Lost Piece

She said: “Loving you was harder
than anything I ever shot.
You always had that subtle taste
of demolition on your lips
and there’s no such thing as mistakes.”
But there’s nowhere to go from here,
there’s no methadone for my name.
You’ll have to sweat me out with someone else.
The drapes will pull closed
as he takes off those faded pink panties
and forgets your name.
But she’ll use him like a bummed cigarette,
making sure she gets all he’s worth.
It took me three years but I finally
realized the thought of you was better
than the real you.
So claim your set like the rest of the evangelicals
and call your pusher,
cause I’m tired of being your buffer.
I’ve got the lust for life
and all you’ll ever be is an anvil.
When he leaves you’ll just cover your tracks
and scout your next mark
at the Red Room.
By the time you get back to your bedroom
my trail will be leaving the station.
Don’t bother looking for me
left of the dial.

Complicated Conversation

I’m starting to think having her back isn’t the answer but a band aid, or maybe she is the answer and I’m too stupid to see it. It doesn’t feel normal having this control over another person. Have we become so empty and dependent that we resort to clutching to other people? Last night there was another woman, a vulnerable specimen. It was only through drinks and drugs that we were able to convey to each other a fraction of who we really are. Her tears still stain my sweater and she was porcelain in my arms. To grant one the happiness she deserves would be to destroy the other. Nothing is ever fair but new wounds heal quicker than old ones. Human life is a parasitic dichotomy of hurt and ecstasy, a choice of familiarity. Sometimes it’s easier to wake up next to a stranger. But by sheer definition when does one no longer become a stranger? Was it a desperate act of convenience? Or was there a universal connection? A shared bond over drinks and cigarettes? She is where I was. An island, a separation from humanity. Or maybe for the first time I said all the right words. Hurt and humiliation are the cause and effect of being human. But I’ll never get the chance to tell her, and maybe she already knows. Under different circumstances, I would have erased her pain for the night. I would have been her bookmark. Maybe one day through trial and error she’ll find this bottle, this lost letter floating in an empty ocean, and know that she wasn’t alone.

Black Cadillacs

The black Cadillacs were a reminder
of your time,
expired.
They told the story
of the unknown
to come.
The procession followed,
despite being left in your
wake.
Soon they will gather around you
and whisper in tongues like a
Native American shaman
coaxing flame to dance
at his fingertips.
Someone,
will pass around a flask
as they praise your last name.
Your bother-in-law
will steal your watch.
I will simply observe.
The dead do not live on in spirit,
they are forgotten.
Your achievements will be
forgotten.
But most importantly
your mistakes will be forgotten;
wiped clean and sterile
like your body,
re baptized and ready to return to the earth.

Whatever The Fuck His Name Is

The countdown to our extinction came suddenly.
I was living between bottles;
blinders you finally shot out.
I always fed off heartbreaks and liquor,
words between drags,
thoughts after exhales
and now I can't even stand to see the sight of ink on paper.
I lied when I said I'd be ok.
You said we'd be friends, better off.
But every night I drink myself to sleep,
self medication to say the least.
But I'm tired of sleeping with myself,
I'm tired of always thinking about you with him.
It's out of my hands and you've crossed county lines.
You said you're trying to be happy.
well I'm not.
I don't care if you worry about me swerving
at last call cause you stopped answering
all my 3 A.M. calls.
You said you'd pick me up every time I fell,
so who's the liar now?
I know he'll never make you as happy
or miserable as I have.
so try your best at mediocrity,
but if you're trying to be happy you're only fucking
kidding yourself.
So fuck him all you'd like
and spill all your guts over him.
You're the victim.
But I'm not coming back.
I'd rather talk to my beer
and kiss my cigarette
cause at least I know they wouldn't
want to be anywhere else.
I'm going to drink away these wounds
and I'm not going to stop until
I have committed a few sins.

