Deliberation on Survival

It's not as late as usual,
we sit in the car, leave it running,
wish I was running away
from you and everything i feel
about this education and the money that i need to make--

we leave the car running, the headlights on the bushes
and I heave my exhaustion out through snot in my nose,
desperate addiction, needing alcohol through my tears,
saying anything that might make sense to myself
because goddamnit, it hurts
and i'm embarrassed that I need alcohol to sort out
my life
/life--
don't understand why battles are all uphill,
i don't mind battles,
can't they be on a flat field?
I'll throw the fucking flag at the top,
take a few bullets,
come skidding down dead bodies--
we all fought, some lived,
I keep living,
I just keep breathing,
I'm the one who is still here
every.
time.
and it's getting to be too much
on evenings like this--
needing thirteen gulps of divinity,
gulps of air, I am trying to tread water--

and you listen so well, baby.

which makes it worse,
I begin to rant and sort and write unecessary poems

so humiliating to be this human in front of you,
such a stab in the gut to feel this alive,

once I could suppress it,
anymore it burgeons from me,
fat from a wound,
oh it's so desperate,

fat from a goddamn wound.

there are times when feeling alive are intolerable,
times when I prefer to feel invisible,
a sweet ghastly idea,
times when being dead seem the most appropriate--

but I always make it out of that battle,
and each fight I realize that the odds are against me,
so I'm waiting for it to end,

knowing I've always been the exception'
"Good woman, Beth Smith"
isn't always the cheerful greeting others think it is,
I might look at you in shock
realizing I've come away from it,
still bleeding red, pissing yellow-
conscious, and irate.

To See Your Brother Go

In pictures,
he already looks like a ghost,
somehow the camera captures
the truth you purposely forget,
fail to acknowledge;
but I can't blame you--

you grew your hair long,
because he couldn't grow any,
worked pottery with your hands,
because he couldn't control his,
laughed hard, laughed hard
uncontrollable and sincere
with him, because he can laugh--
and he does,

he looks like a ghost in some pictures with you,
all shallow eyes,
black and white, auras blending into skin,
those are the pieces you throw away immediately,
like touching them,
breathing,
might turn them in to truth--

he's a ticking time bomb of dying,
but you didn't expect he'd live this long,
and although every day your entire family
pretends to live it to the fullest,
so that he may drink every drop
of life wine,
he's so drunk,
oh, but you're so sober--

your brother admires you because you're so beautiful,
and your friends play with him like the twenty-seven year old
child he really is,
he dances, you dance too--
a special handshake constructed out of madness
trying to create everything you could possibly endure
with a best friend

before the slipping occurs.

pictures can be destroyed by fire or compactor,
they can be degraded under piles of the entire city's trash,
but the slipping has to happen,
the fading has to begin,

continue to love him,
your heart might turn desperately cynical,
but never let him know,
he should begin to ghost away with that grin
that beautiful grin,
his ghosting will begin,
and you, my human soul, can not stop it.

POS

What I originally had planned to put here had no poetic merit to it at all; simple a rant to a boy who isn't easy to love. Who doesn't know that story? It can't even be sold because it's all too familiar and people don't want to buy what they live through time and time again.

So I'll try again later.

PIECE OF SHIT.

Another snippet, untitled.

I don't mind, sweetheart--
bring those troubles too.
If you need to bag them up to carry them all,
I've got room enough for your heartache.

I don't have money, I don't have collaterol
but I have strength enough for the both of us
and every day I get stronger so that I can hold you up
maybe that tomorrow you can look toward the crowd
and feel worthy of their adoration.

Untitled, as of yet

I guess we've said all that was meant to be said,
those lovely things we dream of childishly in the morning,
become scuffed up and dirty by the time we go to bed.

What about that dusk scene that is so used,
can we say anything about that?
Any words to describe how each sunset is unremarkable
because we're not surprised anymore?

(This could be a beginning, middle, or end of poem. From midnights, locked in a public pool.)

Naive, August

Can't memorize everyone and their lines
but their voices aren't so distinct either
afraid everyone's melting; too soon
the magic is gone.

I refuse to give in to your victimization,
I'll use my imagination to pretend you're better
than you ever really were.

Those who tell the truth say you're a piece of shit,
and although I know it would be right to believe them
they are also momentos of a fat bastard's dinner,
and I'll keep you just the same, you little shit.

Evolve Already

Oh, Jon--I've heard you complain
that you are too young to understand
this life, and existence, and you're pathetic
in my book--
against that sunset tonight,
you look absolutely prehistoric,
a barbarian, neanderthal,
I've been waiting for you to evolve
so that maybe we could have dinner
civilly, humanely, diginity
alas,
you remain poorly coordinated,
nonverbal, grunts and groats,
simply discovering fire makes you hot
and I'm bothered by your amazement at simple things,

I care very little about you anymore, Jon--
go to your cave and come back a man,
with shoes, and short hair,
and learned and literate and not putrid
for the sake of being putrid.

Brush your teeth, guy--
who could even try to love you?