the coin was loud as it shimmied to its inevitable halt. finally flat against the tilted table at which we anxiously sat.

still we kept counting. expecting more to fall. 

eventually, we abandoned the precarious whims of arithmetic. determiend to discover a more generous defeat. 

bargaining with the edge. our faces plastered to the wind. while gravity undid its zippers. 

the end stout and fickle. as it spent our dwindling choices. 

the window was soft and unsure. full of faces and shame. 

and all the obvious confessions. 

time is a weak menace. all faded make-up and failed parodies. 

we've been thieves for so long that there's nothing left to steal. 

alcoholicpoet.com

a poem about the nature of weakness. 


wear the wind.

the smothering contradictions

that put their faces in our blood. 

rebuff the tired poverty of flesh. 

let all their hideous stories grow stale. 

be born in the choke of death. 

alive because we must. 

nourished on simple lies. 

wild animals tamed by the claws of emptiness. 


Filed under: November 2024 Sad Poems

by alcoholicpoet.com

a dark poem for the vagabond within us all. 


the horizon stumbles over gravity.

more perspective than condition.

fragile sticks in the fists of change.

its eternal equation still solving for what we are to become.

lost is not a place. nor is found.

we assemble our destinations from what remains of ourselves after we arrive.

falling is a map that boils under our skin. full of all the little lies that infect us.


we are nomads. wandering inside ourselves.

searching for an exit.



Filed under: November 2024 Sad Poems

alcoholicpoet.com

sometimes it's prudent to let the reader decide what a poem  means. 


soft puzzles negotiate the edge. time is a stray dog. scratching at the backdoor of our minds.

wilted fangs. scarred flesh. the leash is shortest when in it's in someone else's hands.

spare the remainder. release the colors. the callous arithmetic of hungry flesh.

small words hold their breath. life gambles with their meanings.

intersections quietly approach us. all empty tuxedos. and songs we can barely remember.

we find our gods in the deepening cracks. stiffened by the prospect that the fissure is the sum.

tangled puppets. devoted to the lies that make them dance.


Filed under: October 2024 Poetry

we languish in the severity of the void. ripe and losing our grip on the detached pantomime that life presents. the sharp intensity of desire. simmering in time's graceless stench.

the mind's scale. struggles to measure our nothing. the body's pendulum sways. simultaneously heavy and weightless. the truth interrupts our surrender. with curious promises of a surface above.

the hours convene to discuss our progress. sorting flesh and choices into equal piles. assuming all are worthless.

it's not far between this life and the next. just one small bridge i'm afraid to cross.

parables of skin tell us. in hungry highways. and empty bridges. the distance tantamount. to our fetid  epiphanies. our little time machines can only take us so far.

practical flesh and hysterical connections. the epidemic of want eventually destroys us.

the turns betray. the miles infect. we're travellers always.of the worst kind. lacking the integrity of a destination. bitter hitchhikers on grace's desolate expanse.

how close we are. how far we've come. the dull razors upon which we dance.

the chemistry of when begins to laugh. but we've heard that joke before.

The distance overtook her. A wealth of miles that were all, but worthless. She didn't care for the irony of it and the irony didn't particularly care for her. The years hadn't changed her much, but the changes that did occur were deeply embedded.

Tomorrow was always the enemy in a war that would never be over.

The days and nights would bend and fold. Creasing like paper at each moment of expectation or epiphany. A worn and random tapestry of the minutia and catastrophes that comprise a person's life.

Beautiful and hideous in every possible way.


***

Change had never had any mercy on her. It was always abrupt and brutal. It came the same way her thoughts always did. Like thunderstorms in the thick of the summer. Quick and violent. The event itself lasting only minutes, but its effects profound and eternal.

The last flood had been particularly destructive. Nothing was the same anymore. Everything was lost or broken, inside and out.

Each day time would stick in its dirty needle and suck out a little bit more of her life. She could feel the reservoir was getting low. It wouldn't be long now.

***

She had loved only once. It had almost been too much for her.

