flight of sense

the nights are
different
and the wine isn't so
frequent

eyes sink into the soul
as the heart bellows new

the car is lost to the
murderous urbanites

never touch another
man's car,
touch his woman,
take his wallet,
wound his pride
and fist for it

write, don't forget
to write, even if it's
terrible.
keep trying till
you get lucky.

don't fuck
till you're ready.

use your heart,
soul,
and head,
(not that head)

don't forget to stay up late,
evil rules the night.

get even with the word,
blindly of what I feel.

the world never makes sense,
so why should I?

road like that

listen to me,
you have one chance
to make it.

leave,
take what you need,
leave the rest behind.

don't worry
about saying goodbye,
they wont care
until later.

pave the road,
don't worry about
covering your tracks.

they'll find you
eventually

don't worry about
being careful,
you learn the
most not
being
careful.

but if you can,
and you're mad
enough,
take the other road
with the wicked woods,
yellow moon and poe birds

they wont care to follow you there

you'll save yourself from Jesus.

many of the greats have
fought the great fight here.

oil watercolor skies
carved the best.

the lovers hanging
in the wind.

white roman pillars high.

lines of paper poetry
flying
then
burning to ash as
another strange sky
fills with rain.

a cat follows the two-lane
highway to another time.

don't follow.

my hand-written dream

I had this dream where
she gave me a key.

there were two
lockers and the key
only worked on one of them.

I keyed it and stepped
into this black and white world
of gray sand and colossal white
roman pillars on both sides of me.

every once in a while a breeze
of white paper covered my eyes
but I would shade it with my hands.

I could see her at the end,
deeply sad into herself.

I fought harder.

now I could see she's in a paper dress.

her eyes fill brown with color as I read
the line,
When you're sad, I want you to read this
and think about how much I love you.

she tells me she misses me,
that she wishes things were the same.

I hurt, but inside I know
it's her demon love that
twists inside of me.

I touch the written words
on her dress, and
she disappears.

I'm at the two lockers again,
both square like high school gym lockers.

I open it and try to step
inside to see her again, but I can't.

It's too small.

I dig deeper with my arms
but only letters start to fall.

she's gone forever in that
fucked up world of sand and
pillars.

I hold the key stupidly
in my hand.

spoiled rotten

when you
love
and you know that
loving is as useless as
spoiled bread
you love more
and more and hope
that maybe, just maybe
there's a chance.

but usually there isn't.

and
then you're left with your
spoiled heart
rotten.

---

those pieces of me,
swirling
chunks of vomit
on the side of the street
on this empty heart,
empty bottle of wine
in someone's trash
that could have
been used for more honest poetry
in a night where there's only
one spoiled
rotten
thought of her in a
paper dress
smiling

welcome

I like being bitter,
I think maybe because it's the truth,
the bitter truth.
and there's nothing that
feels better than being
bitter and knowing the truth.

but maybe I'm fucked up,
but I kind of like being fucked up
because when you're fucked up
you start to see things clearly
and then
you realize that you're not so fucked up
after all.

not like them anyway.

living their lives,
canned worms,
saying hello,
goodbye,
pretending they really care
when they ask,
"how are you?"

but we both know they would
rather be somewhere else,
anywhere else.

and
you see,
the bitter truth
is
that we all live in this
fake world of
fake people
(fake bitter people)
like the idiot
who razored his hair to the side
to one mysterious eye
and writes and rhymes
to terrible
poetry

immortally
terrible

long after this is
gone
because it's IN
and this is OUT

but
shit!

I know this is
better
because I find myself
entertained with the word
that's never felt so
GOOD
but
BAD
for you !
(sucker)
for being caught in my spider's
web
in something much
bigger
than this
JESUS
world.

so I bid you
welcome.

there's plenty of room for us all!

straight jackets to go around
cigarettes and wine and maybe
even some Frank Sinatra

happy

Think of dandelions floating in the wind and yellow sunsets in warm summer skies. Think of blue moons on countrysides with stars, lots of stars lined together like they were meant to be. Think love, your first real love that put you in the clouds so good that you can still think of her now, smiling at you, telling you she loves you. Think of how good the love was. Think of punishment for your crime that left you- seeing black and white, gray moons, and red sunsets all year long till hell, you don't even know when.

Remember how good that was? how bad, how terrificly wonderful and tragic like the twin masks of comedy and tragedy. Soon you find yourself with a change in the plot where one leaves another.
Will it be you?

The terrific part of it all is that we expected it to end so perfectly and ideal, beyond our expectations to the point of grandeur. How wonderfully stupid and rose-tinted we were. Invinsible to the possibility of the inetivable destruction. We thought we were so clever, that we beat the odds, we were so fucking high that shit,- nothing else mattered because we were so perfect.

Maybe we need to think twice before buying the big diamond for yours truly. Diamonds. Hardest substance found in nature, they cut glass, suggest marriages, I suppose it replaced the dog as the girl's best friend. But can you really trust it?

but you're so fucking high, remember?

Jesus Christ, just seal the deal, but when it fails, I want you to read this. Then I'll laugh in my own self-absorbed shell of an excuse for a writer for finally being right for a change. I'll think of you silly fucks and I'll just smile with my lips pursed to wine before I turn this computer into my next midnight wack-job.