11:59

What is that sound?
Am I uncertain?
Did you hear that echo?

You surely did, your heart beats loudly.
Palpitations.
I stare down & that blue washes over me;
sometimes, it gently splashes my ankles;
other times, it knocks me over;
at times, I am caught in the riptide, unknowingly.

A moment of a moment, awash in happenstance.

You render me impotent with your ambiguity;
I am left torn.
The pain of longing;
the reach of nothing;
the weight of your anything.

Allow me this one thing;
to exhale the subtle yet quaking sigh of my
everything that I am unto you.

15:44 he's always tired

You get tired eventually.
I'm finally resigned. There are some things you just can't control. I put in the effort, time, work. Did what I did & now it's time to let everything unravel. To be quite honest, that's really hard for me to say,  but that's how its gotta be. I'm mostly resigned because I can't keep waking up like this. I feel nothing right now & it's great. I've always been one to embrace the darkness & I believe there is some virtue in that, but in this case, I'm too tired. I have to give myself a break.
We're all still full of shit.

Glutton

What is it then?
Its true that you're here. Its true that you just paid for a whiskey. That reminds me. Ech. You can wash windows with this shit. There's the burn though, makes me feel all nice & cozy. A woman led you here. You traced your memories out to queens. Bedbugs. This cycle is vicious. I'm positive thanksgiving is a bullshit holiday. Thankful for what? Jesus. Be happy that you're alive. Save your thanks & your praise, I deserve nor want either.
I'm finding that the solution to this whole mess is to bury myself in cunt. I like booze enough, but it doesn't hold me. I drop the pants, climb in, & set up for the foreseeable future. I tend to walk out drenched in all regards, but at least I get to push the pain off for a little while.
This bar-top isn't level, everything keeps sliding away. I'll consider that a microcosm. How much is too much? Honestly. On that note as well, what is vice? What a load of nonsense, this idea of vice. You do what you do & you use these supposed "ills" to your advantage. Addictions are for the weak kneed. That's not entirely true. I know some tough motherfuckers who've smelled the earth.
Someone recently told me that I was a glutton for suffering.
I think they were right.

19:06

I've got dirt on my hands. I've been running. I recognize it. Not sure where to. The only saving grace is that eventually I'll end up somewhere. Long trips. Long, long, long. I can't break it. A long pause. I stare at you dead in the face. Nothing to say. You once told me a story of your youth. You made a bad choice you said. You left one for another. You regretted that. I told you the same thing. In that moment, by your door, when we locked eyes, that moment lasted for a long time. I told you you were going to regret it & I left.
You did the same thing.
I guess some people just don't learn from their mistakes.
I'm still helping you & you don't even know it. That conversation you had with her? That was me. You take a trip for 2 days. Try & distract yourself. The white lady was there & she brought booze. He read me some Henry Miller, something about swelling cunts. The day broke & neither of us knew.
I was angry that night after dealing with the game so I took a walk to find someone to take it all out on.
A whole lot of nothing.
I'm full of shit.
At least I'm honest. I'd like to think that's a rare quality, but who am I kidding?
Whatever.
I asked her for a nude photo & so as to make her feel comfortable, I offered one in exchange. I then suggested that we fuck & she could take it or leave it. Most of all I wanted the photograph & could give a damn whether we did or not, I was just angry. She agreed & we walked to the basement. I guess she appreciated the honesty. We undressed slowly, or at least I felt slow about it; booze. I positioned her, took the picture & handed her the camera. She snapped one of me, nearly identical to mine of her. She said something about meeting a friend so we got dressed & fucked off.
I don't know what it is, or how you do it, but I think this game is rigged.
People expect bullshit, so we've created bullshit, on top that pre-existing bullshit, to respond to some other type of bullshit, which inevitably ends up still being bullshit.
We've created all of this bullshit to make things easy.
We've created all of this bullshit to boost our own inflated sense of self.
I think you gotta get out there. Sometimes I don't eat. I barely get by. It does something for you though. You learn to understand your own nothingness & the beauty that is that in those types of situations. When your stomach is on fire & you feel on the verge of puking & that subsides because you've smoked enough cigarettes to curb your appetite, you really learn to cut the bullshit 'cause most of it ain't really important.
Being alive is a good thing & I'm happy for it.

