everybody's writing about whiskey

burning and red,
this whiskey's
still sweeter than you.

you climb into bed,
this whiskey
would die for me too.

that thing you said,
this whiskey's
my penance in a suit.

choked up and red,
this whiskey's
still much nicer than you.


--

i've been spending my time with bourbon and it inspired me enough to excuse my consumption.

She-Haul

I moved to rhythm
of hearts sinking.
Each revels in my
curses still ringing.

Bliss treats the
Duchess to a bath
fit for Radio.

I tried for loss;
each cried, "Sabotage!"
But I didn't lose you
in the fights
I fought.

In Corners Made of Space

I am an instant of time,
Making an absence of space.
The void that is mine
I run from with haste.

I am a glass of alcohol
In the realm of dead and peace.
The proof is for protocol;
The intoxication comes with ease.

I am the blood in veins
Of the body of life.
I run through the passing days,
Until taken by murderous strife.

I am the lover of all loves
On this Valentine’s Day.
I scream sorrow at the sun
That takes my shadow away.

manic

it's times like these
i should crawl under my bed
taste wet saline carpet
bury my face in its toxins
and absorbed tears.

but it's times like these
i end up dealing myself a blow
incidentally you as well
finding it hard to say words
and diagnoses.

cellular device, for lack of a better name

your single tattoo is fading,
your thick black hair
still short like high school.
your heart, cold as death

my body's aching,
my mind restless even thru
the medication percolations.
my heart, warming up to her.

i'd have paid your bills,
i'd have given you friendships
you'd never dreamed possible.
our union, supported.

not right now is never,
not right now is with him
until you know i'm with her.
it's juvenile, your drama.

untitled poem

it is not advisable
to go up and down
the same street
looking for new
shops
&
houses.
you will only encounter
bums asking for cigarettes,
dogs barking viciously,
neighbors watching
with concern
for their children.

nor is it advisable
to attempt to venture down
multiple streets simultaneously;
pieces of yourself will be lost
for the bums to rob
the dogs to eat
the neighbors to report
to the police.

whether or not
it is wise to
search each street
high, low
for whatever it is
you are searching
is not known to this
traveler.

ideally,
we should sit at
each corner
waiting to catch
a stranger's eye.
prostitute our
needs
&
gifts
whilst
danger lurks
in the night
&
the sun glares
upon our misconduct
for the duration of the day.

solace can only be found
with the rats
in the sewers,
with the drunks
in bar booths,
with pretty girls
in university tees.

C.G. Jung Parts I & II

Part I

I theorize about the sequence
of our days together, and
the decreasing probability of
those days continuing consecutively.

Consequently,
each day's connectivity
to the next
is a mindfuck ubiquitous
in each aspect of my routine.

Speak your will
in regards
to the direction you wish to take.


Part II

One chance in a number
fifteen sobering digits in length.
One quarter of the world's
circumferance in distance apart.
One young man.
One scientist.

One feeling middle-class male
argues
the possibility
of synchronicity.
He argues for his sanity.
He argues for his stability.
In the name of all things comprehendable,
he argues.

Even when his
quasi-normal
existence defines discomfort,
he argues.

Twenty-five playing cards.
Five square shapes on five cards,
five circle shapes on another,
etc.

One quasi-normal middle class male.
One misunderstanding scientist.
Twenty-five soulless playing cards.