some 'slpainin

i can't believe i'm here again.

my angled eyes and smoke breath, beating heart.

but it's different this time,

see, my hearts not good,

but it's not bad either.

it's just that my mind is fucked

by ideas of romance and shaded dreams of writers and smokey sidewalks.

alleys and caves and late night drives to the airport

and the perfect views from apartment windows.

i can't believe my back's not broke

bear this burden

and burn the ashes.

throw it into the fire and bend it.

mold it and shape it and send me on my way.

find a breath in the morning air

and wake up to the morning ashes.

in other news: it's been awhile.

find a comfortable routine and throw a wrench in it.

change your life.

keep your heart beating and your mind racing.

slow it. freeze it. leave it behind.

here's what i'm leaving:

here are some memories:

I

don't want to take your heart,
and i don't want to be history.
i don't want to be the west coast,
and i don't want to be the northern lights.
i just want resolution.
i just want understanding.
i just want a wrist watch that doesn't work.
i want a minute hand that ticks back and forth
between 3 and 5.
i want a breath of morning air off of rainy cement
and i don't want anything anymore.

For Oliver,

so happy birthday
the poets cry themselves to sleep
knowing that one more hit
and one more drink
will bring their next line
but the pennies stack
on the coffee table
and add up to a dollar and 27 cents.
only enough for coffee
and maybe a puff of cigarette smoke
maybe a headache
and a single out of tune piano key.
believe me.
every day the seer wakes up
and wishes he didn't
and everyday the listener wakes up
and is glad he does.
but the lonely man,
who raps his fingers
thrice on each side of his pant-legs
and rubs his upper gums
with the tip of his tongue,
lights a square in the shoddy lit alley
like a character in a movie he's seen
or will see.
his hands tired and mind wandering
shakes the dust from jeans
and sucks venom from wounds
to walk three blocks home
to a sleeping wife and cat
and he feels like a man
standing still in a piss puddle
dissapating, draining,
feigning free thought.
only wanting straight talk
from friends and family
and finding nothing but bones
and dust under his feet
but he can stand to be damaged
but damn it.
he can't help but hurt sometimes
when he slips his shoes off
at the end of the day.
he takes another slow drag
and figures, "fuck it,
i want beauty in every word,
and love in every dead star,
i need grace in pen,
and a place to lay my head
when i can't lift it."

Jesus Christ, it's

been quite a while,

my bare knees touching 

the smooth cedar of the kneeling pew.

Jesus Christ, it's

almost like i/you/we 

are dying all over again

because this pit in my stomach keeps growing larger

but maybe its the pabst 

or the swift kick in the ass 

i got

when i realized that everything 

will be okay.

everything will be okay.

breathe.

twice.

slower.

Jesus Christ it's

like my hair's on fire

and the only water to put it out

is the holy water on the altar 

but how can i live without it's burning purge

of sins against my scalp.

but breathe.

twice.

slower.

i lived twice already and still nothing moves me.

i can't believe i just used ass in a poem.

right now,

i want to scream from a second floor window,

scratch that.

i just screamed from a second floor window.

silly things,

like watching you fall asleep

and kissing you goodbye in the morning.

and i'm sorry but this is going to be harder than i thought.

and goddamnit i miss you so much.

and i wish you would have showed me that one.

i promise i'd like it.

and if what we're left with is computer screens with words 

that only each other really read,

then i'm sorry i can't say these things to you.

i wish you could have just taken the picture then,

i would have been smiling,

but i,

i don't do too much smiling these days.

this feeling is like a disease ravening the carcass of a deer on the side of the road,

it's not like you can see it

but even from a distance you can tell it hurts like hell.

i guess,

i could've seen this coming

if i'd looked harder

if i'd upturned every rock

but i've seen what happens to the 

damned and the dying when

they try to take on the world with a 

thorn in paw.

and i've seen what happens to a 

house when the roof

comes crashing down

and the walls still stand

there's just a new view of the sky 

and a new view of the ceiling.