Leave

Remember that thing you told me about regret?
Well, you'll regret this one too.

13:50, P.M.

Two Pilsners

Here I am, carrying your socks around with me in my pocket like a goddamn lunatic. I used them as gloves. Kept my hands warm. I swell with anger. My tide recedes, then the anger turns into nothing. Kind of like how footprints wash away in the sand. Or some other bullshit. Allegorical nonsense. Whaddya got left? Well, for starters, you've got your hands, that's pretty huge. People ask me how I'm doing & I tell them that I'm alive. That's a good thing. I think. Being alive is tough though; most things are aimless, arbitrary. Whatever. Kind of like this diatribe I'm going on. Although, there are moments of good. I suppose nothing is without its opposite. I'll spare you anymore.
& I step down off of my soapbox.
Young,
dumb,
Hopeful, & full of beer.
I stare off.
You're here.
That bridge,
big & beautiful,
tired & weathered like me.
& I pause.
A refrain.
Love, swelling.
Rising.
& I'll say no more,
because something's are better off felt.
Myself & the hole that is in me.
All is okay.

Now I think I know what you meant when you told me you hated me.

Miss

I miss it. I missed it. I miss those smells. I miss that voluminous gaze. I miss the valley, oh how I do. Remember that one time? I remember them all. I've missed it. Rapture. Infinite complacency. I missed the signs. The exit. That place. I miss a certain type of blue. Bullets & bullets, chains atop chains that you wrangle me in with. I'm locked in your cellar. I missed it. Then, not now. I see it. In some other town, you'll be there. It'll be there. It's always with you. Bound to mediocrity now. There ain't nothing there. You've missed it too. You have your own chains, kept tied up by another. Hazy rooms, cigar smoke & the smell of cognac. A gamble you've taken. Nothing. There ain't nothing. Use that, if you want. Happiness CAN be vice. A motherfucker, destined to achieve that which is so easy to find. A man of simple. Redundant. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. This way, up here, you can have it. It's a hard climb up, but at the peak is a view insuperable to anything down there. I'm no shepherd, but I am a rock. I've missed it & now you do too. I'll set up here for a while, that's alright. Good things never come easy.

Why/How

Can you understand it? I cant. Or, at least I don't think I do. The rapid movement of my right hand makes the table shake, which leads me to see the liquid in my drink quiver. Periphery. Pulp. They say your periphery is better than your straight on. I won't take their word for it though, I have no idea who "they" are. Still here. Sort of. You take 5 steps back. I was sitting on a curb the other day, early morning, still drunk, that big, beautiful sun shitting all over my face. Some guy with a scar on his face walks by & I ask him, "Hey, you ever been in love"? He pauses. "I've been married 4 times, I learned to let go". "You have a nice day". I'm trying to fill up the dark spaces in my mind, the hole thats in my chest. These bottles sure as hell ain't no gauze. That wound there is still gaping, that blood still flows freely. I watch it wind its way down towards my dick. That asshole. I let him get too far ahead of himself, think too much for me. Now look at us. He's covered in blood (not to say that blood isn't something he's not used to being around), & I'm twiddling my thumbs, blundering. It ain't about WHY, it's about HOW. Speaking of which, what the hell are you going on about?

