1

I look at
my shredded fingertips,
turning gray from Ernie Ball string,
from obsession playing the instrument.
I look at
             the only evidence
of any of that
ecstatic crucible
into my hands,
                      the technicolor
of each pile
                 of felt-tip paintings,
the endless rows
                         of recording
that I can
             only navigate
by seconds, and by minute,
and I am
             deflated.
not a single
                work
was finished.
again,
nothing
could be used.

         2
I look at
the hours flaying me
on my acoustic guitar, and the days
trapped in each sheet of sketches
spent sleep deprived and starving,
alone, not bathing
or speaking; just
drawing. drawing until
the pain reached
too high a threshhold
to be able
to endure,
but i did again and again this
in between those great periods
of being an invalid,
                                 in the hope of something
to be proud of.

I decide I'll go for a walk
to the 7/11.
I buy a 40 dollar bottle
of my favorite Whiskey,
of Jameson and
I get a pack,
                   not the usual kind, not my favorite--
Marlboro Red One-Hundreds,
                                                   but I get a pack
of Parliament Light One-Hundreds
this time.
              I go home, and I drink.
half the bottle. light a cigarette, play
one of my favorites--
those songs
                  from the 1990's.
I sit down
on the floor of my bedroom and
I cut open
my arms
with a pencil.

Life's not so bad
until just before morning
when I see a dark man
driving a black Cadillac
take a cigarette from his lips
and throw it out the window
watching it go all to pieces
all over the road.

The space between ethereal measure,
  the nothingness connecting our divide.
This lack of substance is surreal, obscure
  are old memories of sharing your side.
Ours is the spirit, by which we are bound,
  a realm we share where timelessness persists.
Where shapeless planes carry a formless sound,
  the self becoming selfless, unresisting.
The place you’ve gone does not belong to me
  and in the space between us, seeds are sown.
The tree of life sways softly with the breeze
  while you continue, beyond what I know.
Like wings that carry over to another shore,
  you are my leaf on the wind. I see you soar.

I see ravens hovering from above
their eyes bulging like a blown latex glove.
I see cockroaches coverings her skin
swarming until her fear is thin.
I see spiders descending from her closed eyes,
as they open, the fear in the air is revived.
I see a spine rolling in the mud,
teeth lie in each bone covered with blood.
I see a forest dim and private,
but Satan is heart in the silence.
I see her eyes open and wide,
her bulbs are split among three small sides.
I see a knife hanging from a small coil,
blood is trickled onto the soil.
I hear music in the distance,
murderous women thrive the Devil's resistance
I see her lips adjusting to mine,
frost covers them in an alphabetical line.
I see butterflies all over her visible thighs, flying until the blood gets dry.
I see her coming into my body;
My only wish is to tell the Devil, "I'm sorry".

Where I live
crows crowd the sky
black kites in the wind

Inscrutable dark eyes
take my measure
as they pass
tell tales to the gale
herald the storm

Where I live
springtime makes her bold attempt
a moment of sun
fragrant blooms beyond measure
and fails yet again

Where I live
rain drowns the lowly worm
beats down like
the teacher you despised in school

And the sea!
The ocean has come to churn
here
miles inland

My eyes are raingrey
my spirit presses upward
the rain presses down

Yet I breathe!
The air is sweet
the moments of sun
and endless blue
miracles of the hour

I treasure these times
beneath a sea of showers
the Pacific Ocean
rolling over the coastal hills
arriving here at our door

This lush green world
whose verdant measure
is spoken in tongues
its secret heart desires the tempest
demands the rain
insists upon its prerogative.

How can I say otherwise?