I am prone. and the paper walls are screaming now,
Leaving a mass on the mastoid process
(I’ve mastered the process of emotional suppression, because its so easy to be ignorant And its a sin to waste today tiptoeing from room to room.)
So I’ve got this mask I acquired from a couple lifetimes ago
Because this house is a mess and your presence is a task.
I put on my face and become a ghost: unbothered, undead–
I succumb, smoke, and sleep easily;
I am numb.

I am numb, because all you are is the panda’s thumb:
A reflection of imperfection,
An incompetent occupant
Of a second chance at a life you rationalize–
While you analyze how your laughs drop like houseflies.
You like my eyes? I love your lies. And I love my mind:
A closet full of hangers;
You’re never last to hang up
When I’m hung up
With answers, and your assumptions:
They dress up like questions of concern,
(Touch the stove to learn of lessons burned)
I put my life in danger
But I won’t bathe in your scum
Or even spit in your cesspool
With every night, the hour later,
I am sickened by my own anger.
I sleep with one eye open in the company of traitors.

“Forty six with windchill so wear long sleeves. Life is to die for!”
Please, cover your mouth when you sneeze;
Cover your wounds when you bleed.
Your infections, your incisions;
You’re the infection seeping through the incisions;
Your voice is blurring my vision,

“Because I am your father
And I said so
And that’s my final decision.”

“Because I am your father
And I said so
And I am drunk
And we are broken
And I said so;
If not death, then division.” 

Because life as we know it is a superstition,
And I have a strong suspicion that this is all extremely small since we live it up so large;
I’m indifferent,
He’s in charge;
I’m indifferent,
He’s dead–
All of us mindless, only blessed with brains and a bed fit for a king:
A stoop on Luckie Street, or a field of grass–
Anything will pass because this is all a dream, and this is all in your head.
But I’m happy as I lay next to you and so lonely with every inch in between.
Fade into me.

When I was fifteen and faded,
All grey was a discrepancy.
But I’m five years fuller,
And my color vision is fading.
Twenty and tilted,
(Its the partial of the whole
In which
The whole is but a partial
To the whole,
In it and of itself,
The whole is still just partial.)
I am a whole hole,
And by being bottomless
I am impartial. unpatriotic. pitiful.
I march around angry because
I missed the bandwagon everyone keeps mentioning.
My eyes face the same ground which
My arm sits:
Stiff, fixed, & parallel,
As I hold my thumb out hoping to hitch a ride to anywhere.
All the while, my thumb longs for my mouth–
Desperate to plug my mental leak
As a Hoover Dam for unfiltered word vomit.
Gag reflex. I vomit–
Turning on the verbal faucet,













(I study so I can make money while I wait tables to make money so I can pay off the money I borrowed so I could study… VERY BAD DECISION. THIS WAS A TEST; YOU JUST FAILED.) In the end all I have realized is that everything is ultimately free and this is all a bad joke bearing a punchline of disease. You’re either carrying a kid, a briefcase, or a disengaged guilt while you wipe the dirt from your knees. Either way you’re bound to contribute to denial and the deceased. But since there is no end, this is just an interlude, like a bathroom break or a cigarette… vice-versa if you smoke and/or piss a lot. Do you get me?