3 poems

the roland taverner of rock and roll 

listening to the new why? record with the taste of two 12 oz red bulls and vomit and duty free rez cigarettes in the back of my throat
im scared to see her roommates, spending the week listening through the walls.
all our bedrooms can be so imperial.

they call it friendly fire.

im spending whole interviews talking bout how much i love medication as if that will make it work
a nurse walking by my bed mid seizure at wyckoff heights yelled to another, "it's faking it." how could she have possibly seen my instagram bio?

doubt can be the foundation of your relation to yourself, if you allow it.

its called getting paid to drive vans in service of concepts
its called being half recognized on the train
its called erotic slapboxing for drunks
its called googling how to countersue in the psych ward
its called self imposed lolcowing from ages 14 to 34
its called a million djs playing to a million empty rooms on a million thursday nights
its called real or perceived abandonment
its called being in a line of military sons
its called pretending youre both boys
its called Narragansetts in the cuck chair
its called a place to marry strangers
its called an early bed
its called 
(sorry, sorry, loud)
its called a point where most people would give up, but youre too stupid to, and thats okay. some wouldn't call it stupid.
a former lover, mid ██████, suggested that i go to the doctor.

there isn't always a lesson.

sometimes it just happens to some people for no reason.
illness begets illness, i guess
maybe my gift is holding hyperbole about the bay city rollers in one hand and the smell of someone's breath who does not come around anymore in the other.
even if you slip up,
they call it friendly fire.

song for emerson b.

if we pretend we're drunk, they wont suspect we're faggots; if we say too much, is that really a fault on our part?

going to sleep next to you with the smell of me still on my lips.

i want to listen to animal collective live bootlegs with you off of laptop speakers while we do the crossword

and i want to i want to i want to i want to

you know what it takes to finish me

we all believe in thoughts formed as pure, but...

i want to i want to i want to i want to

read cannery row i want to recline the chair 

i want to 

i want to be able to get out of bed, i want to smell your hair, i want to never close my eyes,

to hold you and shear you and wear you

when i say "god, youre so beautiful," the entire sentence is addressed to you

if we pretend we're drunk, they wont suspect we're trying; if we say too much, that might be a fault on our part.

all i feel is guilt and love

all i do is sing, cry, and fuck

hypotheticals hang in the air, your breath takes me

starlite walker texas ranger 2

up on allegory mountain up on plato road,

i deleted starlite Walker from my downloads folder

im a horse with blinders with binders full of women, pinned down bound i said to her: "what are you gonna do, fuck me to death?"

"youd like that too much," and as if divined: sitcom applause.

i had a bed in today and im not sure if it was for peace

i think it was mostly for killing myself

i took a look at my face and saw forgetting to shave

i took a look at my face and you left the running lights on

i took a look at you left the running lights on and saw more more more "I" statements

i took a look at my downloads folder and didnt see starlite walker 

i took a look at my work and saw john ashbery chemically castrated

I, Old man took a look at my life you're a lot like i was

24 and there's so much more, right? do you promise?

i took a look at you.

you left the running lights on.

the car wont start.

the battery is dead.