The only thing worth talking about is how nothing is worth talking about.

I remember you sitting in a chair
just inside the hallway,
which in itself was not very significant,
save for the fact that it happened to be
the same place I had just run my tongue
along the length of your young, yawning ass
about an hour or two earlier when
we had sex in the dark
as the sirens rang
on Glenwood.

You sat there
more girl than woman
dreaming of unknown lovers
much younger than I
who burned for adventure,
and starlight over
the crowded streets of
Prague and
Paris.

But you were still cunning enough
to trade warm pussy for a hot meal
and I say that without malice
or
disdain.

A young girl gets it where she can
by shaking what she will
with all the power that young girls are
rightfully
given.

As you let me down gently
I lovingly said,

"As you go through life
you'll find,
sadly,
the good ones are few
and far
between."

Wherever you are tonight
I genuinely hope

that you're off somewhere with
one or two of the good
ones.

Man alive you're a house on fire.

I pace the room
caged
stretching the fibers along my spine
my hands cover my face
please
not again.

Clawing at darkness
for a shred of the light
silent and infinite miles of burden
drowning under the weight of death and

isolation.

I don't like to discuss luck
it cheapens a thing as if it could belong to anyone,
that it just hangs there without holy ordination
and is just as happy to give itself to the wicked
as it is to be cherished by the good.

You use luck to describe the flip of a coin
or the procession of cards as they lie upon the table
things that have no substance or meaning
and are wisps of smoke in the vapid service of chance.

Therefore,

that I know the scent of your skin is hardly the offspring of luck.

When the absence of heaven was given its light
and life burst forth among the infinite wonder
our spirits held tight their celestial hands
swearing binding oaths to seek one another for eternity
no matter the inches, yards, or years it may take.

We fought with abandon
through the melee of possibility and chance
calling out tirelessly
until the mountains and the valleys
rang with the resonance
and we arrived just south of

here.

Here where in spite of miles
I feel your fingers.

I hear your voice.

I taste your lips.

My only desire
is to see you live happily.

Until we slip the covetous grasp of earth
and are once more bright
in the eyes of
God.

Deux Cent

200.

I started writing things down ten years ago
because some part of me,
some admittedly overly dramatic and overly sensitive part of me,
needs to be indulged so I don't descend into an emotional madness
and do something patently
absurd.

I don't walk around otherwise
like the weight of the world hangs
heavily on me,
I am really rather jovial
I take care of myself
watch what I eat
notice the birds in the sky
feel moved by the miracle of genuine affection
and
clean the toilet weekly.

But when it gets quiet
and its just you and me,
I feel like I have to be honest.

I'm still waiting for that honesty to honestly manifest.

I suppose that, honestly, I'm not okay.
But I know that is hardly unique.
How can anyone be okay as we barrel toward inescapable
and certain
death?

In light of that knowledge,

things could be much
much
worse.

Inching toward redemption
there is not blood enough
to satisfy the gaping maw
of the judge, his jury, and your
executioner.

We'll have your head for your humanity/
know your place/
we're sworn to uphold the highest standards/
be ashamed/

Once we kill everything that came before us
there will be rest.
When all individuality is extinguished
there will be peace.

One day we are going to sell our souls for safety.

One day we'll forget
every song we ever
wrote.

Lurching from one travesty to another
finding the whole exercise of daily life
a vain and hollow pursuit,
our idols begin to crumble
society is in no way the natural habitat
for the animal of
man.

The sky is a miracle
the dirt is our mother
death is our birthright
and we are gods of chaos.

We have earned this,
our imminent ruin.

The current state of the kingdom is tactile misery.

Misery after all these years of trying.

No matter how far the hero travels
his demons are never far behind.

The walls around me are high
and there is razor wire like a crown of thorns
and guards stand at the ready in their towers
with standing orders to shoot
anything that moves
on sight.

A self imposed incarceration?
Perhaps,
in the absence of alcohol
not even the wind gets through.
There is nothing to soften the edges
wheels with no grease,
a hardly surprising exile -
Napoleon's ghost in Elba and
in St. Helena
his
bones

In clarity I've discovered
there is not much poetry in the curse of man,
in the constant rising
and lying down,
the animal necessity of sustenance
and its unsavory yet inevitable
expulsion.

We may all have different talents
but we're all experts in
the ancient art of
crap.

In the dark there are whispers,
in the smoke there is
a timbre to your voice
and the walls reverberate with gunfire as
I am relieved of all duties
pertaining to
you.

Somewhere a raven raises its midnight head
and the moon splits itself in two
an angel falls from grace to an untimely death
and the sea hides its face
from the plum purple
sky.

Another tragedy for the story of time
another casualty in an intangible war
that has claimed more than Caesar or
Alexander combined
and will again without remorse
on and on
into eternity.

Did you hear it?

Another one just hit the floor.

Blood-soaked and cold,
he never even saw it coming.

Press your palm into mine
brand me with your vulnerability and
your violence

your ugly and your vengeful
your rancor and your rust.

Let's make plans the length of our arm
and see where the sky slides below the horizon
bending the stars beneath the earth
to melt into the formless void
their fading light dripping slowly
through god's epochal fingers.

Elbow to elbow
wrist to wrist
Our bones bear witness to the truth of our blood.

If a single inch of skin
whispers my name
send
word.

I'll keep a light on.

You.

You're a butterfly in a child's hands

you're a firefly dancing on stardust

you're a secret whispered into tin cans

you're a memory over warm coffee

of a cold day in fall.


You are a tan coat

you're the color red

you're an explosion in the sky

you're the Madonna, thumb out, hitchhiking.


You're a windowsill

you're a silhouette

you're split ends

you're bleach damaged roots

you're a plate of nachos

you're a coffee table conquered by cats

you're a drunken painting

lost to time.


You're a tunnel

you're a gate

you're so popular

you're a nightmare

you're a red wine hangover

you're rose colored glasses

you're my best friend

you're my worst enemy

you're art alive kinetic

a contortionist riding on a gymnast

you're an afterthought

you're a wet dream.


Tonight its you
you you you
and from the future of
your past I'm
wishing you well,


having a great summer -

wish you were

here.