i like to stand in front

of the mirror

stand up/sit down/stand up/sit down

and watch the light die in my own eyes.

fasinating,

that buzz

of human consciousness before the deafening crack

the string

of tightness in our chest-

stretch stretch snap

the psychedelic colors,

my blood

like lsd bouncing blue blue black

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all these years

of being alive,

and i am struggling to put something

to words, to express

whatever this

ache is. an untranslatable language,

who will understand?

all these years

to push it through

the pores of my

fingertips or

between my breathing.

i am tired,

so tired.

A friend once told me that several times throughout the day, we humans experience a form of pain that our brains register as mild enough that we just have to sort of quickly touch the afflicted spot to feel better. We call this pain an itch.

I wonder if my addiction is an itch too. The pain begins, mild enough at first. I rush for the closest, most preferable vice. And the itch goes away for a time.

What I want to know, doctor, is do humans really stop being itchy or do we just not notice it once the skin has been scratched raw? When will I stop desperately reaching for distractions to fill the time in between when I feel dead?

Better yet, doctor, was the itch ever really there or do our brains fabricate it? Am I the one causing myself to spiral to death and back like this, and it's all in my head?

And, doctor, what happens if we scratch an itch too much? How far can I go without being too far gone?

she was standing at the kitchen counter

cutting fruit with a heavy knife and

listening to the beegees,

she was caught up staring out the

window after something invisible

humming with faltering breath and

shoulders weighed down and

it made me wonder suddenly if

long ago my mother had ever been

something other than a mother.

i stand at a gas pump on a monday night

momentarily forgetting altogether how to put gas in a car

because

for a brief moment, i thought i heard my father

calling me home for dinner off the playground swings,

decades ago.

i wanted to say

i love you finally

but

it didn't come out

that way

just

a gasping noise like

i ran out of words

and air

he didn't take

the time to wait

until i could breathe again

he left,

and with him,

all my love

it ended like this, my

words were stolen

and i was left

silent like

a hazy

grey ghost

with empty eyes and

mouth, he took

everything

all the

i hate yous i want yous

and i love yous

he took

everything

i wanted to say

I want to.

take you on a date.

to the grocery store.

so we could sit on the just-mopped shiny floor

in front of the seafood section.

we'd sit in front of the lobster tank

and watch two of the little red guys

fight with black bands around their claws.

we could both bet on a lobster, and

whoever won got to pick out

a donut at the fly-infested donut counter.

who wants to?

there's not much to say, other than that

i'm very wet and have road rash on my ribcage

and sewer water in my nose.

i've never been much for sudden idiotic

decisions, but this was an exception. you'd

agree, had you been there. the ducati was red,

i was redder, from anger mostly. i got fired

from a job that didn't matter in the first place,

but it was supposed to get me somewhere,

that was the point. but what is the point of anything?

i can say, climbing on the back of a sleek bike

with my heels practically skimming the spinning

highway asphalt, it is always tempting to do the

wrong thing. i jumped a bridge once over some

mountain bikers and hit the ground with gravel

digging holes in my shins. and for some reason, with

blood in my mouth and hands, i wished i fell harder.

there's something about pain acclimated from speed

and height and adrenaline. it gets you close enough

to the edge without going all the way. but there's

more, there's always more to go. and i walk past

hikers on mountain trails, some guy making barbecue

at his little suburban house grill, cars that aren't

totaled from crashing into rivers. pushing my gushing

ducati- or what's left of it- up the dirt road in a

humiliating way. have you ever been too angry to

be humiliated? have you ever been angry enough

to stop wondering if there is a point to anything?

i didn't have time to wonder what the passersby saw-

some scraped-up guy with sopping clothes and muddy

hair and an attitude. some unfortunate person with water

squelching in the soles of their shoes and tires. some person

that deserved what they got. did it matter what they thought?

i wonder if there's enough sewer water in my head

right now to rot my brain.