It was confused and dark, dark, so dark,
dark like when Charlie got drunk for the first time, came back, and stumbled-open the door long after Sam had screamed at everyone to leave her the f--- alone.  

And Jesse is standing there, swaying slightly with the beer and the pounding music, and Charlene feels her ribcage shiver with each bass beat.  The pale light oozing off the stage silvers Jesse’s angled face like water, soaks the black shapes around her, pools in each eye as the constant ripple and shudder of the crowd shifts her hips.  Somehow her thin, bare shoulders speak her excitement, and in the dim shuffle of the audience she’s half drunk and lovely.  “You know that calc test is tomorrow,” Charlene screams over the straight roar of chaos. “Don’t remind me! God!” Lovely Jesse laughs and her hand sketches a lazy gun that jerks at her head -- don’t remind me, God don’t don’t don’t --  and Charlene clenches her eyes shut and still that flashes, dark dark dark, her loose-jointed fingers flicking up, twitching in sickening unison with her mocking head, again again again-- don’t remind me, God,
don’t remindmegoddon’t remind megod god oh God,
Sam loved drinking herself sick, stumbling home with her arm ‘round Charlie’s neck, slurring alcohol love and despair to her ‘bes’ fren, besh’ roomate evr, Charlene a.k.a. Charlie.  And “a.k.a.” as Sam loved to call her, was always there to pick Sam up and clean Sam up and sober Sam the **** up.  And every stupid drunk party night that semester she told Charlie over and over again: ‘listen, a.k.a., here’s a funny story: a girl went to buy her mother aspirin cause her mother had a terrible ******* headache and she bought some from her dear second cousin Kurt the cashier who was a trublueblooded Eagle scout mama’s boy back from college, that sonofabitch and she came home, but her momma didn’t have that headache anymore and gave her a mostly delicious popsicle and it was red strawberry, the end.’  And every stupid drunk party night that semester Charlie watched and listened as Sam made up new stories about aspirin (always ending with popsicles).
See, Charlie was always there. Charlie never drank.  And Charlie, she always listened to the stupid f---ing drunk-strawberry-popsicle story.  And Charlie never gave a **** about Sam, did she? She sure didn’t, no, Charlie didn’t.  

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom” Charlie screams into Jesse’s ear and plunges out into the sea of dark shadows circling her.  The door struggles open, then she’s crushing it shut, crushing splinters into her palms, she’s bending over the counter, both hands white-pressed onto its imitation marble, choking down these sharp sparks of nausea bursting like fireworks inside, and the music’s faded out, its just the thud of that ******* drum that pulses over and over and over --god stop it-- fills the room, rattles the stalls, over and over and Charlie’s convinced its a heartbeat, its Sam’s heartbeat, thud thud thud, god its going on and on and pounding, OH GOD, charlie screams, IT STOPPED, no no no no SAM no SAM SAM SAM OH GOD it stopped no no GOD
next song. drum starts again. and the room is inside of the drum, it is the inside, the taut air’s quivering with each beat, taut ribcage quivering with each beat. Charlie is inside a drum. beat beat beat drumbeat heartbeat thud, thud, thud,
god I look awful, Charlie’s looking at her face in the dim vibrating mirror: blue shadows under her dull eyes, pale, dead-tired, dead-drunk, and so f---ing dead-alive,
she goes back to Jesse, wriggling through the black lumps: lovers making out, heavy spellbound listeners, uneasy loners, angry drunks, drunk as-- drunk as Charlie’s first drunk night.