Osmosis

No, no. That ain't it. Ramble some more. He was a sick son of a bitch. In & out, always offering you a bump or 2. Only in exchange for something, though. I saw him move back & forth real fast like the way a body does after its neck's been snapped. Going on & on about god or something, blowing hot air onto anyone close enough to stand listening to him talk. Thankfully it was cold outside, it sure as hell kept me warm. It's cold now too. You laid on the floor with her. She told you you were handsome. I needed that at the time, things were looking grim. These GODDAMN aloe plants. The Wolf. I hung around one for a while, it spoke a language I barely understood. I liked it though. It told me things I'll never know, sent out into the ether. Some lucky son of a bitch probably got the satisfaction out of those words just by virtue of osmosis. I could've used those words then too. It's still cold. You come up, you come down. You've felt it all. Now, you feel nothing. A little taste & you'll be back. I'm not really sure if it's such a bad thing.

Off With You

Kind of. I'm in some fucked up emotional purgatory. I don't feel anything. At least for now. I've watched him cascade from up to low. He was there for it, but he was no witness. Only until he came down, & let me tell you, he came down HARD. The sky was grey then. It's grey most of the time. Grey, grey, grey. All of the termites are out there geared up for some fraternity style fuckfest. "Hey man, you holdin"? "Only if you kiss the tip"! "Fuck off"!! That's about it. The PINNACLE of culture. That's what we're here for! It ain't your god, it ain't no metaphysical, things happen for a reason, she's the one, it was meant to be type bullshit, no. FUCK. That's it. We're here to fuck. From your boss, who fucks you in the ass on your pay, to that coworker who you've been sticking it to on the sly, to that green ass 21 year old NYU student from Ann Arbor with too much money & too many bad ideas, who ends up going home with that creep from the bar with the leather jacket on who gives her so much cocaine it makes her sick & she can't scrub the guilt off for 3 days straight, that's about it. Let's all fuck ourselves into oblivion then, cause there ain't much else to do.

Break

I couldn't imagine it any other way. Or maybe I could, I'd like to. Either way, things go as they do. It's been sometime now. I always go. Memories, moments. I'm always here & there. It ain't easy. When the woman you love tells you she wants you, tells you that it feels right, tells you that it hurts & then goes off & fucks another, your brain just melts. I feel like a goddamn rug. I'd like to assert myself more. Grab her, shake her, bellow my unconditional love for her to the goddamn sky, but it's most likely useless. GODDAMN. I'm 23 at the time of this writing but I feel 3 times that. Every night, same routine. I shrink myself down to 6 inches & go for a swim in a bottle of god's amber liquid. I'm 23 at the time of writing this & my everything hurts. I couldn't shake the feeling, so I just bummed around waiting for something to break. I couldn't see it, so that's why I'm here. If you were in my shoes, would you?

Face

You send a message out into the ether, knowing full well the repercussions you face. You pause to follow the face. The sting is too sharp. The mark is left. You'll feel that one again in the A.M. Paid 6 dollars. 4 for the beer, 2 for the tip. 2 because I'm in the industry. I understand the plight of this occupation . Unless you really give a shit. Then you're just dull. That also depends, though. I'm burning up inside. That bathroom had walls covered in chalkboard paint. I LOVE YOU was scribbled on them. Chicken-scratch. You can tell a lot about that one by their handwriting. GODDAMN. Eh, what hell, I'm in love. I could drink up every ounce of that woman if she'd let me. Unfortunately, I can't. Probably wont ever again. You never know. In this place, where the pain never dulls. In this place, where the bulk of everything you dislike surrounds you, yet you somehow feel comfortable. In this place, where you're not found & on the way home, you burn bridges. Goddamnit. Goddamnit is all I have to say.

Recall

It's overcast. You can't breath. No way you'll go out there, no way. You fucked it, so sleep in it. & so, that's it, I guess. Over on that hill over there is a green house. Built by an industrious man with weathered hands. You'll probably never see it again. On a boat. You're being towed. You remember you had short hair. You could feel the wind cutting sharply onto your scalp. She threw something, you laughed. You were both on a dock. He took a photograph. It was cold then, but presence left you feeling warm inside. Your hands were cold. You couldn't grasp the neck. You faltered. Remember that smell? Recall is a motherfucker.

