Untitled

I cannot stand the sight of their deaths.


Nights, interrupted with sweat and a chest of pain,
a towel down to soak it all up; then
sleeping again, but not on yellow-ringed sheets but unaware,
on bathroom tile and a time-flattened rug-
each morning realizing a phantom bender,
devoid of a single drink from the night before.


They are all older in the great scheme but younger in my mind;
they are forefathers, mothers, and siblings.


I hope to lose all of my warmth before then
for my veins could not stand the chill
my mind not take the jolt
and my head would lose the world in a dizzying instant.


Their deaths are ahead of me, always,
my life is looming over them and
I curse each time, at the youth wasted on self;
the same self so occupied with the right words
and the selfish pursuit of grey temples.


They will always be in heroic scale from
where I choose to stand,


and


as I stare upward and watch them flourish-
their lives rich, and their hard work realized-
I conceptualize my own mortality
and am unwillingly reminded of theirs.


Then, all at once, I jerk awake once more-
the rug impressed on my cheek,
and the lines of tile, marked red on my side.


I remain still, and listen
as a clear pool of shame
drips,
escaping my coward's brow.

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Signs of Misuse

The cigarettes of my youth
are floating in the puddles of Los Angeles


They have long since been drained and yellowed.




Acid still creeps
and sleep never comes- no matter the pill.
It all builds against,
mocking the adult version of 
a once 'old-soul'
now just a commonplace fellow
brushing shoulders with
a world that is moving
entirely too fast.


An old clock radio clicks on,
the morning news plays
and dust dances in the first rays of the morning sun.


Books all feel old now


their pages are deteriorating
dog ears drooping ever further.


I remember when I hadn't muddied the waters
I remember tree houses floating above Siverlake
I remember,
I remember.


Orange trees crept in through security bars, glare through dirty windows
and bitter coffee; never a clean cup.


I miss the filth and unease, 
I miss the daring of it all.


I miss my legs.