Sam was so ****** that night and Charlie dragged her home to their dorm, sick of Sam’s tangy alcohol breath and her sagging, skinny weight on her shoulder. “I’m sick of your breath, Sam.” sick of it, god Sam, just stop it, wish that breath would go away, I mean,
it was blowing all over my cheek Sam, cause your **** beautiful face was lying on my neck-- that’s why I said that, I didn’t mean that, Sam.
And then you said ‘well, all right Charlie, I’ll tell you a funny story Charlie,’ and I said ‘oh god Sam, not again,’ and you said ‘no, its different this time’ and you said ‘one day there was a little girl who went to the store to buy aspirin for her mom and the cashier took her into the back of the store and hurt her and she came home and told her mom and her mom slapped her and told her to stop talking ***** and shut the **** up and then that little girl’s throat sure did ache, Charlie, even after a popsicle it did. And Charlie, Charlie, a.k.a. Charlene, sure did hate her breath. see, that’s my story and isn’t it a funny story...”
you drop your drunk roommate on the gritty hallway carpet, give her the key say
‘’bye Samantha", goodbye samgoodbye, bye bye Sam, "I’m going to go get drunk don’t be too much of a ***** while I’m gone.’

floormates told Charlie later that Sam screamed at everyone “hey, all you motherf---ers, leave me the f--- alone,” then laughed, slammed the door. and they did leave her alone.
Charlie came back *****-drunk, touched the doorknob and heard the shot, the door opens,
Sam’s falling and Charlie watches her beautiful, bony wrist flick back as she gets blood all over and ruins her face and Charlie sobers up really f---ing fast.  She always was good at that.
There's a note on the desk in Crayola washable marker (purple): "well, a.k.a., I guess I am being way too much of a ***** while you’re gone. you’re welcome. sorry for ******* it all up again as usual"
*Thanks for that Sam, thanks a lot Sam thanks thanks f--- you

Who put that crease in your soul,
Davies, ready this fine morning
For the staid chapel, where the Book's frown
Sobers the sunlight?  Who taught you to pray
And scheme at once, your eyes turning
Skyward, while your swift mind weighs
Your heifer's chances in the next town's
Fair on Thursday?  Are your heart's coals
Kindled for God, or is the burning
Of your lean cheeks because you sit
Too near that girl's smouldering gaze?
Tell me, Davies, for the faint breeze
From heaven freshens and I roll in it,
Who taught you your deft poise?

I can see into the 5 minute future
It's not even six o'clock
Music defines time
I'm furious for not knowing this before
Your name sobers
Me in a different
Way than getting
Sober
Does
Different from this control freak
I am compelled to write this for you
I love you I LOVE YOU
more than Germany
Loves you more than anyone
Loves you falling
Razor sides moves to the
Rings there's still liquid
In it I don't know
All I know is
I shouldn't be this sorry

i drink whiskey because
after so many
shots
something like a dragon wakes up in my stomach
and crawls out my throat with the exhalation of cigarette smoke
i drink whiskey because the dark brown
mingles with the fire in my veins
and the wild south of my soul is reawakened
a part of my soul that lingers in the bricks of marie laveu's and between alleyways in the french quarter
stirs up like a ghostly collection of downy feathers
and the fear that is carved into my ribcage seeps out
i drink whiskey because the salt of my fingers plays
with the back of my throat
coaxing all this fear out, chased with mason jars of water
i drink whiskey because it makes me feel ugly and fierce
i drink whiskey because it makes it easier for me to burn bridges and sever ties
i drink whiskey because it makes being used by men with pretty faces and holes in their dead chests easier to swallow the next day
i drink whiskey because it makes me rowdy and alive
i drink whiskey because snarling rage needs to be let out sometimes
i drink whiskey because it sobers up my headi drink it because it helps me forget that i didn’t say no
i drink it because it makes me angry about what you did
i drink it because i remember the way your hand pushed mine down and the way your hand curled into a fist in my hair and yanked at the top of my dress
i drink it because i didn’t tell you no

