I wake up
remembering how I greeted my own
“It’s going to be
a good day.”
The way I jumped from the bed to bed to play with the rest of my prayers,
“Hi’s” exchanged with jollier inequivalence, pissing on my own, for I was once
The adventurous friend.
Turns, now, I’m just motions upon motions of
You-shouldn’t-have-made-its and why-are-you-still-heres.
I walked against the self-defeating vortex, inclinations, hallucinogens, morphine and morphine,
To reap more work hours so to burn, burn more pesos, burn, burn more dollars,
And to give winks for the fool-proof entrance, for the never-met-them-before-the-clauses,
Gaits screaming treason, and reasoning scalpeled:
“I am someone who has my shit together!”
Now, what’s the use of circuits, bayonets, and designer shoes?
I certainly took none of those faculties with me.
Not when my high hopes, they were flushed into madness, and sully like disardents.
I plan to ink over scars, kiss set to bitter aftertaste, into the consciousless,
Rushing off to bathe every boy’s filth from my weakened pecs.
I lost the vitals of myself screaming in front of saints that never bothered
As I never before bothered with them.
Go through my trash, all of you! Dig! Dig!
All of you who waste themselves into my personality and my chemical diary!
All of you who wish to find what you’ll find: what you’re not meant to find:
The incomplete range of human emotions,
The impatience in my writing, my complexities, my alliterations,
All my grumps for the cruelty for the queer gaskets wronged,
The losing end of a faulty, fruitless battle, vociferated.
The bat, senescent, fulminating.
The bat, rising slowly from the black, pitchy, philippic pool.
–Eek! Yuck! Ughff! Drown back into the dankness declaimed!
O’, pampered little scoffer scout,
I smoke three packs of cigarettes because I can’t breathe.
I am the hero of nothing, mayor of nothing, majoring in more nothingness,
Gradually graduating, hiking and dying, delivered and dizzied.
But I can’t die yet.
I’m still waiting for the next installment of some
Superhero blockbuster franchise.
It gives me purpose,
Gives me something to look forward to
When life is tiring,
And there’s nothing good on the news.
It’s mostly just
Something bad on the news.
They say the coast is good for the healing.
I should go there. I should go there.
But I found that shorelines actually wait for people.
It has no choice, has nowhere to go.
I can go there. I can go there tomorrow.
It’s a damn chore, wat’ring the steel cerulean tulips, watching ’em grow.
They die so fast, anyway, by grim or by sorrow.
I am a young, aberrant soul gliding like a wounded bird with nothing but everything to leave on my behind,
And in my wake, you shall find men weeping, men chanting irony and late hate and
Guilted songs, as I am the center of their cathexis, a boisterous beetle stud of carnitas to their skyed
Peignoir and pomade– aggravating, aggravating, like the libidinal strut our ram hath lost.
I miss the wise-cracking dud. He never sees, never feels,
Never knows what he wants.
I miss the undistilled radiance in me.
I miss the unkillable confidant.