and really i'm just sick of being sad.

it was so good for what seemed like so long.

maybe it'll make me write more.

maybe it'll make me cross three fingers

behind my back and pray

to wake up.

maybe i'll take the fucking hint.

maybe i'll be fine soon enough.

maybe it will freeze these fingers to the bone

and they'll just sto

shake

i'll shake the dust 

from the cuffs of my jeans

into the bottom drawer of that

gaudy green dresser.

i'll pray for hours laying on my back

that i'll see love&happiness in their 

truest forms

somehow wandering these foreign streets.

the sun is shining on my old brown shoes

and the dust of the ground is still unsettled.

and my god, my god the only time i think of

you

is when i write,

and then again, i hardly write anymore.

but buddy said, 

"Isn't the true poet or painter a seer?

Isn't he, actually, the only true seer we have on earth"

maybe i'll see you soon.

god i hope so.

it's 1:16am on a sunday morning.

i'm sitting at a wooden table set for 8

in a san francisco hostel

with strong benches for seats.

the t.v. is blaring a 60's detective film

and a man is passed out on a couch not three feet from me.

is this poetry not enough?

is my life not words on a page being written out in front me?

and i love it.

you're drunk and you have

no idea how beautiful

it is.

and i took a breath on the phone

and listened to your voice.

and the way you spoke,

and i swore i heard whispers in 

the asphalt when we walked the other day.

and then the blankets get pulled to high

and i can't breathe but i kiss you

and i'm filled with fresh air and my mind is gone

my spirit's weary but my face doesn't show.

but you lift my lungs

and kiss my spine 

and everything is fine. 

and everything ugly in the world is sad and beautiful

but we have desperate memories.

and i'm loving every minute of this.

it's so hard

to keep my head above water,

with all these sharks circling.

but lately all i want to do,

is drift off into some sort

of man made lake

on a not-so-steady raft

just to see

how far away i can get 

before i miss everyone.

and other days all i want

is to curl up into a ball

and sit 

under my desk for hours and hours 

until my roommates come home

and i get embarrassed and tell them 

that i dropped a quarter

or a paper clip

or whatever pops into my head first.

and other days,

i'm just looking for escape 

in a bright blue sky.

my

handwriting
and my vocabulary have both gone to shit.
and i want to tell you
about all the places i want to take you.
all the memories that you remind me of.
the weird way you give me
a nostalgic feeling
i don't know.
it's silly.
but i like it.

inferior and full of doubt

there's only x amount of ways
to pick all the green
candies out of
the mason jar on the dining room table
and there's only so many ways
of getting mad at your closest friends
for living their lives
like a beautiful dream
and there's only two ways to move on.
and from what i've seen,
neither of them are pretty.
the first doesn't bring joy and happiness
like old promises told.
in this,
we are not laying naked in a field of flowers
listening to sigur ros
and reading kerouac.
we are sitting 12 hours apart
in phone booths, coffee shops, curbs,
and inside dumpsters.
and we're both trying to maintain composure
as our frail hands grasp the telephone tight.
and as the phone clicks down, we're both in tears
in the second we're both living out our broken dreams.
bootstraps, and railroad boxcars,
penny-candies and everything we have we stole.
but we're not together.
and this isn't the end.
but everything is seen through
a veil of pot-smoke
and tasted with the lingering wine breath.
and when we're home,
neither of us cares to be alone.
and neither of us cares.

remember

remember me still,

my eyes are heavy and

my thoughts are full.

and you're lives are still beautiful.

and mine is bland

and bitter-sweet.

i'm sorry but i'm in this weird place 

between body and mind

like a fire-belly frog

in a lily filled pond

choosing

water or land,

and my hearts on fire

but my hands are full.