Maybe I do believe in love.
It's just my jealousy blinds me.
My passion has no one to love and everyone to envy.
My heart confuses me,
My mind sobers me,
A thin balance that is easily tipped either way.
Tipped towards my heart,
I fly upwards into pink skies
With fluffy white clouds and sunshine.
I love and feel loved.
I wonder if anyone likes me.
Maybe he likes me, maybe he doesn't.
That thought bursts my bubble,
And down I fall to the dirt,
Crying and bleeding.
I lie there until I can get back up and keep walking on the road called Life.
Tipped towards my mind,
I crawl into the caves,
Soothing darkness,
A balm to my hot head,
Silence and solitude to really think deeply.
I marvel at the glittering gems underground,
Gems of thoughts and wise quotes,
Ideas and dreams.
Then my ruby heart cracks
And my sapphire eyes cry diamond tears,
Falling on the stone floor,
Each one precious.
I feel lost,
Forgotten,
Nothing more than fools gold.
That thought causes me to fall into the deepest darkest catacomb,
A trench so deep I can hardly breath.
Now without wisdom or ideas,
Only pain,
I lie and wait until my strength returns,
enough to climb out of my pit and into the blinding sunlight.

With the perfect balanced life between my heart and mind,
I can climb mountains to touch the pink clouds,
And explore caves without falling down.

I fall down into the caves more than I fly to the sky.
I can't decide which hurts more though.

I do believe in love.
I believe in love in stories and fairy tales.
I believe love is possible in real life,
But not for me.
Love is like a wax and feathered wings-
They help you fly,
But if you fly too close to glory,
Like Icarus you will fall and die.
Your heart will burn and melt,
Then drown in tears until you forget the pain.
I don't want to die.
Again.

“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late
And how can man die better
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods”



Soft murmurs along the front line crackle like a broken prairie plough,
The maples and oaks snapping with
Every burst of the cannon.
Crested breaths choked out by
The ferocious blasts of this entrenched
Jungle.
Shrieks punctuate the deathly silence,
And sobers the divisions thirst for war.
I, a dead soul among the living.

The soft wind at night is the nefarious fingers of death,
Soaking the earth and ****** boughs
Of the old oaks with the veins
Of golden purity.

(I am standing on an eagles skull.)

I can hear the Rebel yell beyond the tree line,
BLASTING the barreling notion of liberty,
Stacked within our Union souls.

A Bundren coffin takes form in the mist beyond the wasteland.

My kin lay wait at home,
Shall I return one day and parade through pastures
And creeks until the days grow old
and so shall I.
With kin side by side.

My vacant mind floats off to distant lands along the
timbered forests of the Free North.


Orations from my Grandfather resonate like wind chimes
Rattling among the inner confines of my sanity,
Strewn images flash like the lines of Virginian regulars,
A sparse reminder of my ever so soon fate
In the Wilderness.

i make love with Death every night.

during the day, we go our separate
ways, but she's always on my mind.
after work, we meet up.
same routine. dinner, occasionally.
but always drinks.

she downs a bottle
of Cabernet
with no help
from me.
the red compliments
her dress and flushes
her cheeks with pink.
i just take coffee. black.

afterwards, she needs
a lift home. i'm her dd.
the city lights blur
indigo and violet,
blossoming like flowers
in the pavement
of the night sky.

we arrive. she invites
me to come inside,
looks me in the eye,
says, "i love you."

i believe her,
even though i know
it's a lie.

the minutes hang thick.
while she sobers up,
we roll dice
and tell stories.

then, breathless and slick,
it begins in the kitchen.
gasps come in spasms, pulsing
in tandem with our obsessive—
compulsive—desire.
we continue beneath the duvet.
i sample the flesh between her legs.
she tastes like pomegranate
and bruised starfruit. her sweat
is second-hand smoke. my brain buzzes
from Marlboro Lite cigarettes.

afterwards, we lay over the sheets
as the ceiling fan rotates eternally
overhead, humming a tune we both hear
in our dreams but cannot comprehend.  
her head rests on my chest,
she loses herself in the gaps
between each heartbeat.

wordless, we drift.

when i wake, she's always gone.
the space in bed beside me
has grown cool. jealously,
i wish Death had taken me with her.

