I Never Wanted You Dead

Looking to inspiration
and seeing only a match struck
in a dark bathroom mirror.


Huge eyes were cast upon you
and the world swallowed your soul
now you are a sticker,
a scratched vinyl,
an echoing voice
calling forward-
from when you mattered.


Tears won't do a damn thing;
choruses of
Bravo!
Encore!
Encore!
no more
we don't call anymore
and you can't answer.


Questioning beliefs
lead to new questions,
new realizations.
You were never God,
you were never a god-
you were a conduit for grace
talent and
majesty.


As your flesh decays
and your eyes gloss over with grey


I'll stand here
inheriting the spirit
hoping that younger generations
don't move as fast.

Claws

Skin folds neatly-
well defined creases,
pre-existing 
signs.


The brow draws lines
sweat beads
and the lizard aches.


I forget where the light was
but I remember every curve


highlights-
soft
and sharply defined-
places I've only seen in magazines
or perhaps 
in the back of my mind.


Singed flesh
at the back of the neck
a dream
a thought
a desire
passing by in the night


its breath


gone with the sun.

16 Watt

Calluses.


Fleshy shields
born from repetition,
born from overuse.


Lips never callus
and a heart,
while it may grow harder,
is always a sponge
sopping pain and
beating stories of
regret.
The realizations of the past
are recounted with each
thump, and
every pump is a step closer
to scarlet tears.


A slow burn.


The pain of living.

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.

Bittersweet Resignation.

Sadness;
missing the things
that never were,
missing the things that
could have been, the things that
should have been.


Faded photos of you
your light, floral dress clinging to the
small of your clammy back;
photos of the old car-
looking out through the frosted
windows, out onto the cloudy bay of a northern coast;
super 8 films of children that were never conceived
children that never called out your name
endlessly bounding in silent pantomimes of unfamiliar
joy.


I miss all of this,
all that I have yet to know.


You don't remember me
we have never met
but I love you.


I love your red eyes glimmering through cigarette smoke,
I love the worn, scuffed white heels you wear with everything;
I miss the way you pick at your chipped fingernails
and the look of your dog as I walked in your back door.
I miss the Polaroids on the fridge- the
golden pictures of shared drugs and 
empty cans of mexican beer
cluttered amongst the splayed out books and
precarious piles of balancing vinyl records.
I will never again hear the thump of an albums end
while you slowly undress
I remember you there, dancing in the flickering light of
fading, burnt filament


but I will never remember your name


all this was lost to me


all this was taken from me


when I chose to step back.


All I have now is the sadness,
the shudder of memory
and the sweaty panic, when woken from a dream
of your embrace-
of your voice.


I don't know you and I will never
know you;


but perhaps I am better for it.

A Letter to a friend.

Beggar Beggar;

learned beggar

caught in the same traps.

You've fallen a long way

if you look back 

(hindsight vision was always your strong suit)

Words will always abuse you

words will always tease you from the

inside and out.

You are a slave to this-

and you seem to enjoy it.

But, 

hear this Beggar:

you are part of a world

remember this and never let the traps 

take more than your

masochistic self

captive.

Then,

by all means,

enjoy the fall.

Don't Think About Going Far... Just Go.

There is no time to be wasted

waiting for the end of things.

The process 

was only discussed for a moment

never thought out

it was the end that was desired

as it always is-

intention to shine

without polish.

but

when the time is taken

and the seat is well worn 

the intent is often the clouded thing

and the sound of a warm mind coupled

with the feeling of great industry

is all that is desired

love is overrated 

when there are great things to be done.

There will never be awe

inspired by the person.

Only the scarred flesh

and the winding of words;

the story of the struggle 

and the triumph;

never the idea

the thought-

the intent

but the miles between the first step

and the grave

Indeed,

worn, brown leather soles

are the building blocks

of immense libraries

they are the inspiration

of fire side chills

and single tears

beside death beds;

so it should be,

and so it is,

life well lived with

pockets full of memories.