faded fabrics.

eaten away by moth & worm, left to be dressed with dust & mite.

i picked one up & a sudden chill forced it around my shoulders.

it smelled dead, dry, forgotten, familiar.

in the corner i stood.

warm & shrouded by the shadows.

i closed my eyes only for a moment to burn a picture in my mind

& when i opened them, you were gone.

the loom sat motionless.

empty except for the webs of spiders that had appeared almost instantly

but somehow held the signs of years.

i blinked.

the room remained.

i sank to the floor & bowed my tired head.

i closed my eyes to find the image i had stolen before all had fled.

there.

i smiled

& i fell asleep to breath the end.

these lips shall not speak.

these eyes shall not see.

in my mind is where waking will be.

but god, you were beautiful.

in response.

i can't measure my faith with the breadth of my tongue.
every word comes from some beginning & is rooted in some fantastical origin,
but that only explains where words started. where they go & what they accomplish from there is up to us.
language is strong & beautiful & wild, like a beast.
context is the bit & bridle & our duty is to control, not rule.
dance, not demand.


"you want to see where a man really stands, investigate his heart. outside of this, you will always find
the chains to tie him down."

to those who pass by my door:

the cobblestone is dry
& the leaves of two seasons
have passed & pressed between it's cracks.

the blinds are raised & curtains drawn
as i was taught to welcome things in.
the men & women who walk in front of my place
hobble & stumble as their wooden canes
skip & scrape on the street.
i would be forced to join them
but i don't leave the cover of this place.
i see silhouettes of others approaching,
upright & at smooth canter & can't help but wonder
if they'll approach my door.
some do.
few, but some.
usually selling vacuums or some other
useless, bull shit cleaning element.
i sit in an over-sized, leather chair
& drink wine from a plastic cup.
sometimes i read books on bird watching, cooking,
or any other hobby that would take too much
time & dedication to actually take full involvement in.
i sleep late & fall asleep late.
i taste very little these days.
i throw darts at a giant map on my wall,
much like someone eager to travel, but not
sure where to go, would choose a destination.
but god knows i'm not going anywhere.
instead, i write down a fact about that certain location.
London is foggy.
Boston's favorite color is green.
Sir-Lanka has a bug problem.
the obvious things.
i like to snap my fingers...a lot.
want to figure out someday how fast your
finger actually has to be traveling
to make that sound on your skin from such
a short distance.
the phone is ringing.
i hate answering the phone,
but i think i hate knowing that someone is looking
for me & i don't know who it is, more.
so i have to answer it.

just wait.

& these chords run dry for a time.
"it's ok, child, life can't go on stand by".
a man in a chair in an empty library
smokes his cigarette & reads from his favorite lines.
the dust settles & the clock hums the hours
into his ears & brain & heart.
he becomes time.
something of a fading moment.
an instant that was just an instant that becomes an instant
passing into another instant.
he sits, time itself, knowing he will be better in the future.

i see you.

you're above me.
so i fall asleep with the taste of indian ink in my mouth,
with a prayer & a dream that i might
wake to find us separated from this world.
but i know it's not real.
know that i can't find you or hold you
or kiss you or kill you.
draw two dots on opposite sides of the paper.
you can fold the paper so both of them meet
but alas, they are still two dots on opposite sides of the paper.
we are not dots.
there isn't even paper.
we are the clouds & the print & the water & the earth
that runs between you & me.
an aching vision that could be flowers in another world
but here will only stain my teeth & tongue, lips & gums.

artists.

they come in from the cracks
& the dirty back flats
dragging their knuckles on the floor
grinding cigarette butts
& cold weather sluts
while they argue of taxes & war
faces chiseled from brine
& the foul hearts of swine
gnarling their decades away
one hundred young guns
counting ghosts from the fun
& writing of come what may

for heaven's sake.

…& I move in slow motion.
watching the sky fall & trees disappear inside themselves.
wait, I am trembling. this is taking some recollection.
it’s much like familiarizing yourself with a bicycle or
roller skates after years of just trusting your stride.
ok, there they are. all in a pretty row, just where I left
them, just like a firing squad.
people stare. they stare at me. I swear it’s like they know me, but they don’t know me. every single movement that is captured in my peripheral vision somehow oddly resembles a girl waving her arms with them raised above her head. or maybe not a girl, just a whole crowd of people waving their arms above their heads, just to my right & left, just inside my line of sight.
wait, there’s a static hum pulling me out of here &
into the rest of the room. I deduce like a computer.
that’s the record player. vinyl scratch & hiss. I need
to turn the record over. stand & do so.
but, in front of me. it’s clear. the clouds have soaked into the rivers & lawns. buildings all fell down. trees disappeared into themselves, like I said. & there is a door
& a shadow, standing above the line where everything started & only went up. we called it the horizon. some strange fixed point in our world where everything that had a beginning, began.
wait, I’m steering this wrong.
no, I like it.
the metaphor has simply crescendo’d a bit
& they’ll go there…if not, I will, so do it.
do it still.
hey, you’re wasting time.
that door leads to another door, which leads to another door. doors I will open for the rest of my life. that shadow stands outside every door. looks at me, watches me, knows me, goes through with me. that shadow is you. & that makes me extremely vulnerable. extremely naked. extremely at risk. extremely fulfilled. extremely where I want to be. & I’ll keep opening doors. seeing you on the other side of each. wondering if i always will but knowing that certainly, of course I will. end slow motion.
& the metaphor ends.
you always do that.
it works for me, works for them, it’s how I am.
honest.
it has to be real. everything.
or even I won’t believe it.
& I always end up believing it.
funny how you look so different than me.
interesting, mathematical, genius.
it’s the reason I don’t ask questions & the reason all
those people waving their arms over there will
never get my attention or understand why not?

