He took a schizophrenic detour
by taking candy
from a bleeding stranger.

The beast in the machine
steers the planets, pinwheel galaxies
whirl on their own collision course through space --

as city sewers
whisper your name
the black thawing streets
will ****** narcotics
into the blind man's hand,
as another addict screams ****
for tastes of yesterdays'
dreamscape. . .

I spit blood at work.
I wandered off, to smoke.
I spit red.
Walked inside.
Full screen.
Blood on a napkin,
buys you five minutes.

I make your food with love.
My sweat and blood,
you savor.
Bread with your meal.
Compliments of my body.
I suggest white wine,
with your meal,
seeing as how the only red,
we have,
is being spat to the ground.

Eighty-six emotion.

Cooks yell at servers.
Servers at cooks.
Customers at servers.
None of which is justified,
but putting up with *******,
is harder to swallow,
enveloped in heat.
Cold hands filling glasses,
seems easier,
to deal with,
rather than slicing meat.
It's rare
that you can,
find people willing to battle,
the heat of the kitchen.

Boy walks down road
He's got a thick outline and heavy hands

Boy sits in chair, slouched, hands folded
He's got blackhole eyes and a secret smile

Boy lays in bed unraveling his thoughts
He's got question marks falling out of his mouth

I'll bite him with my brave teeth and pray for rain
I will lay in his web and watch

A poem—
is just one more
scrap of paper
that has sailed off the table
in a bottle
with a cry for help.

Don't look.
The world's about to break.

Don't look.
The world's about to chuck out all its light
and stuff us in the chokepit of its dark,
That black and fat suffocated place
Where we will **** or die or dance or weep
Or scream of whine or squeak like mice
To renegotiate our starting price.

I hear your sobs from the bathroom
And I hope it’s not what I think
Pray I misunderstood
Hope and hope so deep

We open the door
And there you lie
Lost in some fog
Then I realize
From the look in your eyes
And the colors I glimpse
It’s all over the tiles
And it covers the sink

The scene freezes in silence
Images flashing slow
We try to grasp in an instant
How it began to flow
Searching for the tool you used
That would lead to the breach
Searching for the weapon you chose
To finally... sleep

And I wonder...

“Is this it?”

“Is this the day
Our life will collapse?”

“Is today the day that
All my fears come true?”



Will there be no other laugh
In our lives forever stained
Will there be no innocence
Left from what was shed
Is this the date cross-marked
In our memories forever
Is this the day so black
Where our dreams shatter?



As I hear the sirens fade
I’m left in silence, petrified
In shock staring at my hands
Voiceless and horrified

So unbearable
That it dissociates me
So unshakable
That it suffocates me

Breathing the thick air
Painfully into my lungs
As I wash blood off my hands
And clean the bathtub



There were no tears that night
Just a blinding pain
As sharp as the knife
You pressed to your veins

Oh mother…

What have you
Done?

You have left me
Forever
Terrified
For things
To come

Couldn’t you spare us
I was just a child
In this bathroom who would comfort
The little girl I was?
Couldn’t you handle
The anger and the tears
Preserve your children
From their worst fears?

You’ve shattered our lives
From your own weakness
And filled our eyes
With... endless darkness
Broken our hopes
For any peaceful day
An anguish for tomorrows
That will never melt away

It must be this third cup
of coffee that has me on
edge. But not to confuse
anxiety for indigestion.
I'm sick to my ******* stomach.

Maybe you could be a little sweeter?

I said, maybe you could pass the sweetener.

I'm not one to stir the ***,
but I need something fresh.
This is stale, and the grinds
taste like pennies.
My spit is red.

The best part of waking up,
is having a *** to **** in,
to have a glass half full,
but who is the fool?

The fool is the man,
that runs out of coffee filters,
and uses toilet paper,
instead.

I drink my coffee black.
It's an absolute.
Why mix cream?
When I don't believe,
everything is so black,
and white.

5                                                                                                                                           666
                                                                                    407
972
                                                89
                                                                                                        451
                3665

                                                                          4114
                                                                                              The smoke of the last shot of the last gun of the last Soldier waived its white plume of Freedom today.                                                     754                                                13

                                      8                                                                     67
                                                                                                                                                  3089                                                              1337                                  
                                                                                                                                           539

4                                  1
                                          A piece of Peace in fashion for the War we wore.     578                
                                                                                                                   It's all in the numbers.

Lovers.                                  
                                                                                                                               Freedom.
                                                         A Father.

                   Brother.                                                                                Sister.

                                                                                                                    900                                                                                                     Son.

                              733
                                                                                                                                  Daughter.                                                                                                              
                                                                                                                                145
                                                                Mother.


4417.

The Age of Terror is umm,

                                                                                   Accomplished.