addictionhave you ever been an addict. and im not talkingabout the hey-i-like-to-do-this-alot type of addict.im talking about theif-i-dont-get-it-right-now-im-going-to-fucking-blow-someones-head-offtype of addict. im an addict. ive never blown anyoneto get it. i dont think i would. but i havent beengiven the opportunity to either. the reason i say 'idont think i would' is because i like to pretend thati still have something thats mine. dignity, pride,standards. but i know i would easily toss those awayjust to get it. i know because i have. so all ireally have is it. for one hour. for two hours. forfifteen minutes or however long it last. however longi can afford it to last. ill be high for fifteenminutes if thats all i can get.im an addict. i dont get high just to get high. iget high just to get my mind off getting high for afew hours. after a fix im good for eight hours.maybe. then the last of my previous highs memorycells dry up and i want. need. how ca
...Stand....Stand.She beat me to it,then beat me with it.A pair of heavenly bodies,Fighting the gravity of our collective density.Shooting starlets is this galaxy choked night sky.Upon re-entry,We broke up in the atmosphere.Meteor shower,with an asteroid massage.Trip the lights horrific.No one told me it was B.Y.O.Brimstone.Prince Charming plastic face,Could never afford the palace.She blinked my haleys commet,Greyscale aurora borealis.Cynical whore with her lasso umbilical chord.She called it off with a tear filled molotov.And its over.And its over and over and over.will i ever get over?will i everunder...
The Perfect WordThe Perfect Word.The perfect word. The next word. One that fits. One that fits as if it were willed to the page. Cemented. Impervious to eraser tips and backspace backspace backspace keystrokes. Does it exsist? It must. Where is it then? Wedged deep down between the couch cushions. The metaphorical couch cushions of course. No the metaphysical couch cushions. No. The perfect word. Something that rummages through the memory's attic stack of yellowed newspapers with out tearing a page. Mummery. Strumpet. Glim. No no and no. A sentence written is a sentenced flawed. To think we might have strung a string of perfect words is to think we can recite pi, backwards. But surely we can go one for ten, one for a hundred, one per page per chapter per novel. Per lifetime. If we comb over a thesaurus with a magnifying glass. Excuse me? If we comb over a thesaurus with a fine toothed comb. The perfect word. If we are trampled into a bloody fossil-to-be by a murderous heard
Binge and PurgeBinge:Gab el. Bachman. Deep. France. Bergman. Evans. Rise. Sage. Franz. Polanski. Cinematic. Bass. Black. Morgana. Wealth. Eve. Mibikids. Rife. Mornling. Cyrano. Deeper. Scribe. Hudson. Buksport. Ship. Mow. Berkshire. Fellini. Fincher. Astronomer. Riley. Chompsky. Court. Love. Route. Bloniasz. Jove. Distance. Fabric. Producto. Emby. Dean. Freed. Professor. Space. Apotheosis. List. Geodesica. Norcross. Ingersol. Chabert. Chaucer. Noon. Zero. Little. Words. Deepest. Self.Purge:Its not as if Maya Angelou was strung up naked from a Mississippi delta born cotton tree. Well, actually it was. You see back when black buskins beat back the bramble of my god given right to speech impediment laden afterthouhts, I would stroll a slow mosey in a grove of old bo trees. Now my socks stretch only so far as my crinkled fingers can pull these chinese odes to western capitalism. Remember the rice patties, and the rice patty hats. "Men in black pajamas," he would say. And then proceed to crack-a-
Primordial Soup of the Day"Primordial Soup of the Day"Im chalant although inquiring mimes want to showThe life and times of Pontifaux.I strike a balance,Or was it balance on strike.Seen enough mourning, just tell me what dawn's like.Equal parts critic-idealistMimic and realistRound off my age just to know what a wheel is.The shyest of shysters"Do you want your pie sliced sir?"A guy but no geyserThe wry of the wiserShaped in dents, my sapienceAnd my Wisdom tooth,Incisor.I binge...and purge...Binge and purge and binge and purge.Cringe and merge the fringe and verge.Atoms with Eve's drop, datum's deseased cropMadam will you please stop...Im half way through a palindromeWith half a talon shownGripping gripes of the most massive of talent tomes.Got tickets in the brain's balconyThrough a small wicket in sane alchemy.The lights dimThe night's whimMy first concertain.As always...in all plays,The beginning is curtains.
My Panache"My Panache"Cyrano,I love herVery Much.She are the most beautiful thing ive seen.On clear winter nights I can see the moon's jealousy reflected in your eyes.My celestial body,The heavens have saved space for our love.Cyrano,I can not live with out her love.We must be togetherForever.I write my being in verse to the cadence of your heartbeat.My mortal melody,Come, let us dance along the sheet music with love letters upon our soles.Cyrano,I am so happy.She is my dream come true.I love her more than anything.You are the exclamation point to end my life sentence.My sweet simile,When the spring rains come, surely the Gods are whispering your name.Cyrano,Thank you so much.You are a great friend.I will never forget this....My panache shall not bear the soil of vanity.I love through letters, the harmonious word is my kiss.My heart at nose lengthIs the only way to keep from seeing my reflection in her eyes.Farewell my love.
Blank Stairs"Blank Stairs"She stairs.Three flights down is her car.Sedan. Four door. Twenty-one thousand miles.In circles.She was an artist once.The smartest dunce.Finger paintings mostly. Never sold a finger print.Now she works five days for fity weeks. Filing. Typing.Her sentence is run-on.Never noticing the tessellating artistry of her cubicle horizon.Her T's are crossed, eyes are glazed over.Her tears are seeded Where the sonnets will grow.But they hold tight to old sights.Pupils too contricted from the monitor glow.She stairs.Three flights up is the roof.Sky. Four clouds. Twenty one mile view.In every direction.