For Riot

Send me your parent's address.
I'll send you letters.

July 3rd waiting for the J train

Some asshat in the bar kept asking me what I was trying to say with my poetry.

I told him I wasn't trying to say anything except for what was on the page.

He did not like that.

He wanted me to have some bigger picture, some over arching theme to my work and wouldn't let it go the whole night.

I told him to get fucked.

June 10th 2013 1:21 AM at Croc Roc for lil joey's shift

I should not be drinking this much
I should not be thinking these thoughts

Keep your knees together
You know it won't happen ever

Keep on sipping and slurping
Keep on dreaming and thinking

Of how sweet it could be
But how bitter it would be

Would it be? Does it have to be?
Isn't there a chance it will be fine?
Not only fine- but delicious and divine?

Something you desire, can also be something you deserve.

Why does it have to be wrong?
The worst that could happen is you sleep alone.

And reminisce upon kisses you can savor like sugar cubes

The sweetness of a passion so young
Tender buds of may
Who fuck the night away
A fleeting fury that now resides in dreams

You are allowed to imagine,
Allowed to dream.

Allowed to remember,
allowed to surrender.

There are worse things in this world

Than opening your skin
to allow another in.

You could sit alone, pacing your mind
watching nothing unfold.

It's not me, it's you

YOU, are not a nice person.
Especially in relation to me.
There is only so much a person can take,
And I've been taking it
With a grain of salt
And a spoon full of sugar.

Now
My blood pressure is through the roof
And I've got no feet from the diabetes.

Really,
It's not me- It's you.
I've done as much as I can
I've taken all I can carry
I am out of ideas and my back is broken
So it is time for me to tell you
To fuck off and die
And for me to find
Something else
Better or worse
Only time will tell
But as of right now
It's not you- of that I am sure as hell.

Dec 18 2010 ABC No Rio

"What is your passion?"Giuero from Jerusalem asked.
Could he read the despair on my face?

Right now my passions are few. I struggle to wake up in the morning. Knowing that futility awaits.
I used to find things interesting.
I used to see glory in the sunshine.
I used to count the stars.
My imagination fails me these days.
I am unable to find comfort in living.

"My passion ... is staying alive."

Wet paper

Breath like crumpled cellophane
Skin pale and wet
Joints stiff and tight
Itchy dry eyes
Tissue paper thin skinned lips
Crack and tear
with each
raspt breath
Slow death rattles
Shuttering and shivering- frozen
Blistering to the touch
Bathed in sweat
From hallucinogenic dreams
and too real realities
Every inch inflicted
Every cell infected
You will die here
Bone marrow boils
Brain matter burns
Each squishy pink organ
Hardens to grey concrete

You will die here

M.K. Daydream

written sometime in 2010

Its been almost three years since I last saw him
His face remains the same in my mind
The same part in his messy golden wheat hair
The same sweetly sneering smile
The same green glass eyes
He still wears shirts from old jobs
Pants with frayed edges and tears from being worn in day after day
His shoes held together with miles of electrical tape
A faded bandana around his neck

His neck- which I've seen so many times before
It hangs in front of me
I reach out to touch the thin soft flesh of his jugular
My fingers run around the rim of his clavicle
My hand falls to his chest- a place I have only seen while drunk and socially naked

I had always dreamed of being held close to him
Breathing hard against his chest
Inhaling the scent of his sweat