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.