the world is wall to wall w/them

what do you need those eyes for there is really no world to see

what do you need those eardrums for all you can hear is the buzz of bullshit

what do you need those feet for there is really no place worthy of yr arrival

what do you need that 3lbs of gray matter for the brain is a hack organ

what do you need that spine for there isn't any virtue in the vertical race

what do you need those four pumping chambers for the heart is a small factory of pain

what do you need that skin for surfaces are a sham

what do you need those lungs for when you can only gather emptiness into the branches

what do you need those guts for you can fit the dust of a hero in a large ashtray

what do you need an asshole for the world is wall to wall w/them

what do you need seed & an egg for nothing beats the peace of never being born

you only need a spleen, a liver & ten fingers so you can get drunk & spew bile & record it for

the rest of the assholes making use of all those other body parts

the third arm in the crowd

i use two empty
bottles of cheap wine
to prop the kitchen
window open

i blow the smoke
from my camel
thru the dusty mesh

the cat sits on the sill
curiously gazing out

she never had a view
of a street before this

a car comes by
& she leaps down

frightened by
the movement
of this strange
new thing

i don't blame her
as i am frightened
of the creatures
maneuvering them

every time i 'm in a crowd
i've an invisible third arm
that repeatedly hits me
upon my head
w/its invisible fist

i prefer to exist behind
the window frame
blowing smoke out

my skull unbruised
even peaceful

devolving

it's an evolutionary
advantage

to remember what
causes us pain

so we may avoid it
in the future

but some of us retain
every memory

of when something
stabbed us, drew blood

& then we devolve

hiding in our little caves
from the world

painting our agony
upon the walls

sweet undreaming

the gravedigger
is our final caregiver

performing
a mother-like task

tucking us in
the cozy dirt

the back of the spade
patting the loose
earth smooth

for that long
last sleep

love eventually becomes a ghost town

it closes faces up

that's what it does

where once there
was laughter

& the windows
of the soul shined

that's what love
does

closes faces up

like a ghost town

it's sad you see

b/c once the faces
opened up

wide as a new city

love does this first

all laughter & shining

but the same force
closes them up

it's sad i tell you

what else needs
to be said

the world is filled w/a bunch of goddamn captain obviouses

they
say
one
cigarette
takes
7
seconds
off
yr
life

they
always
seem
to
pin
danger
on
some
obvious
demon

but
tell
me
how
many
seconds
does
love
take
off
or
the
lack
of
it

how
many
years
does
the pettiness
the jealousies
the loneliness
the searching
the betrayal
the loss
shave
off
all
of
this

besides
that
who
the
fuck
really
wants
to
grow
too
old
anyway

pass
the
ashtray
over
here
please

does it fool you, does it rob you?

the face
of the sun
is just
a cheap mask
the
VOID
wears
like
a
thief

robbing us
of
Truth

which
is:

out
there
beyond

is
Nothing

the slow dripping of melancholia

i
have
shunts
shoved
under
the
skin
of
my
wrists

i
was
born
hooked
to
an
IV bag
full
of
tears

i
live
on
the
slow
dripping
of
melancholia

suicidal
thoughts
are
my
nourishment

how a poem should be

although
i
only
saw
it
in
movies

i
love
the
image
of
someone
cracking
a
bottle
on
the
thick
lip
of
the
bar
&
using
it
for
a
weapon

the
jagged
glass
neck
in
their
drunken
hand

a
bad-ass
makeshift
blade

unpolished
&
sudden

capable
of
severing
the
jugular

for now

the
boys
keep
taking
turns
running
over
the
flat
possum
in
the
center
of
road

mini
gods
on
wheels

giggling
at
the
hairy
pancake

their
spokes
shining
in
the
sun

mad inmates among the abandoned, the discarded & the dead

1/4 mile west of me there is a large nursing home

1 1/2 miles east an enormous landfill

1 mile north a sprawling cemetery

all that's missing is an asylum & a penitentiary

but i see them down every street

beneath the rooftops of every business & every home

& the people walking everywhere w/that fucked-up thing called hope

pinned upon their eyeballs

the shit kicking demons

the
demons
kick
the
shit
out
of
the
dopamine
every
fucking
time

&
they
float
on
their
horny
spines
in
tears
&
wine

reclined
like
privileged
princes

that son-of-a-bitchin' eye of the soul

some
souls
always
have
one
eye
open
even
during
the
deepest
of
sleeps
or
darkest
of
narcotic
black-outs

that
is
why
some
souls
are
ancient
even
when
the
body
is
young

that
one
bottomless
eye
swallows
the
world
24/7/365

&
that
is
why
some
murder
their
own
body

to
shut
that
lid
on
that
bottomless
eye
for
good

self-sufficient universe

this
kiosk
is
all
i
need

one
package
of
cigarettes
&
a
girlie
magazine

sitting
on
a
bench

inhaling
smoke
&
photographs

all
just
dreams

b/c
anything
else
is
like
stepping
into
a
furnace