-and i'm sorry but i'm not coming down.

throwing

stones from a third floor 

apartment window

with a 3-d, 

lifesize,

cardboard,

cut-out of john wayne 

to hold my hand and keep me company.

calling cats 

with whistles and bells

but now i'm passed out 

in a double-tree lobby 

with my hands down my pants 

and a flask half full

whisky in my pocket.

and john whispers in my ear,

"everything is still

and will be 

and you will see god

in the reflection of the oak trees 

in lake roosevelt"

and i've got a wooden spoon

engraved in some sort of 

calligraphic writing

that says,

"find your peace among

the lilies of the field 

and find your love 

in the dirt and leaves of the coming spring."

and when my eyes are dried

and opened wide

i'll find a step-stool

to get to your level

because i can't find 

solid ground...

it's

days like today.
when everything is beautiful.
when i can't read you.
when i can't tell what you're thinking.
and my mind is racing
and i have to do everything right.
and i worryworryworry until my brain is sore.
it's days like today.
when everything is planned to go perfect
then goes better
and i still smoke my cigarettes until the filter burns.
and until my poor fingers turn brown.
and until they blister and pop.
and i just want everything to work out
and i just want you to be okay.
and i just want to be okay.

we are

the dead people,
floating logs in a dried up river bed.
but you,
you are the sun.
you are the moon.
you are the breath on the back of my neck.
and somedays i feel like falling asleep
in a stack of hay
and other days i feel like the 7 year-old third grader
blowing kisses to disinterested girls
in the back of an elementary school classroom.
and so lonely was the ballad of sad songs for so long
but no more! no more.
i used to think it was a beautiful thing.
but no more no more.

i think

we've got a good thing going here.

broken-backed tuesday mornings,

a handful of rice and cloudy vision.

and dreams that linger in the back of your eyes.

goodnight love.

goodnightgoodnight.

somedays,

you realize
no one you love knows your name.
and it's really really sad.

love,

the lord has left us

to tie knots in our hair

and make a mess of the bed.

to cry ourselves to sleep 

and fall madly.

to walk alone,

down an empty hill at 

2:37 in the morning

and still be smiling.

the lord has left us

sitting on our thumbs

penniless&tired

and kissing and smiling

with only the glow of the

television to see your eyes.

the lord has left us,

drowning, floating,

laughing, fucking,

fucking tired

and i'm glad

andi'mhappyagainforthefirsttimeinmonths.

I.

i can't fucking see straight.
and i'm confused and fucked.
and i know it's too late.
and god-damn
sometimes this feels too good
to be true.
and sometimes this feels
like drowning.
and sometimes this feels
like breathing
but our fingers interlock like
we're scared to be alone
and we're just
frightened children and you're just alone.
and we're just
frightened children and you'd give anything
not to be alone.
and maybe it's too late to sing hallelujah and
fight my demons
but we find beauty in the cracks in the pavement
and we find shelter in the smallest of these.

from a night spent laying,

spinning circles with my eyes closed

flat backed on a lofted bed.

choking back tears from bloodshot eyes

now i'm drunk as fuck

laying on my back in a field of daisies

and my eyes hurt and my teeth are stained purple

and my heart is a fucking mess.

then i'm stoned as hell

pushing down the high E on 

a casio keyboard

and my hands keep shaking

from a night spent lying on my back

with a view of the city skyline

and the buildings sometimes sing songs 

to each other 

and the hills sometimes listen.

and the stars sometimes scream

until the noises flood our ears

and we can't breathe or speak or talk

and the words get caught in the backs of mouths

and the fire in our bellies will thaw our dry throats

and the wine in my hand will quench my thirst

play back

the eight track

until the stereo breaks

into a cold sweat.

press repeat until your fingers break.

lift the needle

until the vinyl starts scratching

and coughing.

throws in the white flag and retires.

keep your face pressed to the

glass of the shop on

3rd & main

until the door is opened 

and the owner comes out yelling 

and tells you to go home.

keep your eyes open until something changes.