(culmination)

trading closet fingers in the dark
best friends  knowing where to hide
our savored innocence
must have grinned
taking turns saying
your turn  my turn
hidden deep in smells of coats and sunless carpet
squeeze of family wardrobes
brushing fabric with my gasp or whining
itch in rapid breaths of hair on end
goosebumps pointing everywhere.

mom's vacuum caught our squealing
in a silent flick  pressed
between the wall and bed
between your russet legs my bookmark
bandaged there to get you well
your name means money
telling me you've paid me with your kiss
and worse your smile burns me
through your older sister's lipstick
like your sliding hand
i'm taking in your charcoal hair
the taste of salt i've never tasted since.

furthest from the future
single hormones savored at inception
bouldering we plant a famous kiss
pond-slick bodies slipping off each other in the sun
by ladders knocking knees
slender instant touches floating underneath
she asked me if i thought you **** laying there
your propped thigh towered vaster than the sky
me  writhing for an answer doomed
is all i salvage  time a mercy
like my father buried in his laps.

discussing copulation in a tree
we rose the bar on pleasures sought
our racing pulses lipped
to ***** our budding mores into flight
as if a dizzy kiss would lull me
off the branch to plummet at the ground
or make your belly grow.

green virgins of my youth  i hadn't known
a ****** river pours along our amethystine stair
our early blooming lucidness revealed
yet severed at our inner cry to usher in a storm.

growing older sobers what the vigor meant
despite a tripled sharpness
still i smell your sweat
as when we crept below as vagrant children hand in hand
the shutters always open  just for show
we stifle laughter in the nigh pubescent dark
watch them dine  hush
tickle after dinner play of shadows making love
through the windows we are them
blushing i will strip you as he strips his wife
widened gazes mime a sudden wincing
silent  fascinated fear commits us to the same
against the squeaky glass
exemplar bodies thrashing for the world
of flesh i want much more than most
i shatter windows just to show you that i can.

in growing i grow used to less
and as i learn of you  your troubles
i remember how i'd save you
save myself for perfect adult love
i can't save you  we just **** and wander  ****  wander  ****




.

This kid I go to school with told me his “Perfect way to be a nice guy and get girls to like you” today in math class.

He said to find a girl who tends to get drunk at parties and sleep with random dudes and regret it later.

He said to go to a party with them and get them drunk and then instead of sleeping with them let them sleep in your car and take care of them if they get sick or whatever.

He said than you had to make sure to tell her about it when she sobers up and how it’s “no big deal”

He said doing the right thing makes you a good guy.

I guess what he doesn’t understand is that setting yourself up for personal gain by using people with personality flaws is not what makes you a good guy.

49°f on the sunrise, wind in your sails
the coast all calm, my mouth all red
"you want this?" you say, and i kiss you
quick and sunken, teeth like graves
with every inscription an old treaty
international law between the lines
of our coexistence; it is: definition
and redefinition of forces
peaceful conflict, maybe
content desolation

i say to you shining, i say "of course"
i am: the golden boy with a fog on his heart
you are: slimy, so sweet, a snail full of kisses
dismantling the borders of my skin like
a needle, a bug, pure irrationality;
but the sea-breeze sobers
and i know i will be fine
in the stability of your hands
and the love story of your fists

and when i breathe into the sand
i can feel my bruises swell
my scars flutter
the sky burns grey and my thighs
ever pinker; my lips ever more split
and now you hold me like the tide
and i come home with you smiling
52°f on the morn, salt on my face
and i know, i know i will be fine

i.

Kathy tells me about god in the bathroom stall.
She tells me about the time when he told her
that we’re really all just suffering together.
“I was at Harry’s basement party,
drunk leaning against a wall, standing by myself,” she says.  

She says she can taste the suffering the most when she’s standing in church,
eating one of those **** communion wafers.
I laugh without knowing; I’ve yet to eat a communion wafer.

ii.

When Kathy gets really drunk
she grapples at my hand
and forces it to her skin.
She says my hand sobers her up
more than water does. When I touch her forearm
it is as though I am touching a dead infant.

When I touch skin I am thinking about standing outside
in air that could only be so cold in the summer,
my body all bare, my body standing outside
of a loud and lit up house
with me whispering,  “please don’t touch me, just let me shiver,
just let me faint here peacefully.”