Atlantis

"It'll be quick.
I haven't gotten any in a few weeks."
Oh. So you slept with someone else?
"No."
It rolled off her tongue like muscle memory.
She said it while grabbing
for the only thing that mattered.
I felt sick to my stomach,
but my dick was screaming at me
to stop being so soft.
We fucked like dogs.
The look in her eyes said it all.
I knew she'd seen him again.
The San Diego resident with that apartment
and that fake appreciation for wine.
He probably told her I was swine.
A complete asshole that used her,
guess he might have been half right.
If it wasn't him it was the other one,
the one with a son and yellow walls.
She said he wasn't like me
he didn't smoke around her;
at least not real cigarettes.
When things got tense he'd smoke a filly;
it tasted like grape.
Or maybe she just met someone new.
A stranger at a bar
who she'd fuck in the parking lot.
But I'll never know,
see I was never good at pulling her teeth.
A year ago I would have fought,
would have dragged the dirty details
out of her.
Now I'm just numb.
I recognize defeat.
I've got no right to make her wait.
Marcellus said it was,
"Just pride fucking with me,
that sting."
I pulled out and she said,
"Love isn't just a series of hard-ons you know."
She rolled off me, my dick still throbbing and wet.
I zipped up my pants
and got out of the car.
Lit my last cigarette and walked along the park.
Her taillights, her eyes
were red on my back.
The words echoed in the sand,
through the wet grass and trees,
through the bleachers,
and through the other cars.
I stood on the diamond,
on the stump.
The grass always seemed greener
surrounded by that clay dirt.
"That slight sting, that's pride
fuckin' wit ya.
Fuck pride!
Pride only hurts, it never helps.
Fight through that shit."
I was Atlantis
in the middle of Los Angeles;
and frankly,
I didn't wanna be found.

For Marina

If I were an artist
I'd paint you the world
through my eyes.
The simple grace of the
Santa Anna's through
your hair,
the stars at midnight,
and the ocean at dawn.
I'll show you Montauk in
the dead of winter
and the Pacific Northwest
in fall,
but summer will always
belong to California
(twister in July
O'Casey's in August).
One day you'll get lost
in Paris and slum in
the bohemian art lofts.
I'll travel the desert
in that used Cadillac
chasing Hunter's shadow
and plagiarizing Bukowski
in bars.
But we'll live through
these post cards and letters
and smile at the little
things.
The shared favorites.
So paint me the stars
and I'll write you in the
constellations.
'Cause one day our transient
lives will mix like the
paint on your brush.
But for now,
we have promises to keep
and miles to go before we sleep.

Best In Show

They walk past me in their uniform of perfection.
Bright colored cloths; crisp and neat,
hair combed to look as if it weren't.
Tall, thin confidence.
Their eyes burn through me.
Dismissed for being ugly,
for not owning a gym membership,
for not fronting a fake confidence.
I feel their burn.
This awkward heap of skin and bones
layered in last seasons fashion.
I feel their disdain and it shows;
a subliminal uneasiness I project.
I fake comfort,
I never make eye contact.
I am the half-starved dog
with three spots of mange
they all feel sorry for,
but do nothing to help.
The pretty; uninteresting girls
drink apple martinis and wait for their mark,
the good looking sucker who'll buy the next round.
The smart college girls,
indie rock hipsters with WWF and flannel shirts
drink Stella’s while their dates look for
The MC5 or Tom Waits on the juke.
They come to be seen,
to make regrets…
to find someone to join the peace corps with.
I sit and watch in utter disgust,
burn through them as they do me.
But my burn is dull,
mine is of a jealous anger.
I shoot Jamison and wait for the
beautiful girls I came with
(None of whom I’ll go home with)
to get their fill.
So that they can feel relevant,
so that they have something
to look back on one day.
Tonight I’ll drink ‘till their razors edge
becomes dull and distant.
I’ll go home and cum to the one most
scantly dressed.
I’ll fall asleep in my jeans and one sock
and dream of what it must be like
to be wanted…
To be the dog with the shiny coat,
the dog every woman wants to caress.
Tonight I’ll dream of the day that I
can be best in show.