its a motherfucking thing

when,
you slowly realize that the peices of
the puzzle are finally coming together.
when you realize that you are both
the ship
and the bottle
and the old man whose
shelf you're sitting on.
and you set your sails but
the winds don't blow,
there are only stormy seas
and a belly full of whiskey
there are only the times
when you wish for dry land
and to take your lovers lips and
hold her until the dead of morning
because there are still flowers
on the back of your fingers
and twelve tiny gods
sifting their fingers through your hair
and you throw the anchor to the glass bottom of a lifetime
and you slowly realize that you are both the
wall and the door
and the window
and the ceiling
and nothing is as clear as
seeing for the first time
and nothing is as pure as
this air resting in the bottom of a glass sea.

you asked for a poem

so i scribbled seven flowers

on the back of a napkin

folded it

and walked away

i told you this shit

can't last forever

the days are fading,

fading fast.

and soon my mind is gone.

fucked.

into a million pieces

into a an entire arrangement of stars on

the back of your eyelids.

into a reflection in a tide pool.

and i swear to god that 

the water versus the anchor is the most beautiful sight

i've seen in the past 12 days

and i swear to god that

it plays over and over in my head like a loop on the last

8 frames of film

and there's a slow-motion 

image of zeus,

playing a harp 

and singing blue grass in 

the middle of a wheat field.

and i can't take my eyes 

off his fucking face.

and i can't fixate my stare in any other direction... 

its

days like today,
the days when i sit
and write letters to
st. peter.
asking him to make sure
he spells my name right.
and i laugh to myself
another joke
and i grab another bottle
of store-brand wine from the shelves
and over-draft my bank account until i'm
blue in the fucking face.
and i'll sit in parks
on benches
on grass
under trees
and on the tennis court
and smoke and think
and write until i'm drunk in the tips of my fingers
and the bottles lay unopened at my side.
the days like these when time slowly passes
and hours crawl by like disease
and swarm with the bees and the birdshit.
and it's a peaceful type of cynicism
the kind that brings my eyes to a close
the kind lets me sleep
and pray
and finally find rest.
and the sounds
of the first rain of the day;
and again i feel like drowning.
and again i feel like everything is falling apart.
and i can't stop the anchor from scraping the ocean floor
because i can't breathe.

is it

the saddest state
to be sick on the only beautiful day
in a month?
am i losing my mind because i can't
keep track of the days or months?
is there something in my brain that tells me
i need to put off all the important shit in my
life so i can walk around with no purpose for
3 hours on a tuesday night?
if this is crazy than i am happy.
if this is loneliness than i am content.
if this is true than i am the saddest creature to walk the earth.

a rough night for castro

she reminds me to 

hear my voice in the cold

and i think of her kindly

and its weird to think that far in the future 

sometimes

but i do it out of habit

like biting my fingernails

like cracking my knuckles

and it's strange to think that other 

times i get too sad or too drunk to write

and i sit in the corner with my drink or tissue

and i make lists in my mind

and sometimes the back of my hand leading up my arm to the elbow

of all the beautiful things i want to say

and do

and pray

and think

and all that's left in the morning is a cloudy head 

or a smudgy fucked up looking arm

and i think back to all the beauty running through my mind at night

and all i can remember is how i'd say

i love her like the ocean loves the wind 

and how i'd love her like the rain loves the city

and how i loved her like the ice loves the cold

and every once in a while i laugh at myself

sitting in bed 

like an anchor to the blankets

and i find myself struggling to breathe 

and the air gets heavy in my lungs

and i find the only release these fingers have.

