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.