***

Alone, she thought to herself, was the only place she'd ever really belonged. Anywhere else she had always been a trespasser. Time with anyone else had always been borrowed. Her solitude was the only thing that truly belonged to her or ever would. She cherished it. She despised it.

She had been lonely once when she was much younger. It was a small box inside her mind in which she locked herself up with only her thoughts. Years later she wasn't lonely anymore. But she never left that box. She was still in there.

***

She awoke to the smell of sunscreen and blueberry donuts. Strangers faces above her looking very concerned. Rapidly her mind took inventory of her extremities, flesh, organs, bones. All still there, except for a small chunk from one finger. It was missing. Her blood escaped furiously through this aberrant vacancy in her flesh.

She stood up. There were murmurs and gasps questioning her physical soundness.

She only cared about her finger. She only wanted to make the red stream flowing from it stop.

She stood in the middle of the road, surrounded by a cautious crowd of would be rescuers. The traffic waited patiently as the signal cycled from red to green and back again for what seemed like forever.

Various people asked the usual questions you would ask in this situation. She remained focused on her finger. Cradling it in her t-shirt. Fascinated by how easily it pushed blood out of her body. There was no pain. Only the vague sensation that it should hurt and soon would.


***

The road turned. As roads often do. Limping off in a wild spasm of directions. None of which seemed to lead anywhere at all. She was okay with that. Destinations are unreliable at best.

The morning erupted in its most arduous summer perfection. Warm and hungry and full of miles yet to be spent. A bold cacophony of skin had charmed them. They lay there consumed by their own appetites. Bitten apples bargaining with the remaining poison in their crumbling flesh.

The angles flirted with their task. Simple whispers peddling the void. like a buried treasure.

There needn't be an end. It was always there. In the gap between them. in the swaying bridge that dared them to cross it against the stiffening winds.

---

Her wounds healed. As wounds are given to do. The gap in her finger replaced with thickening scabs. And the notion that life is the vacuum. and we are only the feather within. falling  at the same speed as all those boulders.

she didn't say because the choice wasn't hers. she didn't ask because the answer wasn't what she wanted to hear.

the miles found her easily enough. lost in the hunger of the distance. a precipice of skin. the edge sharp and eager as she watched the world unfold in fraying ribbons. gravity as confident as it's ever been.

love still wet cement. blood still bending.

i wandered into this oblivion between how and why. and now i find i belong there. the skeleton of a flame  in stiffening darkness.

the words swell in my chest, but i am silent. the distance barks. snarls. bares teeth i never knew it had.

it's far. i always knew it was. still. i kept going. determined to be lost again. the memory told its lies and that's all i needed.

the truth simmers under my breath. foul with whispers never uttered.

there's no measure. no doorway. nor any place i've been.

it's all just windows. hungry eyes peering in. a long series of broken glass. and the wounds

it inflicts.

the surface echoes in a smooth chorus of what has been. the wind laughs at our rigid paths. the road shakes its fist at the obstinate itinerary of touch.

the flow of the atoms. a fierce current. unseen waterfalls. the art of drowning shits out its portrait.

the journey whispers. the distance chokes. the farther i go. the closer i get.

the machine. the moving parts. metal gods and gasoline ghosts. raiding the attic for discarded playthings.

a broken lock. a rotting door. all the windows missing.

the skid. the abrupt end. the tread. the signs. navigating the past. a maze of empty syringes. that still reek of paradise.

the reaction. the pantomime. asphalt and condoms in a sweet slurry. a vortex of skin dares her to remember.

simple stops. in the traffic that endures us. obvious pauses. in the skin that wears these eager archers. bones break. that is what they do. when confronted with the agendas of wandering ghosts.

clouds and thunderstorms. on the edge of when. the paths of strays. like broken kisses. and little dips in the fence.

her touch is eyelashes bleeding. knowing strangers. in their other skins. wearing the void like ball gowns. dancing to the rhythm of the silence. time's beveled corners. as blunt as ever. failing to indicate any course. the sting of the remedy is far worse than the sickness.

