These identity crisis are
viscerally minded ’till the
briny, bitter end.

Pour sugar in my drink and
salt in my wounds and
I’ll tell you which stings more

and you tell me
weather I’ve got this whole thing
backwards.

I have a funny feeling.

Could it be a crisis of
Identity?

I can not tell.

But I am optimistic.

beer made it a party
where pizza would not suffice.
and we thanked our creator
for friendship, hope, vision,
dreams, fun, and one another.
because if there is any sign
in the world of the absurd blessing
of the Lord it would be the
12 children screaming bloody
murder while we try and get something
focused done.

They saw you sleeping
on hoods of cars
and could not fathom
for the life of them
why that’s where you’d be

So that’s why I’m there
with a knife in my pocket
and a huge fucking grin tucked
underneath my coat just
in case one of them wanders by;

I’ll show off the edge with
a twinkle in my eye and
I’d say not a word but
I’d guarantee that
the place where you lay
you’d continue to lie

i agree
“shattered safety glass”
is a perfect description of
your recent relationships.

Slithering snakes reached out once
to touch me,
and I reached back and stroked
the tops of their heads and I
was reckless, but not foolish
and when they bit
and they bit
I could stand the test of teeth-in-flesh

But slithering snakes recede, whether
pulled or on their own and
I am left to nurse my wound
and perhaps to suck the venom
so my fingers don’t just
fall off
and then maybe I’ll send snakes out
of my own
and recklessly
I’ll let them let you feel me

a hole is dug and with your jacket
(made of down)
you take a dive
i’d call it a swim but treading
attempting to stay alive
as you look on in longing
and me laughing.

yea “swim”
is probably not the best word.

we drove something like forever to find that break
in the sky.
We could see it, but it was too far to make out
so well, so
we fed a few more gallons of gas and strapped ourselves
down while the
engine bellowed and white smoke plumed from
the tailpipe.

The wind must have been blowing up there, though,
we couldn’t tell,
but when
we shifted in to gear and looked up, the break had flown
just above
our heads. Unabashed, however, we drove something like
forever
to find another one.

bursting into song
knowing that i would feel good
gave a morale boost at mile 4
but lacking money when passing
mcdonald’s breakfast dampened
the mood.

tomorrow?

maybe you’ll have cats
just to mask the smell
of the dead bodies
buried somewhere
in your cluttered home

you’ll blame your short
breath on the asthma
when really the child
inside you wont let you take
the medicine for your
corroded
heart

and the last time i saw you
you grew cold in my arms
and no love could be enough
to fill your acidic chest

not mine,
at least.

and thats how you found yourself
awake at 5:30 in the morning
freezing to a shake in your shoes
wondering if you have what it takes
to find joy in the sleep deprivation
and the strenuous endlessness of the
road ahead as you ignore red lights
and head for the hills hoping to
return before the sunrise.

They’ll drag you, too,
behind the backs of cars
right down the main drag
hooting and hollering
and as your skin scrapes
from your body and on to
the asphalted ground with
your screams buried behind
the 8-cylinder roaring, you’ll
bleed out over miles while
the ropes around your wrists
near pull your hands right off

At those speeds
nobody here
can save you

he came to our party drunk already
he grabbed a guitar and joined our songs
singing blues and bashing chords

reality came knocking
the police
the landlord

he answered the door like a madman
screaming “i’ll kill who
ever it is!”

a struggle ensued
he screamed “wetback!
spic!”

at the mexican landlord
and
it was a drunk struggle

until the cops came and
we all ended up on the
street but the cops never saw the knife

well,
he’d pulled it on the landlord
before his girl got him to the car

he was still screaming
“i’ll kill you!
let go of me! you bitch!”

we decided, via telephone
to avoid the cops, we’d party
onward at another domicile

i believe, this was our first night
together (you and i),
and when we got there he was still mad

he shattered the glass door
of the apartment complex with
his knife

he ran off into the woods
after changing clothes in his
girl’s car

i told you how much i admired him
and you were so afraid when the cops
came to the second place, too

and here you are getting engaged
about to fuck for the first time
because you’re getting married

at 22
what a joke;
i still wish i was him that night

I long in private
to know humility.
Something you suffered in full
at the moment of your birth.

Choosing us at the cost of
stepping from paradise to our
filthy rags. Our filthy skin.
Our filthy thoughts, ways, and
friends. Settling for deny-ers,
liars, and betrayers

he’s clothed in grey and hangs
with death until death waves his
scythe in disgust trying to wave
away the scent he carries.

like a Pig-Pen floating in the sky
the dirt moves around with him
carrying a scent he loves to
bring to children and men of all ages.

he had a brief visit with my mother
who claimed he smelled of perfume
when with her. a lie i believed until
i was much too old.

on dates in high school he’d visit and
torment me to hassle me through the
evening laughing in mockery as i consumed
linguine with my date. till the moment
i dropped her off at night, loosened my pants
and sighed a sigh of relief as he
finally
slowly
left me
sputtering
out
screaming. “see you tomorrow!”

And Death, he is a beautiful bastard,
A Home-coming Angel and a Devil
with snatching claws. Master of kings
and countrymen and not a soul
can stand against him. With his
sword he deals in truth alone, and
his terrible visage is as a nightmare
and a burden and a final flash of
freedom so that the young will flee
and the suffering will beg for him to come.
He wanders every street and field,
his blade in hand, and while I haven’t
been around the last time I saw him
he was looking pretty down on his luck
with his black robe all in tatters so
I guess his gig doesn’t pay so well and
maybe he should try to get one of those
cushy Government jobs instead.

an injury induced break
brought to mind the difficulty
of finding endorphines (or something like them)
legally in this day in age.

today we took flight for an hour
to see what our bodies could
still do.

roads to grass to steps to history
to hills past zoos and along rivers
we weaved through crowds and
jumped over folk just to
watch them squirm with fear
and something like joy.

flight for an hour and we returned
home because the time was too
short for a two hour flight when
family is at home counting on you
doing something other than soaking
in endorphines.

the rabbit ear is bent
or there is snow in the dish
or the line is cut
and sure, I see smoke, but
I can’t read the signals,
and even though the mail
always gets through,
it’s tough in this weather.

O, that all the pigeons
are dead. O, that they
were not mailbirds instead.