to the almost-famous

you’ll lie down into the dark
for the last time
with your crooked spine
turn over what went wrong,
relive alcoholic dreams
your overly-poetic fuckings
and not-abusive-enough parents

you’ll tell yourself
this world doesn’t like art
doesn’t like ugly people making money
doesn’t recognize honest talent
this world breeds contempt

and you’ll writhe in disgust and spit on
first-grade dreams
choke on unwarranted sex and your
cubicle on the third floor
that kept food in your mouth

or

maybe you just
(really)
weren’t that talented
after all.



its alright --
in the end we all end up the same,
anyway.

discussing chomsky and media filtering

I’m watching you suck on your cigarette while you overturn your alcoholic dreams and overly-poetic fuckings -- famous people don’t get famous because they’re perfect, you know. And I’ll keep watching as the smoke rises out of your mouth like vomit leaving your body the wrong way out. I guess we could light a match together and get a rise out of inhaling it's livid sulfur and laugh about how bad our eyes burn. You look like a ghost to me now.

i need to...

respond to the light

fall into love with my (self)
once again.

wooden chapel II, the burning of

theres a boy with a ring
who cried out loud
the day god left earth
to start on bigger things
and this dirt between his nails
came from the mound
where the wooden chapel sat
burning and fell to the ground
these crosses jutting from the soil
like impossible heroes
promise a great story told
and this boy with his ring
whose mother lies here buried
underground

and jesus was a boy
with an angel on his crooked back
a wrenching spine and spider tooth
but he didn’t give a fuck
a stolen horse, both eyes blind
called out his holy prayers
to the boy with the ring
salvation knows no names

a wooden chapel

--shes out in the garden
shaking her angry keys
as she calls out to the wind
to split the bones of leaves
and on the bathroom floor
Im crying on my knees
salt and iron on my tongue
the devil cant get back to sleep--

and
((lingering beneath the cloak of god
and walking in the snow
a crippled bird and a white cat
cry inside the forests womb))

written a while back

I know your demons well, as you know mine - their company has been replaced with other kinds of things like bottle caps and rings and things to fill up that gaping hole you left behind.
So wide, I could sleep inside it.
And when I close my eyes, all I can think about is your mouth.
And I remember words that have hurt, that have cut, that have mended and kissed…
all come spilling out, overflowing, soaking, drenching me.

I am at home with you.

i really miss hearing that.

still

i cant even taste my food.

written in class today

this feels like a desert.
hot iron poured down my throat
and the blistered Fates wriggle their canopy of strings
before my face
as now yester(day) lay rotting inside my chest.


and upon asking God
"how am i supposed to be?"
the silence hollowed a deep crater inside of me
and i silently watched
as the aging devil sun began to cast shadows
longer
than the bloodtrail i left behind.