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