I.


Hate dwells and creeps and oozes from every crack left unattended, from your tear ducts, and your finger tips, and the pores on your cheeks. Hate slips it's bony fingers under your skin , let me see it, I know it's here, let me rip and tear and taste your heart. As small and unnoticed as it may be, I know it's there, and I know it's delicious. It scrapes brittle fingernails across the muscle and tissue holding all your love, and sorrow inside, no one's going to hurt you anymore, no one's coming, no one's there, you can put it all away, I'll be your smile now, I promise, i promise. It peels back your skin ,it's been so long since I've had a bath like this, so long, too long. your blood fills it's nostrils, and it's veins, and it digs, and it peels, and it rips it's way further,

                                                      further,
                                                        
                                                                always a little further.



The way I see it. # 0108


I sometimes wonder how you would look in a jazz bar. I picture you leaning against the wall with one of those mysterious hats pulled way over your face, like your too ashamed, or too dignified, to look anybody in the eyes. I picture you reaching into your pocket and pulling out one of those short silver lighters and lighting up a damn cigarette right there in the middle of the bar, just leaning against the wall, all mysterious like.

        And sometimes I even picture you laying on the bar, drunk as hell. You'd grab the bartenders jacket and you'd pull him way down, so as you could not only look into his eyes, but catch a little of his soul as it creeped it's way out in his breath and his movements, and you'd ask "Is it time for me to leave yet, is it my time yet Jack?" He'd pat your shoulder, in good hospitality no doubt, "It's time to go home bud, you need to get out of here." And I picture you smiling and dusting off the front of your jacket, and leaving. Tipping the waitress and fumbling your way out the front door and into a taxi cab.

                      In a jazz bar no one's worried about you smoking a cigarette or talking to the bartender. But you, oh you'd make them worry. You'd swivel the ice cubes against the thin glass sides of the cup, and you'd stare straight into that light brown liquor , and you'd ask the waiter in one of the tiniest voices, one of the shyest voices, " Is it my time yet Jack?" He wouldn't answer, he'd finish wiping down the counter, and cleaning the spit-filled peanut shells off the floor. You'd tap your foot, in rhythm  with the clanking, the tinging, the swirling ice cubes, and you'd ask again, a little louder this time, he didn't quite hear you. "Is it my time yet Jack?" he's look up this time, and he'd nod, maybe not understanding the question, or maybe just too caught up in the idea of getting away from that slow jazzy piano, and those quick high-heeled waitresses, to a family and a home, and a puppy, kind of like the one you used to have, kind of like ol' Bernice. I picture you finishing the drink and shoving your hands in your pockets and walking over to him, leaning in real close, right next to his ear, almost whispering, almost talking. "Is it your time ? Huh ol' Jack?" He wouldn't say anything, he'd just look at you. You'd walk out laughing. Oh, you'd have made them worry.



II.

The trees die
and the flowers die
that gerbil that your sister got in the 8th grade, it's died
and your favorite orange cat, the one that got hit by the car, well she's died too

Walls fall down
skin rips open ;
people die

Memories die
and  hopes die
and dreams die

I'll die,
and someday you'll die too

Everyone breaths,
and everyone eats, and everyone sleeps

Just be thankful that you can run,
and play, and cry, and learn,
and hear, and walk, and see

Life.always.loses
and.everyone.always.dies




III.


(I'm saving them, every singe one. I open and close my mouth, and out they fly, but I'm so quick. I catch them, and I keep them. In jars, and in cases, and in my stomach. Mostly in  my stomach. The aching and the beating and the ripping, it reminds me so much of you. So much of the bloody sheets, and the way you would whisper in my ears to calm my shaking. I still shake, you told me I would stop, that as soon as it was over, the shaking would stop. Show me the inside, I want to know what you're hiding from me.

                         oh god, I still shake.)



The way I see it # 0113

; Other times I picture you sitting on a city bus.

                                          I picture your car keys on  your desk at home and mud caking the bottom of your 80$ vintage shoes, the ones you just had to have. You would've stopped off at the corner store on your way no doubt, so you'd be sitting there on those bright blue seats, joe in hand with your nose stuck in the creases of the Daily. You, being you, would not be paying any kind of actual attention once you made it past the obituaries, but you'd notice the old lady in front of you. You'd look her up and down, studying her purple shoes, and her small handbag. You'd smile. You'd picture her, just as I'm picturing you, going to her grandchildren and her husband and her dogs. You'd get up and tuck your Daily under your arm and grab your joe. I picture you bending down and handing her a 20$ bill, "You've dropped this ma'am" you'd say. You'd smile and exit the bus, and you'd forget all about her.

                         And other times, on that same city bus, I picture you with your feet lounged all over the place. Always picking the most annoying places. On the back of the business man's chair, in the empty seat next to you where the old lady with the purple shoes wanted to sit, across the isle, so anyone walking past would either have to mention something or go around, anywhere you could place them. And I picture you reading the Daily, and sipping your god damn joe. I picture that same business man, the one you put your mud caked vintage shoes all over, turning around and saying something to you. Oh he'd have the kindest voice, and he'd ask in the kindest way, and he'd spill your joe all down the front of your god damn shirt, in the kindest way, of course. I picture you being furious, irrate, and storming, and stomping, and yelling at the poor man. I picture you grabbing his throat and shoving his face into the puddle of coffee left to seep into your twead pants. And I picture you grabbing his arms, and digging your nails under the skin, and tearing and tearing and tearing, until you can see his white and his pink and his red. And I picture you smiling.


