1000 ghosts

1000 ghosts haunting
every corner
every gas station

1000 ghosts behind
every locked door

each one of them is me
I know
but it’s nice to be reminded
for distraction’s sake

past lives
walk the streets
strutting
self-destruction
selling
sabotage
with their hands
buried deep
in the pockets of puffy jackets

my eyes wander

my eyes don’t water
they have been wide for days
fearful of the instant
lost to a blink

and the present
from which there is no harbor
found me
shuffling
past the pharmacy
where Dani works
where I pretended
to buy rigs
for someone else
acting
like I needed
to read from my phone
instead of recite from memory

29 gauge
half inch
one CC

six months
past
wondering
if the scars will fade
and
if the ghosts
will ever live again

Better Out Than In

My grandmother stood above
as I vomited in my mother’s bathroom.

“I told you so!” she crowed
while the hot rum and apple cider
exited my body.

Nervous in her presence,
I soothed my guts with alcohol.
Her admonitions only made me drunker.

Thanksgiving was a tense affair,
filled with canned yams and rage.

Since I despised
the marshmallows’ artificial goo
and the prickly tang of aluminum,

I brought fresh sweet potatoes
all the way from Chicago,

only to upchuck them
a few hours later
into a Wisconsin toilet.

I hated it when
my grandmother was right,
because she derived
so much pleasure from it.

She could hold her liquor inside
for as long as necessary,
until her body absorbed the bile
and saved it for later.

It’s a good thing
I was never
that much of a drinker.

Parting Ways on Pizza Night

We argued,
made love
and then
argued again,
before you said
that maybe
I should go
and play
with the traffic
for a while
and walked away,
as you called
the pizzeria
and when
the delivery man
finally arrived –
you opened
the box
to reveal a
ham and
pineapple pizza
and like ham
and pineapple pizza,
I knew then
that only a fool
would truly
think that we’d
work well
together.

Gin & Tonic on a Sunday Afternoon

Bitter on the lips,
spirits of juniper berries
bless and honey tongues
with bite and fire.
Sugared words
that have long abandoned us
take wing in ambrosial flight
from our dark corners—
winter suns—
thawing the frost
that hardens our hearts
and tender fingertips.
Chestnut hair falls before your eyes
as you read, biting your lip—
the smell of you,
tearing like a machete
through bands of cigarette smoke
that haunt the air between us.
You go to the kitchen to make us another drink.
Suckin’ gin from ice cubes,
I sit,
worshiping you, silently,
in reverie
for letting me miss you,
again.
But that’s the story of you and I—
hard to swallow
save these fleeting moments—
like bubbles
at the back of the throat
that make us smile.
Looking out the window,
clouds drifting across pale azure,
I wonder where the hell I’ve been all this time,
as crickets join the fun—
even if just for a while.

Sometimes Sodomy is the Only Way to Save Your Ass

I can’t think with these fucking dogs
circling the shack day and night, their
slapping drool, grunts and growls, and
that melodic sniffing ever present in this
surreal variant world I’ve created. With
malice and agoraphobia as my chariot I
ran and I ran, away from everything and
everyone I ever knew, it was a shit
decision then and it’s a shit decision
now, but sometimes sodomy is the only
way to save your ass.

valley of the numb

Chill pinpricks pierce skin where drops drip,
Pitter-patter patterns upon palm scatter-plot static wrought
On my psyche… night too stagnant to clock crisp
Meant to jumpstart; start-pistol-whipped, racing thoughts since

Some point switched to seeking strolling meditation—
Somehow stuck, can’t help but distractedly walk brisk—
More like shamble quick—breath too inhibited for relief,
Streetlights too tight for my elusive tastes on dark drifts

Who do I kid? This land’s too familiar for escape
No dark alleys to take, nothing refreshing to sate,
What distance does one drive to end up scraping with strage?
A dingy dive? A quiet lake? Abadonded estate?

One-hundered percent desert and thirty percent metropolis
Swathes of industrial, residential, and lots of dust;
There’s gotta be a place to feel alive outside a mosh pit
Our biggest threats are bike theft, heat stroke, and dumbshit drivers

Guess I’ll find a midnight machaca burrito,
And hope this time it gets me steps closer to snuffing ego,
And hope when I’m back home I remember not to spark up tonight
And finally clean up my room and rearrange my life;
Update my budget, workout again, clip the cat’s nails,
Study, write, prepare to claw my path from this nine-to-five jail,
Skip the online temporal-emotional black holes,
Cut clutter and noise from my world, re-orient towards my goals, and

fuck it, i’m tired,
hope’s exhausting
i’d rather be wired,
hung w/mary, jack, and Her
and have handerson train the squire

binge upon a feast of the throes echo’ing my dreads and dreams and
reify that soothesaid mantra: “potential” means “not defeated”

death taking a number

it’s a headache
that’s actually
a tumor

that pain in
your side is
death taking
a number

sometimes
the dream
about that
ass in your
face is better
than the taste

of course, you
always want
the chance to
prove something
wrong

Two Tabs and the Dead

Blue VW van,
anachronistic for 1982.
Dane County Coliseum,
Grateful Dead.
I dropped acid with a few
of my co-op roommates.

Snow fell hard
as we screeched
into the parking lot
and lurched to a stop
between parallel lines.

Inside, we spiraled
in opposite directions,
propelled by lysergic motors
that showered sound
and set us to dancing.

A man named Robert
attached himself to me.
He’d lost his shoes
somewhere in the building,
but didn’t need them,
because he wanted
to walk outside barefoot.

The security guard
stopped us at the door
and said we weren’t
allowed to leave the premises.
He was ancient
and stoop-shouldered
and wore a lime-green,
three-piece polyester suit.

“Why can’t I go out?”
my friend demanded.

The guard shook his head
with regret, said
“It’s snowing, son,”
and then after a while,
“You don’t have any shoes on.”

His voice was gentle
and apologetic,
like he understood
our wish to go outside,
and felt bad, because
he couldn’t grant it.

Robert looked down
at his enormous, knobby feet
and nodded with
sudden understanding.

I stared at the guard,
noticed he had
a tiny cloth bumblebee
on his coat lapel.
The bee was smiling
and waving one of its legs.

“I like your sticker,” I said.
The guard looked pleased.
“You want one?” he asked.
“I have an entire roll
inside my pocket.”

He stuck in his hand,
pulled out a fat roll
of cloth bumblebee stickers,
extended it in my direction.
I chose one for my shirt.

“Thanks,” I said,
as Robert and I turned around
and headed back to the stage
for the second set.

She Played On Herself The Best Electric Guitar Solo

she was under an heavy rain
a hot one
artificial rain coming from the shower
she decided to put that flowing
over her femininity
and she felt like Danae
she said
I’m a goddess now

the pleasure began to rise
as the twilight sun
as the high tide with full moon
as the adrenaline of a lioness
while following the gazelle

she wanted that pleasure
she knew it was good and right
because she was a goddess
and all is good and right
when the pleasure is strong

she cried
yes
she wanted it
yes
the rain over her
yes
the feeling of being immortal
yes
the feeling of being right and good
yes
all this pleasure is here for you honey
yes
the thought of her lover giving pleasure to her
yes
the feeling of freedom and power
yes

drop over drop
the shower was on the floor
flooding the white porcelain
breaking the banks made with the flesh of bare feet
her rain with the artificial rain

at the end
while the breath tried to slow down
after a long high moaning
the roar of her little inner lioness
only the tapping of soaked hair left
and her shining smile
brighter than the summer sun