Multitudes Contained

The frenzied
swigging of sour
suppressant,
of sour
salvation.

Three hours from
work waking. The
pungent polari
that apes
unrequited ambition
rolls lazily
from the tongue.

My kingdom for
a dream,
you say.
Almost delighted
by the triviality
of everything. 

I can’t help
but cringe
as I listen to
the sun shine 
synesthesia 
work through the more
unguarded folds
of my person.

The temporality of mourning
is almost comical
when you tally the minutes
wasted. 
But then it
resigns itself
into a much
deeper
more sinister
representation of
abandonment.

He introduces himself as Nothing.
And I realize that
Nothing is warm.
Nothing is beautiful.
Nothing stretches out next to me,
whispers familiar memories of feeling
something a lot like
Nothing brush softly
across my fingertips.
God is there
in Nothing.
Nothing is holy. 

Nothing is worth so much pain.
Nothing is worth sticking around
for. 

Fictions born
in unbalanced
minds 
convince them
selves of
the harder
truths like

The things you
love are
temporary
and subject to
a bizarre continuum
of far too uncertain
fates.

While reality
born in no
particular mind
convinces no
one of the inevitable
fact 
that our every
fiction 
has already
ended before
its all too
untimely
beginning. 

Sun warmed
daydreams
punctuating the
slow gust
of cigarette ash.
The smell of
sun tan
lotion.
The movement of
strangers. Every
thing piques the
more mundane
partition.

Watching the fire
burn as the
sky shifts uneasily.
The sun beaming
doubtful
anger swirled with
obscenity
through her mask
as the whole
show finally
shatters. Shards
falling into the fire
pit crackling like
sugar crystals.

I can hear your voice
shining through
the admittedly acidic
day
dream and
the panic attacks
recede as we
put reality back
together
piece by
piece.

Another bit
of ash
floats away
as I pretend
not to notice
the cracks
that remain,
running throughout
the too bright
sun summer
day. 

You worship the
quick whispered lie
as
his bitter teeth
carve sad
language
on to
red warm
skin.

But his better
heart will always
heave into your
smooth raw want.

What
gorgeous cadavers
we make
together.  

The mean
drunk
men
destroy time.

Using
life as an
escape.

Even when
all we have
is blood
and soulless
drink. 

My flesh hungry
head chews
death.

We are
the ugly grave
of our insane
little dream. 

Such a sad
coincidence
that the demons
in your brain
and the fire
in your guts
suckle from
the same 
bottle
of gin.

Some nights
you just have to
kill yourself
or stumble up to
your room
and go to bed.

Although
some nights
it feels like
going to bed
is killing
yourself. 

I guess it’s
better to leave
these impasses
for the somber
surly
hungover
motherfucker
to edit and
type up
in the morning. 

The irony of 
being normal

is that it’s
almost as
impossible to
achieve
as it is to
avoid.

The most loving
home
will still
never truly understand 
why you look
at other men
the way that
most men look
at women.
And why that means
you can’t
be like them. 

And even
the most accepting
friends
will still
never truly understand
why underneath
the need for freedom
and independence
is a much more
basic and
childish need
to go home.
And why that means
you can’t
stay. 

The ghosts that whisper
your name
in dreams
beckon only toward
the madness of mothflame.

Walking the three street stretch
between my door
and work. Late
already wearing
my Can-I-Help-You?
nametag
to save time. 

Stopping anyway
for coffee
and the girl behind
the counter says
“would you like
anything else today,
Jeff?”

The most sincere
superstitions
will always catch you
by surprise. 

I mumbled
no
and nonchalantly
tore off my
name
for the last
two streets.