When I think of skin I think of my grandmother and her wrinkles,
of generations of wrinkles.
Looking into the bathroom mirror
I see the body of my grandmother and the face of my mother.
I am desperate for a toilet.

iii.

Kathy knows about the days when all I do is eat.
She knows about how much I like peanut butter,
about how my skin sags from my ankles,
hangs around my wrists. But still
she holds me when I must *****.

I still think of you,
sometimes late into the night,
eyes wide awake and body aching,
pulsating and confused
Perpetual shifting,
tossing and turning

Staring at my clock,
waiting on my phone,
I lay in silence and shut my eyes tight,
until they're little slits

Avoiding thoughts of you is despairing,
because you make my dreams golden,
it's a euphoric escape

Rolling over,
pretending to sleep
I conjure up your image
and call you to my bed,
to my despondent embrace

The daylight sobers,
and puts my mind at ease
You are easy to forget here,
but when the moon beams into my window,
that's when I'll miss you,
that's when the real darkness will come

I flung my screams over the gunwhale
Into the unhearing sea
And lowered my anchor, weighted
with an ignominious plea:

Just as a single dark wave
Costs the vessel its course,
So did my evanescent joy
cost me you;

Even the riverbank is changed
minutely by its waters,
and so my life alters
with you

The storm stirs wildly,
but sobers, from thence
coming ashore
and so does my spirit for
you

This is for anyone who's ever been with someone for a long time, and you were friends before then. Let's say you were friends for a few years and you decide hey, we have chemistry. Then for a few years you date. Then things end badly, that person who used to be just your right hand, they used to be this figure of comfort for you, the one you told everything to becomes this painful memory. You can't even remember what it was like when you two were friends.

You guys used to laugh and knew nothing about each other’s lips or the mole she has right above her ***** line, but you were happy together. You knew that she loved chocolate ice cream and you shared music. She laughed at your dumb impressions of indie musicians and you were happy.

Then you guys had *** one day, well I mean you were probably already having *** (it’s the 2000’s) but I mean this time it meant something. You looked her in the eyes and realized this is right. This is the person who you love. The person you've spent all this time with is the person who's been right for you all along. In that moment she realizes it too, she doesn't want to admit it. If you are me you had to pressure her into it. I told her I didn't want to have *** anymore unless we made a commitment to each other...and just like that we were together.

Romantic, right? Friends for 4 years and suddenly we were lovers. It was a rocky start; she was cold and unaffectionate even though you had been affectionate before. But then one night she said it, I love you. She cried and told me she loved me as we made love. I had never felt so proud.

Flash forward a few years and we just can't stand to be in the same room together. She gets drunk and tells me I ruined her life, that I'm the cause of all her problems. She sobers up and tells me it was just the liquor. Just the liquor, yet she drinks every night as if she doesn't understand the correlation, the cause and effect of every Gimlet she downs and then she drowns me in sorrow.

This wide eyed little girl I made friends with years ago is a sad eyed beat up adult, who hates the world and cuts herself in secret. Then the moment comes, we finally end things. And you know what at first it's like freedom. I've wanted this for so long. To be free from this monster we've created. To be free from her keeping me from finding someone who will make me happy.

But then I realize this break is like being stabbed. I don't know if you've ever been stabbed so I'll break it down. At first you feel this horrible pain, just more immense than you can fathom. I cried, I cried for hours screaming at the top of my lungs. I sat in my car begging her not to leave me. Then she left and the next step in being stabbed is numb. Your body goes into shock and you feel nothing. You feel absolutely nothing, you know you should feel something but you just don't. Then the healing process begins and every time someone touches it or you brush up against this wound it hurts. Not as much as being stabbed but it hurts a lot. Pretty soon it becomes a scar and a painful reminder. Every time you look at it, you remember.

Sometimes I get that feeling
I'm sure you've felt it

I feel as if I'm 16 again,
My most valuable possession
Is the skateboard I built.

It's a Tuesday and I've ditched school again.
The twelve dollars in my pocket
Is burning to be spent.