the sober of her devotion overwhelms. fetid despots of bone and blood assemble their armies. torn jigsaw pieces tender their puzzles. in deep cuts and worn folds.

the light turns. the bridge gapes open. we yield to the inappropriate mechanics of touch.

that is our strength and our burden.

play soft, fetid charms of waiting and impatient monsters. grip the tender scabs on shivering dolls. the stiffening air. the thinning corners. the chaos in their whispers difficult to ignore. the failing minutes grey enough for us all.

no sound. just engines in the darkness. rabid predators stripped of their claws. pacing at the base of utopia. quite disappointed. she folds. she creases. but does not tear. there is ink. and edges. and thundering margins. still the path is no different. and the edge remains just as sharp.

the narrow veins of time struggle to accomdate all the posions I choose to embrace. gentle tornadoes visit the truth upon waning ghosts.

a frenzy of skin. a panic of faces. time's appetite determined by our desperation.

the foul atom spoils for the stagnant nucleus. the weighted skeleton struggles against the skin. qeustionging the shape of every villain.

soft sores on the lips of the clock. flaunt their pus. a simple infection of touch. slow to heal. the trembling steps whisper. gentle songs. of gnarled fangs and beaten predators. the end is quiet. and abrupt. for everyone. each of us.

pale cinderellas negotiating with their princes. imagining words are enough.

the long rope. empty at the end. unravels toward the sun. ready to reveal the black. in silent fits. small and large. as everything is  from one moment to the next.

lingering choices. the throbbing wrist. the deafening colors. tomorrow shouts. yesterday only whispers.the simple sin of silence draws its picture in the corpses.

short stories. long faces. alone finds her confessions. bleak as ever. bold as blood. the cuts not healing. the blade still eager.


the quiet surrender. rising. like so many colors. fading. her dismal catalyst. her discarded dress. the poetry of nothings. flesh sick with a fever of when.

telling the red. in coughs and scratches. her dirty glasses. her hungry eyes. eager puppets with so many broken zippers. it's cold still. even in this fire. pieces. the jaws of the puzzle find the center. neglected the edges have their own wars.

ugly ducklings paint their mirrors. in thick asides. the story chases, but falls behind. the machine rumbles and churns. confident with rage. Time boasts and brags. Shy predators circle.

So many folds. An oragami of moments. Revise the shape. Betray the math. Of two dimensional lovers.

The deaf colors try to listen. The mute chaos strains to speak. As everything converges. in a mistrial of flesh.

simple boxes. their dusty lids. a poetry of proximity and confession. a labor of gentle madesss. the ugly duckling alive in a beautfiful finish.

Her grey ocean still licks the edges. Her sinking boat still leverages the wind. drifting. the storm is easy. It's the afterwards that stings.

empty dreams spoil her sleep. she lingers in the ether between worlds. shedding the heavy char of life.

a weak fire in the shuffles the future and misdeals.

the pattern is soft. tempted kittens struggle to control their claws. chasing the weather. in tremors and apologies. simple courtesies too sharp for skin. bitter authors on their last chapters. shy devils bargain with the flames. for small fragments of heaven.

a deep chasm listens to the music and then it is lost.

walking on the grass. moist with the new day's tears. the edge of the world in pencil. let's her erase. but not forget. earnest aliens. their broke antennae.play with perspective. how close far away is.

the dillgent lover. the stumbling shadow. the relentless hunger game of the human condition.

how we measure distance in drops of blood.

caution the stones. louder still. solves the darkness. in fits of silence. the edge approaches. charmingly close. the moment scratches. the future stabs. gravity swallows each in turn.

her words yellower still. fermenting. a quantum chaos. we are undone by both our future and our past. it's always changing. now is all we have.

screams and malice in piss and rainbows. open bridges teasing the ocean.

the simple lies that always become truth. like monkeys reciting bible quotes. to antagonize Darwin's ghost.

easy puzzles on the cusp of her skin. bare their solutions in quivering tones. alive decides her as each momemt confronts. a jigsaw of logic with edges made of flesh.