Fade

You're back. Same bottle, same table. Same goddamn bar. I couldn't think it. Sleep. That couch is too small, your toes curl whilst you dream. What were they talking about? I don't remember. Silhouettes paint a tiny portrait in my mind. There's four of them. Lights, cop, exit. Home again. Blue room, red chair in the corner. She's asleep. He's smoking over by the window. Sitting in the red chair, lost in thought. What's he thinking of? I can't remember, that guy left a long time ago. He seized up & she cried. There was blood. Fade to black. They're asleep.

Web

She's in bed with a higher up right now. That's okay, pretty girls tend to gravitate towards stability.
One can only be destitute for so long. Sullen. My cigarette keeps going out. She's on the subway platform by now. I have dreams. Good ones, bad ones. They leave me wanting more. I saw your web presence & succumbed to despondency. Bullshit. What a vapid place. Not the box, no, the web. Take a trip, go. It's better that way. It only hurts in the morning.

Something

Now that you're gone, you won't remember.
Or maybe you will, you always do.
You are the definition of love; you don't mean that narcissistically,
you mean to direct it more so towards your inability to end,
your trailing of thought, your depth of longing, your time spent alone, away from her.
Your want of return.
Those eyes.

I'm not looking for anything,
I'm just looking for something to find.

Take

& as it is, there is deafening silence, echoing roars & what have you.

There is a place; he'll be there & so will you.
There are many places;
Underneath that billowing wind;
Underneath the ground;
In the midst of rose petals, where the sun never sets
& the trees always dance.

Where there is always work to be done;
Those sounds of machina.

There will always be that place,
where the sound of children's laughter mixes in with her words
& those sounds of machina to offset the chaos.

There will always be that place;
He, nor she can take that.

Stone

I hold this stone.
This stone is weathered,
Beaten over countless hours by an unrelenting mother.

I carry this stone.
A charm, sentiment;
An idea.

I feel the groove my thumb has left on this stone.
It has been with me through suffering;
Therefore, it must also suffer if it is to join me.

I look at this stone.
I kiss this stone.
This sediment that once helped bear life,
Now stares blankly back at me.

It waits.
I imagine it smiles.

I am no stone.
When I see this stone, I understand it is something I will never be:

Eternal, wise, unbreakable.
& so it is.

The stone.

3rd Avenue

3rd avenue.  Old, decrepit people fill the sidewalk. NYU kids on the corner filming some shitty short.
It's windy. Warm. I'm wearing a goddamn skullcap. I'm on my way to see the beginning & the end. That one. All I eat is fucking bananas. Coffee. Booze. Bananas. Repeat. I haven't showered in nearly a week. Haven't brushed my teeth for longer. Haven't had a break. Respite is for suckers. 3:17. 3:17. 3:17. 3:17. It's 3:17 on 3rd avenue.

Indecisive Madness

In a park. It's beautiful out. The sun is shining brilliantly, bursting through the  canopies of the trees.
Their slow waltz with the wind makes the rays of sunlight dance on her lips.
They remain beautiful, but what words they are forming send pain from my throat down into my chest. Swallow. Gaze. I watch those lips read. The sun & the wind continue their slow waltz.
These words are clear. I understand them, although I wish I didn't.
Loss. Endurance. In indecision lies madness.

For you

Allow me to take your hand;
Soft, small, strong & weathered.

It is for all of those times that I should have;

To validate the help we gave one another.

In that beginning, mired in juniper;

In that beginning, fraught & frantic;

In that beginning, where the fledgling seed was planted, only to blossom into the laurel that begged for Apollo's hand.

In this new beginning, I will bellow my love for you that bounds from building to building in this harsh city.

With or without you.

In this place

It's hard to remember.

In this place,
In this place.

The sensation is overwhelming;
It burns in your chest over old wounds inflicted in the same fashion.
The scar tissue builds, and you rip it in two.

Suck in the sulphuric odour that emanates from this place.

The same place where she sleeps;
The same place where this voice whispers;
The same place where a river of amber liquid flows freely.

In this place,
In this place.