At the used book store
I spend eight of it on a paperback copy of
The Fellowship of the Ring.

Up the street to the Curly Wolf
I buy a cup of coffee.
Skating with a cup of coffee isn't hard for me.

Moms drunk again,
Probably will be for the rest of the week
And so it looks like I won't be going home
Until she sobers up enough to wonder where I am.

Can I sleep on your floor?
Only for the night? That's fine,
Liam said I can stay at his place starting tomorrow

12:00 am: go to sleep. You've long run out of short tasks to distract you from the heaviness of your body, made of rags soaking in the waters of your despair, and you've quite forgotten why you're awake in the first place. Girl, wring out your fingers, and go to sleep.

1:00 am: sleep is your cold husband on the other side of the bed, tugging the covers away and not sharing in the madness and sacrifice of this night; he has left you behind, girl. You can't remember his last embrace. He lays there, in his silent refusal to acknowledge your desire for him, unloving and untouchable.

2:00 am: you imagine your favorite cartoon characters from the stripes of light on your ceiling. Where is that light coming from? Your neighbor's back porch possibly, bit you don't really know.

3:00 am: you get up with motivation to do something nice for yourself. You haven't surprised yourself in a long time. You start to clean your room. By 3:15, you are lying down again. You're not sure you deserved the hassle in the first place.

4:00 am: you figure that it might be simpler to start your day now, but 4:00 am as a concept puzzles you. The lines are too blurred; is it today yet or am I still living yesterday? By the end of the hour, you decide it is a trick question. There are no lines at all.

5:00 am: suddenly, you realize there is something wicked about the last lingering moments of nighttime and the birthing breaths of morning, that being on a bridge between two opposite places is more like tightrope walking on a rope that extends from both ends the further you walk to one side or the other. Girl, you stand immobilized, barely balanced, above the widest abyss.

6:00 am: you accept the rising of the sun upon you as if mourning the loss of your mistress moon, who leaves you unceremoniously and with only an emaciated duplicate of herself, receding into your back brain, hand-in-hand with the You who only exists in the night time. They'll be back, girl.

7:00 am: showers need to be scalding hot for you to forget your skin. The steam floods you. You are all but present.

8:00 am: you don't precisely look like you in that big mirror in your front hallway. You look lost under coats of time and grief. Girl, who are you trying to forget?

9:00 am: people are talking all around you. Their voices blend together.

10:00 am: despite what you've told your friends, you do have somewhere to be, but that place does not miss you.

11:00 am: maybe it is all in your head.

12:00 pm: if it's all in your head, why does it nest inside your body? It makes a home in all your valleys and canyons and its voice echoes through you - "What you are looking for is not here either."

1:00 pm: you do pay attention in class this time, but only to not notice the boy behind you who reminds you that everybody will leave you.

2:00 pm: you, too, will leave you.

3:00 pm: the bell rings. Another echo vibrates you. "Are you still here?"

4:00 pm: at this point, the only thing that sobers you is holding your father's painkillers in your hand. You play with the childproof cap. You miss the days when you'd wake mom up in the middle of the night and ask her to open it because your perception of your pain is so simplistic and temporary that all you need is what's in that bottle. But now you will not open it.

5:00 pm: you walk the dog. The tips of the grass give you a crawling sensation on your ankles, and it's too unpleasant. You want to leave. The earth is communicating with you. "You don't belong here either."

6:00 pm: I - nevermind.

7:00 pm: you try to understand the way your heartbeat accelerates when people say goodbye. The hurt explodes off the top of your head, sizzling like fireworks. At the end of the day, you are the only burn victim in this flaming building.

8:00 pm: "Are you still here?"

9:00 pm: girl, you're cracking open at your seams and you can't fill those spaces with other people's stories anymore, empty, cellophane wrapped intimacy. Do you remember what it feels like to be touched?

10:00 pm: even the moments that you're in can't tolerate you anymore. You exhaust your seconds and they escape you, like everybody else. You lost the last natural blessing that means anything. You are alone. For God's sake, why are you still here?

