psycho

it looks awful nice out there
that out there
that i am waiting for

i'll bet the pavement is warm
and that through those doors
wait people i know

i wake up in a sad fever
and stumble
to check the mail

anxiety enbalms me
and there is no switch
to calm the buzzing

despair numbs me
only temporarily
before i wash out

the bright memory
of being hungry
for the life

i thought i'd lead
now all that has
sunk like lead

to the depths
of my curled-up
vessel

bobbing along
the sea-salt
throng of flesh

Failure Donor

Finally
there is a use
for my excuses.
I have come
to the voting booth
carrying a pencil
itching
to write my name.

I have stood
on dissolving
milk crates,
preaching the
end of my time,
using my
wealth of knowledge
concerning myself
to pinpoint
my familiar demise.

The fishbowl
is full of chairs.
I have sat in mine.
I have flushed
the system free
of error and toll.
I have filled
the fishbowl
with drugs
and dirty water,
I am a warm host,
I invite all the parasites
to come and play.

I watch as it empties
into a basin
laid at my feet.

What's next is what's left.
Struggle succumbs to sweat.
Nothing I do helps
so I am passing it on,
paying it forward,
until this fishbowl
is clear and bereft.

Stay Asleep

I'll be sure not to bother you here.
I've been careful
so as not to let the moths and
winged phantoms through.
I hope I don't wake you,
warm like the sun
and breathing so soft.

Nobody knows
that I have slipped in.
I carry no letter
but the words stamped
into the veins
of my wrist, frozen
out of fear.

My disposition
is at an utter standstill.
I would kill
for a guaranteed
psychic reading.
I need to know where I stand.

Lucky for me I know a guy.
He's got a sense of humor,
always teasing me in dreams
of torture tongue
and sauna situations.
We talk in morse code,
through the blips and bleeps
we send each other in sleep.

Sorry to bore you
with the realities of
being an abnormality.
I have strapped myself
to the shelf long past
my expiration date.
I am owed a renewal.
I guess that is my reason
for wanting to see you.

I want so badly
for nothing to happen,
for everything to stop
happening at once.

Frowning Moon

The grass is a bunch of shit,
lit up by baseball field
lights and moon beams.
I have trampled it
with the erosion
of my routine.
It is a broken palace.
It is the place where
sparks are silenced
and diminished
to a dust by
the virulent foot
of my anger.
I cannot control
the way that I
feel now
or the way
that I have
ever felt.
I have
never felt
this way,
the way
that I conquer
even the grass,
so at once
sad
and bent
towards hell.