On auto-pilot with no destination.

I was one of the countless people who didn't realize Semi-Charmed Life is about meth and sex.

Write about seasons,
write about weather.
Write while the trees die and scramble together.
Write for your father,
unless he's dead,
then just rewrite his eulogy and go back to bed.

Write for the right reason,
write for your rights.
Right about now, hell, you may as well, right?
Write for the sunset,
the sunrise as well,
Write for the tides without stories to tell.

Write about silence -
you can even sing.
I can't guarantee how many checks it will bring.
Write about poverty,
write about winter,
when the heat is still on and the mail's still delivered.

Write about suffering,
write so you suffer.
Write about whatever height pulls you under.
Then comes the thunder,
or lightning, I'm sure.
Write about how this **** world was once pure.

Bleed on the page,
write about art,
how the shame in this life might just pull you apart.
But you're right, I agree,
so you may as well write,
or eat your damn keyboard and just be polite.

Airplane!



Surely, you can't be serious.
I am serious. And don't call me Shirley.

You're wearing too many layers;
I want to lick you.
I want the drop dead bombs to kick open their
payloads and rain fiery blood across the
whole ****ing world, and melt
away your skinny layers.
I want to taste you.

When your wedding dress rips against
the handcuffs
and while the cellophane is
still intact,

as robins dripping dry from
the holocaust hollow sky skim lifeless
from the hemorrhage of the tree line,
and an anthem of eyelids sing,
blinking as syringes full of
turpentine pass through the retina,
I want to lick you;
You're wearing too many layers.

Gotta be going. Much love.
Life's no lithium picnic.

it would all make much more sense if we were dead.
it all seems simpler then -
the cards, the crying, the choirs.
shades drawn, dawn painted in
shadowy depth along the window's sides,
and phone calls from relatives.

"how are you?"
well, i'll tell you,
i've been fine.
what about this weather?
how are the kids? they aren't dead yet,
are they?

well, good -
for them, for you. it's good for us.

death isn't half a hindrance
for the ink stained, the paint bludgeoned
freaks of heaven.
death doesn't pay disability.
important men know better than that ruse,
'cause if death paid outright
the streets would sink with the weight
of all these suicides...
cave in towards the center of warmth
in the heart of the world
where we pretended to make work of.

i wonder who could cash that
currency of the dead.
liquor stores, maybe.
coffee shops should corner the check cashing
business too. haul in
that crowd.
you know. the ones
with the ash makeup, steel-toes,
burning by candle-light
while the rest of the corpses
sink into magma as it slides up
from the sewer pipes
and takes with it
the American Dream
the Confederate dream
and the power of my attorney.

Nearing three days off the bottle
my cathedral ceilings start to whisper.
A hint of cigarette smoke:
paper dragons loom like psychedelic
butterflies and deranged ants
crawling over my fingertips, shaking
the pen, the page.

Old hallelujahs recant
on the porch.
My lighter licks the curtains before
it falls. Dominoes echo
while the couch swims in the air
lit on its edges like singeing
a christmas-colored leaf
left dead by fall.

Smoke rings roll up my arm.
Gross snake charmers... blondes, brunettes, redheads.
Head is throbbing.
A new crawl space in the closet,
where there is no darkness and
the door won't open 'cept for when I'm sleeping.
And then I hear it open.
A cacophony of startled silence
rushed on by twisted tongues.

In the treasured blindness of night
that locks me in its jewelry box
and turns me sideways like a bed-ridden,
box-fed, ingrate,
where my song drips from my lips
lingering for a death rattle when only
the saliva of screams
dares stick around.

I'm planning on hoarding all the snow around my place and piling it below my third story balcony and jumping off into it.

What are your plans?

Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world -
It's hard to get by just upon a smile.



Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world,
and I'll always remember you like a child, girl.

Mornin'.

This picture doesn't have any boobs, but it's still pretty cool.