Voluminous gaze, envelop me in your sure embrace;
Hourglass, allow me to hold you,
turn you,
use you in all of my selfish ways.

Godly sun, reveal yourself to be the bastard that you are.

In this place,
In this place.

There is so much to feel here,
yet it is convoluted and dark.

My eyes are closed.

It cuts like a knife;
It bleeds.
Freely, it moves;
Loosely, I walk.

Why, in such moments of mediocrity,
the everyday passage, is what you see,
but a grasp of what is?

Loosely, I hold this;
Like sand, it runs freely through the cracks
of my fingers.

Like blood, it is thick.

Like most things, it is misunderstood.

Husk

Raising your fists to the sky,
You bellow with force enough to melt your heart.

Scream to me, you muted bastard;
Slap me, you pacified dog;
Shake me, you unrelenting shadow.

Why, with such fury & sorrow,
will you not answer me?

Where is the true nature of you?
Your guise blinds me.
I know not much of you, but your eyes speak
A different language.

Rattle me to the core, you son of a bitch.
Unrepenting composite of a person,
I am a husk.

Revo

Sweeping.

Can you find meaning in this? 

There can be no other recourse; 

For every action, the consequences are sweeping;

For every feeling misunderstood, there is a place for them to be swept;

For my shaking hand, my caffeinated mind, my quivering lip, 

There is a place. 

I wander in a daze. 

A Home & A Hand

I am a twisted root, I am a fortified wall;
You care not to explain.
The anima; At once I cry with joyous rapture for the burden, the breath, and breadth, of my being;
at the same time, I torment over the callousness of this very same breadth.

Like the root, I run deep.

Intertwined in all of you; my actions, alongside yours,
like Atlas, carry the weight of the world upon my shoulders.

I lament.

An amoeba,
a serpent;

A flower,
yet not one that cares for your touch;

a valley,
a trail,
a home,
a heart & the truth;

we must bear the weight of our actions.
I must do so.

Although, to commit, is an entirely different thing.

Kings

Starry, star, star; you don't exist here in this place.
Nothing does; nor do I.

I walk; lost, racing.
1,000,000,000,000 words & colors & feelings, feelings as colors & colors as words
& everything as 1,000,000,000,000.

You speak & no one listens.
Actually, they do; up to a certain extent, then they nod.
Not one-other has time for words not minced.

They're all not so bad, though.

You keep to the inside.
Portray yourself differently you try & if you must,
I suppose attempt again.

It's a fools game.

Your constitution moves gently; it ebbs & flows, swims freely.
None aught but whatever the fuck happens between now & whenever
will determine a different outcome.

Trappings

A rudderless boat; it floats slowly downstream unoccupied.
I find my image here, no companionship; a road traveled alone.
Underneath my exterior, I am wise; I am foolish; I am beautiful; I am everything.

A keeper, I am not;
A decider, I do not;
A dove, I dream.

I dream of one-thousand landscaped never traversed;
I speak in one-thousand tongues foreign to me.

My blood boiled once; now, it simmers.
I gently wade through red waters towards the rudderless boat.

Once in, I climb aboard and immediately forget why I came here.
With no direction, I simply float.
Alone, with none-other than my thoughts;
trappings are a daily occurrence.

Jurisprudence

I am not he.

I am even not myself; even not me. 

Ever, am I searching.

I cater not to thee; words of candor escape from me often enough; loose statements from a fidgety imbecile.

Regardless, I am not he. 

How is it? 

How, I ask, is it I care for those who do better unto me than I do by myself? 

Accusations shortcut this process.

Place

You can't seem to do right.
Lights hung high; damp & cold; I cannot leave this place.
For a moment, I stare.
Low; I feel low.
Dark, damp; the smell of steel; a large room where they toil for minor penance.
A pestiferous place, a cavernous hall; a dangerous place.
Entangled in a web of my own foolishness; vapid, inescapable motions make my temperature rise.
Alone, again; finding no way; lost in this damned place.