The Things I Want to BelieveAn old man plays the violin outside because music is for everyoneThe coins you throw in the open case are merely for his collectionThe graffiti on the walls is for promoting social justiceAnd the broken lock on my front door is really a complex metaphor forMy open mind concerning societyThose spiders are my petsTheir cobwebs-modern artThe bills lay untouched only because I enjoy toying with bureaucracyCabbage is my favorite mealand canned food is a time capsule I get to destroyHe comes over early since he needs me too muchWhen he closes his eyes I know he pictures us"I love this" is a euphemism for "I love you"And the money on my nightstand is only because he cares
I Hate The Hospitaland my god, the stratospheric possibility. the mouth of my nightmares caught in the body of a breathing corpse. a stranger hoarding his face - statuesque and emotionless. coughing. coughing and choking, tubes. the constant leak of oxygen. tubes and tubes and tubes, invading the vital organs. siphoning life through hollowed-plastic.the truth is a gruesome comparison.and I am gutless.
Ink BlotsA stack of unsent lettersAddressed to youTowers in piles on the safe haven of my deskCreating a word-filled paper fortOf love mixed equally with hatredEverything in betweenStained with that bitter urgencyOf your kissAnd the sodium mixture My silent tears
Gypsy TalkI can't help but feel thatI am dying.Today I looked down and my feethad becomeflippers, dolphin fins,and I thought to myself Well,it's no wonderI can't walk straight anymore.And I went to Theresa, the many-eyed seer,and I said Theresa, my feet havebecome flippers.She laughed and the force of itknocked me to my knees,when I realizedthat my kneeswere now compact discs,and I swore that I would never danceagain.I could still hear Theresa's voicein my head,long after I had hobbled away,shrieking and swearing and otherwisedisturbing my peace.I swatted the curses away like flies,and another voice,one much softer, fullof honey and malice, whisperedThat old hag knows nothing of you,of us.Let us throw stonesat their feetand tie their hands to the flagpoleat the gas station down the street.And I said You know, you may be rightbut I see nowthat my own hands have turnedto wax,and that flagpole is alwaysso hot.I think you are dying,whispered the little voice a
Concerning You, Concerning MeI am medicated, too,just in a different way.I wanted to know how the worldturned 'roundand 'round, and how I cameto be you (only slightly) andhow you came to be you(only worse)andhow we came to be separate,so separate,but still fully fused at the spine.I wanted to knowwhat it's liketo drown in hard liquor, self-pity,and come out on the other sidealive(some may say unfortunately)and what it's like to feel the burnof chemical sorrow;breathe in sweet resignation;andsomehow snap back to me (to us),to reality(that you are still burning,and it's not what you wantedat all).I wanted you, just a different make.It's been years now (seventeen years and three hundredforty-eight days)since you were last a man,and even longer since you were lastrememberedfor being anything more than a regularat the Motel 6;a false celebration in more scotch than youcould handle, and enough opiumto powder the faces of all your ex-wives;leave them breathless, gaspingfor more.Nan
When The Manic Sleeps Alonei.Rouge northwest of facing nowhere, this signal of a sign meant for someone else. Blubbery headaches and I ain't sleepin' too good complaints.Spastic stretching for the spin - the last elastic spindlethis final pinnacle of pressure.ii.It's loosening, uncurling from my fingersfurther into sloshed, slashed, and slammedphalanges twisting with intention.That sickening grip, cultivating nonsensetightening without purpose or correctionscrawling these verbose blistersbloated afterthoughts.To convey the skeletal densitythe under-layer of basis and beliefMortar enforcing the busted shackiii.I guess you could say I don't really forgive people. In some paralleled universe, this was completely worth it. Most of the debauchery, and unforgivable. Every fuckin' word.Look. We're both disgusted, so just back off.The inability toned my muscles in lard. I got fat - fat and lazy.<b>
The ConformistAdults never have their dream jobsMy father once said."Money runs thicker than blood, everything boils down to cash,breathing is never free."He was serious when he told me.But inside my bohemian bubbleI laughed to his face,convinced myself that corporate drones often forgethow sticking with the system results in slavery.One dayReality and its accomplice,The Economywithout warningknocked on my door,sawed off my head andhung me to dry.Dripping one sweaty dollar at a timeI (unwillingly) put my soul on the marketAnd by nowthe bloodstains never really left my uniform,my teeth are fine sand.All I have is the knowledgeA stabbing pain in my sideMy father was right.
WitnessA breeze blowsThe silky curtains aside.The vase broke,scattering shardsof flowers and commercial dreams.The white floor is now a lakeOf brown and green.The queen's chairlays motionless on the ground.A silent observer ,behind the small feetDangling,above the surface.