january 12th

sometimes i get sentimental
and it makes me want to do something drastic,
like play a piano in the bottom of the ocean,
or atleast take my toaster in the bathtub.
and sometimes i think
about the flowers in her hair
or the way we sit,
cross-legged watching the clouds pass by as
if we were in motion
and they were some stationary being.
other times i remember
hearing god in her voice
the way we whispered meaningless
secrets into the other
and sometimes, i'm told,
i resemble the holy ghost
but only in the face and nose
because nothing holy could have these withered hands
and nothing beautiful could be touched by this,
calloused skin.
and i say to myself,
sitting on the rooftop of a parking garage
smoking my last bowl,
that someday i'll resemble jesus,
in more than just the facial features
but in the hands and chest as well.
and our wine-stained lips will find rest on eachothers
until a symphony is rising up in our chest
and release is found in the foriegn face.
and a smile is born on mine.
but i'm still sunk down
hitting one key at a time
on a piano sunken to the bottom of the sea.

cantankerin'

when is it official that a feeling is dead?
because my madonna's undressing
her face like a whore.

we wrote the book

we wrote the book

we wrote the book

we wrote the book

and we killed the dream

of being lonely

until it became the only truth we knew.

and we wrote the book

of drinking every night

getting shit faced and crazy

getting fucked up and lazy

and we wrote the book

that had the map 

that led me home.

and we were only saying that we would fall

on our swords 

before the 

whole world ends 

and i'm left standing on your edge 

believing in you.

and i'm left to curl up in the corner

and sometimes i cry because that's the only thing i remember how to do on 

days like these

and we tore out the withered pages

and we swore when we wrote in the margins

and we kissed the filthy ground

in a way that still feels 

like a black and white movie

and we wrote the book

that told you to be happy

and we wrote the book 

and we wrote the book

and we wrote the book

good goddamn

sometimes pale-faced lovers

kiss while sitting on sidewalks.

sometimes they hold hands when they

walk

and sometimes she smokes cigarettes

and talks about god&her dreams&fears

and the queer looking couple from down the hall

spoon at 3 o'clock in the afternoon 

while they say they're taking a 

nap

and sometimes she'll swear he's crazy 

because of his hair&his gods&dreams

and others just fuck.

because they don't give a good goddamn 

about anything anymore

so they fuck so they can breathe

and they fuck so they can sleep

and they fuck so they don't have to feel anything anymore

and sometimes it's like i don't want to feel anything anymore

so fuck.

but let's take a walk down god's spine

where ever the hell he stops we'll build an a-frame and call it home.

and sometimes i take off my jacket and set it on the floor

as if that is the place where my jacket is always set.

and sometimes i talk my self in circles until i'm dizzy and

i can't breathe

and sometimes i get drunk to find god

and sometimes i find him

and sometimes i find him.

i laughed when you told me to laugh
because that's the appropriate thing to do.
yes?
yes.
yesyesyes.
my heart's been hurting for some time now
but it's nothing
that a fresh pack of cigarettes
can't cure
and it's nothing
that a bike ride through
a snow covered field in mid-march
can't cure
and it's nothing
that a dozen fresh picked dandelions
and a fistful of dirt
can't cure
and it's nothing
that a new pair of shin-high
elastic socks with the blue or red stripes
can't take care of.
but don't take care of me.
i'll be just fine
because i've got my cigarettes, bikes, flowers, and socks and i'll always be just fine.
but i've been running my hands over the ground
turning my fingers brown from the mud
and i've looked through the leaves&diseased&thebirdshit.
but it still feels like a 3 o'clock after-school sitcom
so don't take care of me.

of course,

ofcourse, ofcourse.

of course it would snow my first day back.

the gloomy clouds of the rainy city

decide my every move.

curled up in a blanket 

waiting for the bags to unpack themselves

ships engraved in ceramic cups

and the first cup of coffee of what 

seems to be the first of many long nights.

and i'm stretching my legs 

hoping that the gods will bless my right hand

and i'm closing my eyes 

hoping that my love will bring me a coaster 

so i don't get those irritating circular stains on my desk from the bottom of my coffee cup.

so tell me,

how am i supposed to get her back?

because all i want is to be able to hold her again.

and it's snowing.

and i will always think of you.

listen:

old crow medicine show- hard to love

brand new- degausser