My New Book

http://en.calameo.com/read/00290889095bff4bb8829

I lost a friend last night

because my poems are too dark.

She said they scare her,

and make her cry.

She said she can feel me slipping

with each verse,

and that she'd enjoy them

if they were written by a stranger

she never loved.

She said she feels her heart going out to me

but she had to pull it back

because she needs to keep it

for herself,

so she can see though her own issues.

No one ever stays

because once they see me naked

of my walls

they stare into my sheltered world

and see things that would make even the earth

cringe.

It's too late to destroy it,

because my thoughts have evolved

into a race of beings

far more powerful than myself.

They'll be the death of me,

but their empires will stand

long after I'm gone, before my time.

But every once and a while

I can hear one or two of them praying

to me,

begging for me to bring peace to this world inside my head

that I have no control over.

They don't realize

that I'm not a god,

and that their whole existence is nothing

but the product of years of abuse

from a universe they cant comprehend,

that I can't comprehend.

So I sit nailed to the couch, suffering for their sins

while pointlessly checking my phone

for a text from that friend that says

“I'm sorry”

Don’t you dare pull me

from the wreckage of my life

when I lose my high

and fall from the sky.

don’t even put out the flames,

I want people to see them

from miles away.

I want the explosion to shake

a thousand cities

and wake the children

from their nightmares of monsters

to a reality that drove millions

to suicide.

I want want the debris of my thoughts to scatter

and shatter windows nearby.

And when it's all said and done

I want the land to be scared forever

and cursed with my madness.
I want kids daring each other

to walk up to the spot

where I fell from sanity and tore up the field

they now fear.

Don't mourn me

for I will not be gone,

I'll be hiding behind the flames laughing

at all the different parts of me

killed by the impact

of whatever drug or drink

has rotted out my mind

to the point of brainless bliss.

So don't you dare pull me

from the wreckage of my life

when I lose my high

and fall from the sky,

because I want to enjoy being charred

of every brain cell

and every agonizing thought,

until I'm finally crushed

by the settling debris.

Prophecy

Hieroglyphs on my ancient soul
foretell the end of me,
they say I'll die by my own hand
when I've reached god status
and every knee has knelt
before me
and I have nothing left
to achieve.
This prophecy has been written
on me for many lives
each ended by a pill,
bullet, or brilliance  —
I can feel it.
My fingers are my slaves
who type a pyramid of words
that'll hide my body
in a maze of booby-trapped metaphors
that no thief
would ever dare explore.
So shut me away
with my mummified poetry
so the gods in the next life
will worship me.
Let me hold the empty orange bottle
like a rosary in chalky hands
folded stiff
into forced prayer.
Let me rot away
and be forgotten
while my poetic pyramids
stand for thousands of years
in the sun.
Let tourists stand under their shadows
in awe
while my bones turn slowly
to dust
somewhere deep in the chambers
of their brilliance.

Sparkle

Lonely and cold,

I wait for love

beside the frosted window

while dreams of fireflies

sparkle in the snow.

I sip black coffee

from my mug, quietly,

so I don't wake them...

Because I know when summer comes

I’ll have found somebody

and I want to make sure they're all well rested

so they can swirl around my lover and me

when our soft lips spark

for the first time

like flint,

so I can watch them drown out

in that new lovelight

that'll glow furiously when dusk

cinders into darkness.

But for now

I'll have to deal with the darkest months

alone

while they lay on the lawn

asleep under the moon

with beautiful dreams.

God's Gleaming Eye

The painkillers in my pocket rattle

with each step
toward the unreachable moon
in strange harmony
with the untainted snow
crunching
beneath my feet.

Two or three
aren't enough to numb me
anymore,
no longer enough
to shut my brain off
for a little bit...
to quiet these thoughts
that stalk me
and whisper
how no one would find me
if I just lay here
on this nameless road
with a mouth full of pills,
face to the stars,
and die in the arms
of a snow angel
who'll carry me away to a heaven
I only believe in when I'm high.

