on natural functions:

my heart sings songs that no ear will ever hear.
through my veins, sonnets and odes flow.
should my blood spill, those words are wasted;
when the blues become red and the rhythm
of my heart falters for moments, i lose the
sentiments that were to leave my lips
and be whispered into the waiting ears
of my love.

skinny arms

television dreams of a drunkard
falling haphazardly down somewhere
around my ankles and toes.
while bending to collect the episodes
and hallucinations,
a startling realization hit like a baseball bat
on an intruder in the house of paranoia.
two toxic influences, two similar addictions
swirling around and drilling holes
in a perfectly fine brain -
tape your hands and forearms together, fool.
even if i run out of things to say to you
i will never run out of things to drink.
the moon hangs low tonight.
it is within my reach.
i will grab it and swallow it.
i will affect the tides,
dogs and coyotes will howl at my white, white face.
i can hear the train, i can see the tracks
but i have yet to see that lumbering vehicle pass.
cobalt, cerulean, peacock, sapphire and discontent:
no matter the layers of white primer, black paint
through the cracks and dents easy to see.
ain't no way to wash myself clean in that salty sea,
i don't even float anymore. straight to the bottom.

her skinny arms reach down and pull me out of the bathtub.
my eyes closed, soaking wet and sleeping i might just be
happy to see her, and perhaps my veins have gone
to rest in their beds; now less visible under pallid skin.
the smell of a spring morning floods the squalid room
and today, maybe i will draw the blinds and let the
the light of the day shine on my face.

.......

These scissors don't cut through much -
their blades are mighty dull.
They match the drag of days with nothing better to do
than watch the clouds saunter by: wispy white on a pleasant
blue canvas, swirling and swimming like the cigarette smoke
spilling constantly from my mouth after it takes a quick
vacation in my lungs.
Knife in hand, i contemplate a visit to the attic.
The silver rungs of the seemingly endless ladder end
with the cool embrace of King Elvis
or Jesus Christ himself. I blame those scratches on the cat.
(It sometimes seems easier to believe scars that deep
could come from feline claws than the nails hammered
into a man something like two thousand years ago could
bring us salvation.)
Staring at the ceiling in the dark is more satisfying than
the back of my eyelids on sleepless nights, wondering
where you are and why i care. When the snow falls silent and
the sidewalks seem like tricks and traps, though a fleeting
moment of happiness tears me away from the doldrums
of dreams and nightmares, the accompanying cold
and my brittle bones collaborate to make my journey
uncomfortable. When even the fading light
of the refrigerator needs to be viewed through
dark glasses and morning doesn't break until sometime
past noon, it is time to decide if the white-knuckled fist
wrapped around the neck of the bottle is
really the one with the tightest grip.