danger

You are making me smile
with your burts bees kisses
& champagne aftertaste
i do you up some lines of xanax, cut with a food stamps card
laid out on the dirtiest of porn dvds
i pack up a bowl, keeping the theme up
(or down)
"that old married couple"
relaxation is a luxury
& i'm luxuriating in your tiny frame
& the way your skin smells
closing my eyes i am thinking of the eleven new bars of irish spring in the bathroom cabinet
that you NEED there at all times
your ocd fills me up like shots of jager
warm and safe and at home
with my homo
dangerously close to middle aged, we hold hands
& make every night a honeymoon.

this is an actual work email...from my job

Subject:
Hi, Mateo!
Could you have a lead and/or mngr look at 18m.jpg? I'm not sure if
she's wearing undies or if that's a hairy bush. Please update and re-
send to the photos que for processing if necessary.

Mahalo! ;-p

ode

disregard the feel of my palm
against your cheek
the lines that tell my fortune are
embedded with dirt and
(i work hard)
its hard work
being this casual about the future
this rolled-eyes, shrugged-shoulders puppet of
your christmas past
a love letter folded so many times,
you have to guess at the words lost to creases
"for you"
"forever"
and honestly
"forever" is just a gimmick to get you to
on your knees.

- scenes from a panic attack -

There are no special tricks to get a passport in a hurry,
if you have never in fact, had a passport. Clicking on links like "How to get a passport in a hurry" will not help.

There's a thing about homeland security.
A thing about the Truman Show and how he was tricked into thinking there was nothing more to see in the world.

I remain unconvinced.
I send emails to remind certain people the certain way they certainly make me feel.
A series end or a cliffhanger 'til next season?
A Virgo, I leave that open-ended.

Last week I got a text that started "I hate to be the one to tell you this..."
Coincidence number 4764764734698: Mere hours before that text, I gave away all my klonopin. My entire month's supply thinking I could get more, but knowing I probably wouldn't.

Getting a passport in a hurry is like trying to maybe have your tubes tied. Or maybe a late term abortion.
Waiting period. Papers to fill out. Notary stamps, the are-you-sure's, the people to notify in case of.

There is nothing born of impulse anymore and my body, my soul can't take it.
And so i numb it. White lines, blue lines, bong hits. 3.99 bottles of wine.

My one impulse is muted by the ear-splitting calls of my own heart, which lies in an eternal palsied state; loud but still, until you kiss me.
And make it better.
How Long?
How Long?
How Long?

Don't be Inept when it comes to Me pt.1

He's at my work.
He's at my work and I'm not there and they've called me to say he's lurking.Lusting.
It is a tragic little saturday night and there's the threat of the ice storm outside and he's out there. His windowless $300 car with his no registration/title/or license having self. Moping.
The wintery mix outside just adds to the cold, dark spot my heart
has taken refuge in.
It's been so long since he was sane.
I want to go out there, hold him.
Shake him into a fucked up, unreciprocated oblivion.
"I WANT YOU BACK!!"
I want to scream at the hollow, catatonic Not Him. I want to will him back to me, lead him to my waiting arms with a trail of anti-psychotics and prozac.
Is it love?
Is it Real Him, driven by love for me, sitting out in that piece of shit car, chainsmoking to the sounds of familiarity he associates with me?

I grab my motherfucking coat and leave my questions swirling behind me like the ghost of christmas past.

spiral

One of the best things that can happen on a shitty day is, in your downward spiral you happen across an old coping mechanism. A cd you fucking listened to like a second heartbeat once upon a (different) heart ache.. That was this afternoon and re-discovering how perfect "The unwanted sounds of" by Satisfact is.


you arrive with your perfect face
crushing my domestic space


I was thinking "Mateo you have smoked way too much weed and you think perhaps this album was written to tell the story of your life!"
and then I was thinking about cupcakes.

Today is cold and dreary. Yesterday was cold and dreary. All this with clear effects on my heart.

word

My new euphemism for masturbate is "SEXUALLY REFLECT".
As in, I was sexually reflecting about that time me and a certain somebody went to go look at rental houses so we could sex hard in them.

happiness and hysterectomies: vodka as emotional lube

Seeing into the future:
A little over 2 weeks from now.
Alone.
In bed.
New wounds and old body parts gone daddy, gone.
You really do make your own bed and get forced to lie in it.
It's karma. The game of Happiness in which someone has to lose.
I'm so sick of losing that everything looks shiny and metal and sharp and inviting.
(But i'm no longer the dumb as a bag of nails cliche' that everyone is used to me being)
Maps and keys and bus fare and air fare and the huge heavy thing that transports t-bone on planes that sits in the reptile room; ready and waiting.
I can't go.

Though:
This is the part of the heartache where I leave town.
This is the part of the heartache where I make everything hurt so that i control something.
(anything)

My heart is my new binder; or it was my old one but I forgot about it during the Great Hormone Swap.

My heart is the lazy, lonely hunter that would give even Carson McCullers writer's block.

I was a good person once.
I was a good person okay maybe twice.

I just wait for:

footsteps
text message sounds
drugs to kick in
sleep

Don't get me wrong.
there are good things.
amazing things.

But i'm still Plan B.
sitting in a bed covered with photo albums- i have nothing left at all.

in an effort to extract the parts of me that remain honest

The game is Operation and the guy in the middle is me.
The poking, the buzzing, the winning, the losing.
We are all alone, naked on a table while the parts of you someone else needs are being
taken with tiny, plastic tweezers.
Your pain is their game.
I'm the one that laid there; I knew what I was doing.
Take away the parts of me that have gone sour, gone rusted, gone completely unrecognizable from when I was 10 and hiding from a man who couldn't speak except for with his electronic device buzzing, pressed deeply into his throat.
I recreate that situation, 2 decades later. An adult with impending male patterned baldness and enough baggage to employ my own bellhops.
It's up against my throat this time, and i choose not to have it shock me.
I choose not to have anything shock me.

drugs and romance

Every shadow in the distance is you in a different outfit;
the lovelorn's obsessive rorcharch blot, jaded by the weight of you,
the feel of you
the feeling of us when i'm wrist-deep in the moment
alone i look at the walls, wishing them into vinyl-
wishing them into records i can rest a needle on and replay
over and over again, the scratchy sound comforting me into the night;

i live in the grooves made between smoking and fucking and laughing and dancing
my life's mission is to pull you in there,
bring you deep so that the rpms correspond with your heartbeat
and so you'll know
finally
how the beauty of your face fucking propels me.

on drugs, love and charles schultz

2007 Linus carries his cell phone everywhere; fuck the blanket, he's checking to see if another text,another one past 3:09am, like an electronic breath on his cheek, will come from her, and he will feel alive and connected and everything will be okay.
As it stands, his actual blankets have more than three spots where tequila was clearly spilled, and his stitches are almost bursting from the way his heart is pounding.
Good grief is a myth. This is the sad kind.

12/06

the truth only hurts without lubrication


the alcohol absolves it all.

a drunken baptism; i am whole again. plugging holes again. smoking bowls again. stomping on hot coals again.

it's 2am. do you know where your heart is?

do you know what color it is and the size shoe that crushed it on the way to meet someone else?

do you know i've got a short circuit? the little something that connects my jittery, sputtering brain to my ruddy little comical heart has a time delay and its always going to be too late to say just what the fuck i mean.

i mean, fuck.

i'm a mean fuck.

and i fucking mean the shit i say/type/cry/scream when i say that all i got is all yours, to have and to hold and to crush and to mold.

your face is better than a fucking abba song.

and you don't have to be jesus or miss cleo to know just how much i love abba and how much i desperately love you.