I squeeze the bottle in my pocket
almost to the point of crushing it
as I turn away from the wind
and look back at the light of
my grandpa's cottage
drawing my attention
away from my midnight daydream
and the moon
that hangs like a sliver bullet
stained with the blood of monsters
from my mind.

How many times
have I walked this path high
praying to God's gleaming eye
for death,
as it winks slowly
with darkness
as if indicating something
beyond my comprehension...

All I know is
the cottage is warm
and I should go back.

Tumbleweed

I was detached

so I could wander

hand in hand with the wind.

Who am I now?

I feel so frail

and my flowers are long gone.

“Look what I've become”

I say to no one

as the buzzards cry.

Their shadows circle me

like dark moons in a galaxy

starving for life —

am I not alive?

I've never seen flesh

that was still carrying a soul,

but the wind tells me stories

of slinking through their hair

when the world was young —

I can smell their skin on its breath,

its breath that’s carried me

to the edge of the earth a thousand times

to find only stars

that those ancient, mysterious people worshiped

before I was even a seed.

Am I qualified to pray

to those stars that have lead us

to a thousand sunrises?

Will they even hear me

with this voice that is only a rustle

across rocks and dirt,

this voice that is literally nothing but a ...

my soul who shapes the clouds

who possess my dry body, and countless others all at once

interrupts me

and whispers yes.

I smell the gods in its voice now.

Winter Burial

While running my hand
across your casket,
I leave fingerprints
on the polished wood
that will be lowered with you
into six feet of obscurity,
telling no one, only the darkness,
that I cared enough for you
to watch your unbearable descent
in to peace
while the January wind
further numbed my core.

I have nothing
so these are the only things
I was able to leave you with,
but at least I know
no one will ever wipe them
from the cherry oak surface
that even my tears slid from
so easily when I cried...
But my hand
the hand that felt the last twitches of life
in your fingers
and squeezed them until the warmth escaped
has left such delicate mementos
that will never wither
with the expensive bouquets
and flowery wreaths.

Heirloom

After your death

I'm rummaging through the drawers

for your bottle of Vicodin

hoping your ghost

isn't watching.

Why can I never stay clean?

Is it because I'm weak?

I see myself like your husband

in 20 years

a tired young drunk

sick of feeling old,

who died before his grandchildren

were even born.

I hear footsteps in the kitchen

and wonder if it's you

hiding them from me —

but I hear lots of things

when the floor beneath me

crumbles

and I'm left dangling

from my barbed sanity

with bloody hands.

I swore I'd keep it locked away,

this heirloom of addiction,

but right now I need to hold it

and feel it

because I miss you

and I'm not strong enough to accept the fact

that you're gone

just yet.

So far this is the only moment

I've told myself you're not here,

when I find and swallow the last

three pills

that couldn't stop your pain,

then wash them down with gin

that wasn't enough

to stop mine.

Love Trip (Tanka Prose)

Inhaling your breath against my lips gets me high. Love this potent should be illegal, it feels so bad... like someone sold me your heart in a little plastic bag from the pocket of their hoodie in the cover of night. I lit it on fire and breathed in every panted wisp of smoke pushed up from your burning core. I bet distant cities can see our flames on the horizon, and the citizens are rushing to church to kneel before God and pray to be spared from the glowing apocalypse crawling towards them. What a beautiful way to die... but the world has already ended to me, because nothing matters in this moment but you. I think I can hear their screams beneath yours, as the climax of Armageddon firestorms falls from the angry heavens that generously matched our souls.

Then silence... the beautiful silence that drapes the earth once everyone and everything is dead except for us, at least until the sun returns, and the alarm clock rings and resurrects the world from its hallucinated grave, and I head out to work hungover with love.

lying together
in the last of the darkness...
I awake
to the hiss of flames
and plumes of candle-smoke