Thoroughly depressed.

She hadn't even finished her obligatory response before her interest shot downward into the cloud of another's voice.

So my corduroy sports coat flapped with me, inside, to evoke a response from someone else who was more interested.

I couldn't smoke anymore cigarettes, and there was no one inside who wasn't already occupied by mixing a drink, checking their emails, or engaging in a conversation with someone else.

I felt a little tinge, a little pull from a ghastly thing I thought had left, so I went outside to smoke another cigarette.

So thoroughly manic I searched and pressed for an audience, and following thusly, I became a desperate propheteer, spewing out words and phrases so I could put my feet and stamp a place into the patio.

I suppose it's better not to be Thor...

Great circles
I am a weak man
with no shoes

and beastly rage.

Go away...
great circles

are all that come to me

numbers in the night

and ants.

I never existed
so I think that means:
the joke's on you.

-July 27th, 2010

This is what they mean when they say those things.

So.

Last night I spoke of many things with many people. Death and the universe, the way it all pretty much might work, and the meaning of a broken whiskey bottle. I spoke about numerology, astrology and the tarot. I spoke of old loves and new loves, and all the small ones in between. All the meanwhile, the spirit in me raged for another, and the child in me is crying because he is about to be left, and the poet is calling in the waning moon for the one he cannot see; the world is in flames, partly, and in breezes the other part, and I try to sit calmly in the center, with the good people I know, and the good nights making the hard ones less hard, and the bad ones less bad.

I passed out in a living room that was for the first time empty save myself, and woke up and thought about it.

Here's an older poem:

Did me like a Telegram, in France.
So I smoke to the night
And all the small, strange things it holds.
Perhaps you are smoking too,
Somewhere,
Under the haze of midnight
With its half moon fog

Carrying our solemn voices into the old light of the sky.

-March 29th, 2010

All the big things in my room are gone down the street; the dresser, the desk, my books. My room right now, wherein I sit, is just as messy as it was, except for now there might be a reason: the movers are coming tomorrow, and all the clothes have to be washed. So I'll sit for now, and wonder, and worry, but not feel anything too specifically hard, because there still are havens, even if I'm moving away from Haven.

Anyways, here are some poems:

Another Poem to Ms. Irish
You big green bird:
I’ll send you off
To the Vegas heights, away
To dance and drink
and kill.

I’ll send you off,
You great green bird,
If only so you’ll think of me once
Beneath that little black dress
While you dance, and drink,
and kill.

-April 1st, 2010

All you give me is war
And I speak nonsense
nothing less, nothing more
but for why and I clamor the pink inky
hollows of my brain
but I don’t really care for searching
So instead I hear beauty
and see beauty
Ulrike!!!
Another wasted piece of grace.
Another wasted piece of love.

-April 5th, 2010

Josh won.

Notes

June 14th, 2010

Crazy eights at Dixon
with an uneven deck
shouting and laughing
Searching for the big hit
like Hollywood,
or Broadway.

---

Old light and new days
and I'm calling in sick
because of the nights
where nothing
seems to go right
but it doesn't really
have to
And the woman with
Red lips is wearing
a short skirt so
I steal glances at
her legs and try to
remember
what a woman's touch
feels like.
All I want is a beer
and a burger, and
occasional laughs
from good guys.

---

This place is beautiful
all mousy half red
and the lights
twinkle fade tired
love into a small
small chasm among
the road-
this is the life
towns and cities
for all and every-
one

The poem I said I would send you last night but didnt get to.

The poem I said I would send you last night but didnt get to.
What is the time?
Good miss, my heart is a drawing crayon red
But it never got taped to the fridge.
Haha.
What is the time? time, right now?
haha.
Stupid bullet-ridden clock holes can’t tell me love
I am felled.
Death, I am, mistress, with all my love I’ve lost.
What time is it?

I just want to know,
The brave annotated drug mutterings
And I fly high kite nights
Searching in the car battery fast lane
For the time.

haha.
What time is it?
Midnight mistress with my throat cut
But there is no blood, no monster, no soft light
love breath on your neck
kiss my death stone lips.
I hate this in my only love.

Sad sorrow half past noon time drunk
With a stone top tumbler.
I am no time for searching.
Haha.
Midnight girl with your noon time pushes.
I love you in my hatred
Where is what time?

What time is it?
Ha.

Leave no I can’t
In my last desire full of love hate midnight
Matter flat in my dead heart.
But I’ll wait.

Small smoke. Big eyes. I love you.
What time is it right now?
Ha.

-February 10th, 2010

Just for good measure

It would always be elsewhere.
Thats the third blare of sirens I've heard today,
And as I sit in my car
Soaked in sweat from the California sun,
Smoking my last cigarette and
reading the immortal words of Hunter S.,
I think,
"It'd be damn nice to go for a swim right now."

-March 15th, 2010