post haste

hi.

i want to fuck you.

i love you.
let's move in together.

i have dreams
that could fit the size
of
one of your hands.

and just before i give you the first one,
you will have decided upon a wall
in which you want to slap.

moving day

you win.
you have burnt
an image of your face
on the right side of my chest,
just below my crow and heart
tattoo.

it's now
that i decide to pack some scabs,
a white flag,
all of my belongings,
and a piece of rope
in a few plastic containters
and bring them home.

another definition

i've sat here before,
more
than a million times.

i believe in everything
when this room is quiet.

i trust the dark,
just as long as there is some type of
light
that i can hold,

and sometimes that light pulls me
to places that shine
on the alphabet
of the letters
that form
the meat
and bones
of something
that i am trying
to describe.

the first saturday without a cigarette

the entire city of chicago
could be on fire again,
and the only thing
that i'd want
would be a fucking cigarette.

my cousin had a birthday party
for his one year old
today
so i decided not to show,

and inbetween the miles of procrastination
that this produced,
i still decided not to tell anyone
that i wasn't attending.

i'm odd.
i know i'm odd,
and i'm fairly certain
that my girlfriend
and everyone else i know
has
caught on to this fact.

everything,
the birthday party,
the odds
that everybody thinks
that i'm some giant weirdo
from the planet Zeetron,
and all i ever wanted
was
a fucking cigarette
to save me today.

scabs mostly heal

you witness
the trigger
or you don't,

either way
some bullets find a shelter
right in the middle
of your gut
better
than most.

out on the range
you stand there
clutching
a larger than life target
on your chest.

christ,
you will even clean
the barrell
of their gun
every single time.

and whether you see them
or you don't,
they will always measure you
and take aim.

on the seventh day, since the last time we had sex

it was somewhere on fullerton,
just off the kennedy,
as i picked you up from work
that i saw you
in five years.

you looked the same,
just a little bit better.

you must had either been coming
or
going to work.

we were talking like familiar strangers.
you were dressed
just a little bit better.

and the heavy skyscrapers made me feel
just a little bit smaller.

and you never showed yourself to me.
it was like i was just some familiar client
or a colleague
you worked with at one time.

you looked good.

and then we came upon
a stoplight
and we were still
swimming in that silence.

and just in case you were wondering
why
i placed my hand in your lap
at that stoplight.

photography

i always look so wasted in my pictures
even when i'm sober.

i never smile

because the top
of my front teeth
have been knocked the fuck
out,
twice,

and the nicotine
and the coffee
and the red wine
have just shaped the porceline
even worse.

i swear to some god
that when my girlfriend
plays with my mouth,
it's like some slab of clay
that she's been molding
for some statue
in the remembrance of cancer,

and it's then,
that i'm just a little less bright.

and everytime
it's only a flash,

when i'm here,
trying to hide something
like i'm in control
of the lense,
like the distortion
is constructed of
a real face,

and it's here
that i've always been a lie.