11:00 pm: your mother is right. This is drama. Your father is right. You're a bad example. Your lover is right. You've got nothing to offer. Girl, why are you still here? You are the hurricane taking yourself down. You are ripping your own roof off and shattering your own windows; you step on the glass and debris and curse God for his carelessness, his heartlessness, his terrorism. He doesn't respond. God has left too.

12:00 am: you surrender to the sounds of the storm and finally get some sleep.

The feeling is like mushrooms.
That's the only way I can explain it,
but to sobers I say,
It's like being reminded of an old truth
you once learned, but forgot about
until recently.

You've wandered into the forest
taken an inviting path
And when you come to the tree
at which you usually glance,
acknowledge in passing,
You decide this time to stop and take in
its bark-bound beauty.

Tall, cylindrical like a leg
rough skin with feather hair,
the tree is still, like calm,
harmless.
Unable to resist, you reach out to touch it
feel the hard bark under your palms
the whisty brushes against the leaves
As the breeze makes movement
all around you, small rustles,
Nature at rest...
It is the same tree you've always passed,
but something has changed.

- Flashes of an old lover laughing
or pulling you into an embrace,
eating,
walking up to the car,
looking away -

You withdraw your hand from the bark
and use your eyes instead
to survey the trunk you thought
was shallow.
Though you are alone
it seems that something is aware of your presence,
not a threat to it,
not like a predator aware of its prey
or even visa versa;
But for some reason
you get the oddly familiar sensation that
This Tree
is looking back at you.

And indeed it is rational
to decide that you were in
a nostalgic mindset,
an imaginative contemplation
on such a natural force as
Momentum,
and you can wiggle free of the feeling
that way;
But you have to admit,
there is something about
the moment,
about the tree
and about the way you're almost finally
seeing each other
that seems...
intuitive.

I have found a way
To hurt myself
Without making
One slice of skin
With a pretty razor.
Instead I say no to
Lunch and breakfast.
The pain in my stomach
Is almost comforting now.
I go home
Have a snack
And eat a small dinner
And I love that hunger
That physical want towards life
It sobers me a little,
Makes me lose a little,
Makes me seem real.
But nowadays
Nothing seems as real as
My growling stomach.

I say I love you
too much when I'm
drunk, but how cant
I say I love you?
Maybe I love you
too much.

Your presence gives
me hope.
It sobers me up
enough to muster a
hello.

Maybe i'm just drunk
But it seems i'm just a bother.
I thought you liked me better
When i'm buzzed
But you won't even speak to me
And why does it always go like this?

I honestly don't care
That you're distracted by your game
And i honestly don't care
That when i try to not pay attention to you
You suddenly want my attention.

It sobers me up
Off that giggly buzz
When you ignore me.

So thanks,
You're a literal buzz ****.

Maybe i'm just drunk,
Or i'm just unappealing.
Maybe i'm just drunk
But you could pay me some mind.

And maybe i'm just drunk,
But i'm not just a fly on the wall.

Loneliness is a killer

It stalks you in the night

Bends your knees

Kills a once warm heart

In cold fright.

Running from the beast

Searching for a cure 

You swallow the medication 

Thinking this will end the pain for sure.

Your mind Sobers from the blur

You stand up

Heart pounding

Loving yourself

Death’s calling for the lovely beast

Has made its calling

Could leave this world peaceful and shriven,
Be glad somehow those old debts of mine
Must now be ledgered and forgiven.

Watching loved ones work their sad old days
The land of death now beckons and sobers me
Enough to think I will follow in their way;
And to consider how I might leave free.

Of more than the sins Jesus has taken,
And more than payments owed to friends.
No, how to leave a sweetness unshaken
In my loved ones, my wife, and my kin?

I think I've some letters I need to compose,
Some arguments I've held too close to me,
And any odd embroilment that rose
While I was on my earthly power spree.

I'm 65, a scant ten years from average death
Of men my type and height and weight.
I'm sobering quickly as I count my breath
And know re-calibrating cannot wait.