IV.

But I think of you in the same sense really. When I lay awake I picture you with bright blue eyes, and long soft hair, with a soft voice, and soft lips, and a soft soul. I feel the sweet smell of your shoulder blades and your fingertips, and I see the brightness of your smile and the virgin leap in your step, and I think Why, oh why this one I wrap my fragile fingers around my torso and a grip and I tear and I plead with my insides to stay. I fight the hole from forming in my chest and I cry to the angels let it stop, let it stop, let it stop, let it stop until I have no voice, or air, or strength to fight it, and I slip away.

My subconscience won't let him get to you, wont let him take you. I can not see the dull lifeless orbs screaming from your eye sockets, nor can I feel your cracked lips, or all the rough cuts painting your wrists. You are tall, and you are beautiful

                                ;in my dreams.

V.

I feel the breath condensing apon my shoulderblads, and my collarbones, and my earlobes  ; I can feel your grip suffocating the red from reaching my fingertips and my wrists ; and i watch as my rosy tinted skin fades to an opaque white...


VI.

" Where are you?"

" I don't know. "

" What does it look like ? "

" I don't know"

" Is there anyone with you? "

" I don't know! It's so dark. It's wet, and it's cold. I'm so scared James, James please."

" I can't hear you, speak up, stay with me ...
               Sam..
                                 SAM!                        "




The way i see it. # 1010

Today I picture you in a classroom. I see you sitting at your desk, head half down and your fingers guiding your graphite across a piece of bone white lined paper 3+3(6+21x+3)(2x+2y+4)= ; blank. I picture the sides of your margins covered in I love yous and hearts and smiles and hope. You carefully etch each line and shadow into place and I picture your fingers twirling and moving and forming a depiction of beauty only the gods could see - the ones you don't believe in. I picture you taking that bone white lined paper and shoving it deeps within yourself; peeling back your skin and setting it within that black half-empty cavern of a heart. You pat your chest as you fold the flaps back over themselves and you smile, picking up your books and shuffleing your vintage shoes out the door and down the stairs, simple as that.

        My minds knows better though. Later that day, in a different class, your paper isnt so clean, and that cavern isn't so empty, and your smile isn't- well it's just not there. I picture your pencil moving not only by the margins, but along the bottom, across the top, through the middle, over the lines; mixing, blending, bleeding. I see tears and pain and blood this time. Your eyes are glazed over and your mouth is turned down into a tight scowl, a sign of anger; I've learned that one too many times... Once more you pull back your skin and you go to shove your creation within your self, but she turned around, and she caught you. She sees your red, and your pink, and your black; No one sees your black and gets away. I picture you slapping the skin back to it's original form and almost snarling at her; your whites were always, always your best canvas... Your jump and hit and scratch and tear at her. "Where's your black. Don't be greedy, I shared. Where is it, where is it !!! "


VII.

Do you remember when I found that conversation on your computer? You wanted those pictures so badly, you wanted to see her white and all the crevices modern society hides from us now a days. You wanted to disobey the dress code, and disobey your imagination, and disobey my trust. Do you remember lifting weights in your grage and hearing me slam the door, watching me run down the street. Do you remember following me back to my house and sitting in the neighborhood for at least an hour until I would come outside and talk to you. I was so mad, I was so hurt. Do you remember hugging me and holding me close while i struggled, and hit, and gave up, then i was crying on your shoulder and you were saying something . . . " I don't want to play baseball by myself " you said , " Don't leave. " And I didn't. I hugged you and I kissed you and I watched you walk down the street and around the corner and back to your house and I went inside and I felt. .

                                               . . I felt.

The way i see it # 1010.5

Some nights though, I picture you in a completely different atmosphere altogether. The people and the chances have faded and you're left alone; desperate, famished, aching.

Sometimes you're in a field. A long, dead, dry field. I picture you in dirty tattered clothing, with soot under your nails, and knots in your hair and in your viens and in your throat. You're wonderin in circles; following the prints of your vintage shoes in search of hope and humanity. I picture your knees giving out  and your eyes glazing over, and within a matter of moments you're on the ground just like I was ; with your palms beneath you supporting your weight, and your back arched above you creating the slope the trench, and your tears and your dinner beneath you, and around you, and on you. You heave and lunge and arch your body this way and that way, trying to dispel the poison flowing through your organs; your heart, and your lungs, and your liver. I picture you wiping the blood from the corners of your mouth and grasping one dirty soort palm over your chest. Your face contorts and all of a sudden your pearly whites are headed to the ground and -


      I picture you walking this time, gayly, briskly. You have a shovel over your shoulder and those pearly whites flashing. I picture you reaching in your pocket and pressing 3, talk- on your cell phone.

" Where are you?" , you smirk.

" Sam! " you smile

Thumping in the background* , you laugh and don't look back.