her hurried math mistakes invitation for commitment. her ugly experminent mangles the maze. lost again. among familiar walls. same journey. different path.

gentle souvenirs. panicked prizes. the world erupts in predators and pacifists. the broad nostalgia of soiled flesh. her awkward dolls. tiny hitlers. her scraping hours. solvent martyrs. in stories mostly dead. trembling veins. whsiper the locomotive. in vomit and spit.

tender lies solve the skin. in crippled metaphors. the delicate monsters that color men.

prying rainbows from bloody fists.

the cold slumber listens. muscles whince with the fraud. of futures fetched from the fists of gods.

quiet masons fashion their walls. tears as their mortar. gravity becomes her. stern captain of  this sinking ship.

no leesons. nor hollow math to defend. the chrnoic suicide of touch. as it forgets. the teeth that bite.

soft blacks surrender to the deeper greys. if such a thing could be. knots in the thread. holes eager to open. long shadows bend to release. time comes in chokes and needles. a furtive drug more arrogant than effective.

chasing the edge of the paper. hemorrhaging ink.

time speaks in riddles. flesh answers in numbers. she chases away the monsters. like any good dog would. but is more defeated by their retreat. empty plastic arms. discarded dresses. spoil crippled dolls for their barren heavens.

the future gives chase. a rabid dog full of froth and kill. the future takes us each. big shits and little pisses.heavy daggers in paper fists.

quiet stories whisper below the skin. measuring victory in frail wars.

life is a series of mirrors. all of them broken.

colors in the void. swell the sparks. fire makes its maps across desolate terrain. anxious flowers in a garden of darkness.

power solves for y. intent resolves to x. the snow like a million tiny fortune tellers predicts we will be cold. lost in a merciless series of selves. more intimate with irony that we would care to know. definedby callous storms that remind us our humanity. judged by swelling oceans that insist we are too close.

numbers are stern. scissors with a purchase on paper. jagged ribbons at the base of the volcano. wear the ash. bathe in the lava. embrace disaster on their own terms.

the world undulates. swayed by the rage of the winds.thick with soldiers. 
a crude tourniquet racing to tie off immeasurable wounds.

lucky liars sup on their instincts. beautiful ends finish the sun. in choked pistols and hollow ammo. the hours stumble onward. in their defiant vertigo. carrying buckets full of darknesss into places where there used to be homes.

deadpans and serial surgeons. the paradox of thought. as skin makes its inevitable trespasses. easy to forgive. hard to understnad. broken limbs sweep the ground to the rush of traffic. blind matadors fucking the horns of the bull. No injuries. Just decisions. On how much to bleed.

the edge comes to her. says it's waiting.

pale ducks count their feathers. while the woodsman sharpens his axe.

manic stories awash in a cliche of touch. the temperate mayhem of pretending to wait for what you know will never come.

lazy bridges and lovers mimic the ocean. rising and falling in a tireless repetition. the smaller the hole, the more it seems to lose.

the blunted hammer speaks softly. negotiating with the nails. the broken zipper has its poetry. and a broken heart has its scales. but not everything can be measured. even gravity has its mercies



the world has its outlines. it's for us to fill in. the edge calls out. and she is tempted to grab it. the broken math of skin keeps counting.

impossible trajectories. claws in the surface of the sun. empty hours transition. Burning stairways to heaven.

the mortar sets. cold and rigid. grinning paste. and sharp tongues. taste the white on the walls. the tempting doors. the curious ceilings. the missing floors.

there is duration to question. and there is distance to blame. simple games of stones and sticks. lengthy tournaments of batters and cages.

the sour math that time does. on fingers. toes and faces. fractions of gods as impotent as we are. lawn chairs and sprinklers under the swelter of suspicion. beautiful madmen. ripe with mania. tear open the clock. and watch as the minutes bleed out.

the end swallows. softly. farther still. it presses. the road unravelling like cheap carpet. the path undressing. like so many whores. gelatin nooses on paper gallows. violence makes sense of senseless things.

atoms prove how small we are. while Fission demonstrates how powerful small can be.