Inching Towards the Typer

i'm forgetting what it's like,
to love a woman,
to actually be trusting
of myself
towards other people.
i'm forgetting what it's like,
to share experiences with people,
to go home feeling complete.
and i'm forgetting what it's like,
to be sober
and deal
with
outward pushing
and inward
pulsations.
i'm forgetting what it's like,
to be human
in any form.
going through the motions
and pretending that my self preservation,
is of the uttermost importance.
i forgot why i was built,
so i wander aimlessly,
through hallways,
up strange alleyways,
reeking of piss,
down corridors,
that were once closed to me
as a young bastard
but now open to me,
as a aging, dying hyena.
so i ravenously devour,
anything put in front of me,
dependent on drugs,
fixated on fine young woman,
who will only prolong
my desires.
we're a strange breed.
i'm forgetting what it's like
to be hugged
and appreciated.
this must mean i'm becoming human
just
like
all
of you
machines
marching
to the beat
of big brothers drum
sleepwalking
is better
than just sleeping
i just wish we could sleep together.
a prince in his drywall kingdom
and a princess
getting her feet rubbed.

For the Women

i don't blame you,
for being what you are.
perhaps in your head,
rationale is different.
perhaps in your head,
the moves you make,
don't hurt anyone,
and make sense,
more than this world.
you are beautiful creatures.
capable of bringing a man down
to his knees
and withdrawing into himself,
but we cannot show you that,
you've been blessed with beauty,
and we have been burdened with a brain.
our thoughts are constantly racing,
changing
manipulating
figuring
working
and fighting
we are machines made for one specific purpose
be it
writing
cooking
fucking
joking
or
bumming.
i think,
perhaps,
we look at ourselves as men
with a penis
and women
with a vagina (such a beautiful word)
and not as humans
with feelings
and emotions
i stick my penis
in your vagina
and everything else
is rudimentary.
simple and clean,
not too messy,
if it is all taken at face value,
you can never lose that inner being,
if there is one to begin with.
but if i stare into your eyes
and express a single emotion,
i am automatically canceled
out
of
our equation.
i appear weak,
timid,
and too open.
having to be Cary Grant all the time is
exhausting
but you love it,
don't you???
you ask for so much.
that's the finer point in life,
asking for everything,
but never getting it.
that longing feeling
that sticks in your side,
is like the thunderbolt from god
shoved right up your ass
it hurts
but awakens your heart

He Who Flings His Shit at Others

to the men out there,
fighting the wrath
in forgotten dim rooms.
to the men out there
scribbling in their notebooks,
getting laughed at.
to the men out there,
who squirt ketchup on their eggs,
and pour hot sauce on their spaghetti.
i can see you now,
fighting with yourself,
as you eat that cold fried chicken
over the trash can,
or if you're a classy gentleman,
you eat over the sink.
there's more of you out here,
it's not just you,
or me,
there's thousands of us roaming the streets,
in and out of bars,
every night.
feeling bad for ourselves
disappointed in everyone,
searching for that next high,
that next rush of fear,
as paranoia strips us of everything,
and our throats are scraped dry,
from our constant agonizing screams.
you're not the only one.
feel joy in knowing,
that others share what you're doing,
what you're experiencing,
and ultimately,
what will make you
tougher than iron.
through all this,
you will walk around with steel reinforced balls,
and stand up to every task
with a rational head,
and a good heart.
to the men out there,
who feel
that your books,
that bottle,
and your brain will save you.
they will.
but you have to still leave a piece,
to share with others,
choose wisely who you share with,
because some of them,
will displace your hate,
with blindness.
so now
as you wallow in yourself
drowning yourself,
let a smile creep across your face,
in knowing,
that there is solidarity out here for you,
but we are a vital part of a secret society,
we do not talk,
do not acknowledge,
it's merely a head nod,
if that,
as if saying:
"hey,
i get it."

the Mid-Break

as the nights come down
bleeding into delirium
the wives all lock their doors
and the husbands load their guns
as the children lay in bed
with feeding tubes hooked to their mouths.
the teenagers make it out the windows
and into parks
meeting with others to neck behind trees
to let their hands wander all over
in excitement
oh, joy, the frail whimpers of optimism
as his hands nervously claw at her bra clasp
as the nights continue to blend
after a long while, the tv's get turned out
and books get closed
people wrap their arms, entangled, under felt sheets
melting together,
becoming one single entity
breathing simultaneously
and i sit
in front of the machine
recording all of it
full of envy
feeling empty
as a marked man.
and i'm left
out on the stoop
waiting for the mid-break
that small moment,
when the night becomes as possibly cold as it can,
the frost has formed on cars, leaves, my cigarette
and even me
shaking from this
excited by it
and then it happens
that first small light coming over the hills
first beam bringing warmth
like a hot sexual breath on the back of your neck
and i tingle all over
as it unfolds
nothing
will duplicate this moment
and i hold it close to me
wrapping my arms around myself
i am content with knowing
that this happens
everyday
and it is my moment
for me
a present to myself.
but i am also ridden with sadness,
knowing that so many people
everywhere
are asleep at this time
so they can make it to work
before the boss catches them coming in the back door...
getting up
and stepping inside
i push the button on the coffee maker
hearing the first "putt putt"
and stream of luscious liquid hitting glass
and i stop,
think to myself,
"someone else was watching that with me, i wonder if they felt it too?"
do you feel?
i know i do.