story.

heidi blanch was a sophomore in high school when she lost her first tooth.
stupid, story really.
see, i went to elementary school with her & everyone made a big deal because she was, "heidi blanch, the girl that had the perfect baby teeth that never needed to fall out".
barf. who the hell gives a shit (crap) about people's perfect teeth? i mean, my god, we're 10.
what the fuck (heck) are teeth??

anyway, she made it to sophomore year.
by now her reputation of the teeth had grown to epic proportions.
student council. yearbook editor.
she was already predicted to be our junior AND senior prom queen. (apparently, that's unheard of or like, impossible by all given school law?? what the fuck (heck)....?)
so sophomore year. one day, she was all, rolling on the praise & ego masturbation of the usual lunch room bitches (bimbos), & out of nowhere this junior girl walks over to her table & punches her square in the face!
like a, i'm gonna hit you in the face like a dude hits a dude,...in her face!
i've never heard silence truly before, until that moment.
10 seconds..9...8...7...6...5,4....3....2....1..
then heidi blanch ruined the whole beautiful moment by letting out the most godawful sound i've ever heard from a human or livestock.

she lost it all that day.
she finished our sophomore year as the yearbook editor.
but in the summer in between that & our junior year, she got lost.
didn't see her much & started hearing stories about other people not seeing her much & nobody really knew what had happened to her.
some say she got pregnant & moved to a boarding school in alaska to raise her baby & still get an education.
others, say she flipped out & lost her mind & one day her mother found in her room when she got home from work & heidi had shaved her head & was pulling her teeth out with a pair of red handled needle nose pliers, so they locked her in the loony bin.
who knows?
but i never saw her again after that summer.
she probably just moved to another city & to save the embarrassment of facing that fatal moment when her throne dissolved, she separated herself & didn't have to say goodbye. that's what i would have done.
for sure.
especially, if i were heidi blanch.
the girl that had the perfect baby teeth that never needed to fall out.
what the, hell....?

they will kill me.

it's december. winter.
it's 68 degrees outside & the sun is shining.
it's indiana.
you are lying on my couch & you smile.
you crush & you breath & exhale & spin.
i shake.
your eyes are purple.

just like the first time. just just like the first time.

it was october. fall.
it was 67 degrees outside & the water was warm.
it was indiana.
you held onto me for the first time & smiled.
we touched & we laughed & glanced & wondered.
we shook.
your eyes were purple.

             -"it's you, because i am myself again when you're in the room".

; = ' (check the time).

it;s raining. it;s 4:56 AM. (check the time).
if i can pull this off, i;ll feel ok.
& possibly, quite possibly, maybe even sleep.
there;s a sweet disposition in turning it off...or at least trying.
i crack.
my whole life i;ve been hard & brave & callus to the whole slant of it.
the wane & creak of tired tries,
or the bend & snap of convenient cries.
there was a time before you & a time with you.
there will never be a time after you.
just the rest of my life.
i;m sick now.
erased. altered. edited. re-written.
non the less, a fiction that no creative mind could craft.
just a scratch.
a scrawl on the notebook of some tired gentleman;s night time diatribe.
yes.
ink & paper.
thought & verb.
the means in which i spend the rest of my life.
thoughtlessly pounding out the cheap, cheap versions of myself that i dreamed of as a kid.
grimy & sticky & full of all the blind ambitions the t.v. sold to me.
it;s false.
it;s wrong.
we are wrong.

i forgot to mention what i;ve seen.
(only to be assumed by the fact that i could speak on this, speak like this.)
it all.
that is what i;ve seen.
IT ALL. 

beyond the eyes of doubt
& beyond the eyes of fear
& beyond the waves of hurt
& beyond the countless beers.

beer.
where is that cold one?
oh yes. it;s raining & it;s 5:19 AM. (check the time).

the neighborhood stomp.

chuckle. chuckle.
let me tell you what it feels like to crawl inside your skin & his.
i have no skin.
naked nerves, breaking the barrier of sound & light.
at the same time.
nausea. explosion.
every one says you'll be the man on top, but fuck the top.
the top is where the good guys get recycled & asked to settle for third & fourth times around.
forget it.
i want mine & only mine, or you can have her.
with the eyes & lines that do their best to hide.
duck duck goose, every one.
you're it & the time is sweetly thin.