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wolfintheskye:

I Spent Ten And I Won Ten

I am the thirty year old rusted unused ashtray clipped into a bowling lane projector,

Loose in the mold and depravity and desperate need to be spoken to softly.

Yesterday, drinking bottom shelf Perseco and grapefruit juice listening to house music in a steeple room outside Northampton. I can hear the rabbits eating hay and shuddering. I blow smoke into an old deer skull and laugh until my stomach feels atomic.

Fingers tired and bloody and cut from late, late mailroom nights. I miss night shift because the whole world is asleep, it’s just me and the truckers and a bottle of cheap bitter caffeine pills from Walgreens: the way it’s supposed to be and heaven. The sun hides until 7am smoke break and I watch it peek it’s head out over a sea of mail trucks. Nothing is that beautiful and ridiculous at the same time.

I sense the winter months taking hold of many people’s heads. Happiness dies with the New Year. New England fills your ribcage with ice and your breaths get shorter. Maybe it pushes pain down deeper.

Good to see P. eating again. Daze and loss and heartbreak. No ones died yet. Things are okay.

wolfintheskye:

Twenty years like watermarks on my skin and I’m nearly another one ahead.

I guess it’s been a long time since I wrote one of these.

I notice that the lines are longer because around me the lines are longer and

Now I have more to say.

I am not California. I am not dripping agave and blue, I am someone else.

You form in every stream and river: the marks along my palms

Sweating from the “No A/C in here, babe.”

And God do you make me sweat.

Bright eyes and soft music and light scratches and I hold your face but

This isn’t enough.

Loose teeth, loose leaf teas, born to suffer and I’d probably get your name tattooed on my arm

For some god damned reason other than, I don’t know.

I want to go a million miles a minute but your hand is on my chest and your lips on my cheek

and you say “Take a breath.”

I do.

Long car rides two hours long wanting to cry thinking,

“Am I crazy?”

I am. But that’s not the point.

There is something here, I know I know I know I know.

There is something strange and euphoric and desperate waiting minutes

Days Seconds,

And I keep looking at the ETA on bright shining phone in sunlight in car dripping sweat,

to finally see you.

Honey, dripping. Covering my hands and sticky and that’s what I’m left with

Alone at home thinking, thinking,

“She should fucking be here. I should be there. This should be it.”

It’s 6am and there is wheat toast on the counter covered in peanut butter

And I want to watch you wake up.

Every moment I am melting, every moment I am looking at you in fiction.

Unconvinced that you are real and we are real

And I see you again Pink on my wrist and fall into Hope.

I fall into happiness and “How can it get better?”

We sit on riverdock and I watch you smoke, drifting into the air

And think nothing I’ve seen has been so beautiful

Looking at the forest sprawling everywhere and then you

And I’m gone into light and lake and lust and love.

Big hugs and bigger hearts and wanting.

I’m okay without bedsheets, I’m okay without big open sky.

I’m okay with you.

I am not California. I am not dripping agave and blue, I am someone else-

I am yours.

I am trying to be virtuous, angelic and in these dimly lit rooms I am wandering.

I am hopeful and catastrophic,

I am full of hell and hold these stolen bargaining chips close to the bottom of my black denim pockets, tapping them every so often in the New England heat I am wandering.  

I am straight legged jeans, I am not my possessions, I am footloose in the parking lots remembering looking; it was there right fucking there that I smoked my first Newport cigarette with Dillinger and he is dead now.

I still don’t know how he died, I still don’t know Howl by heart, I still don’t know where I’m going or what to do but there’s a weekly payment attached to my freedom and I’m decaying like lilies in the drought.

I held you. I felt your skin for the first time.

You are the moonlight that creeps into my bedroom window, the beauty of haze, the singing of wind in old car windows against mirrors against glass against Everything.

I am whole with you.

There was a moment when I first heard you snore with your pretty hair against my chest and I looked,

Below me there was love

Greeting with warm warm warm embrace and I felt her hands twist around my throat -

It was there I sank into the welcoming abyss,

It was there I held you and kissed you and rejoiced.

I look at the mountains sometimes when I go to you.

I see them pass by in instants, in moments and imagine not what the top looks like

But the midriff.  

Where the thick of the trees are, where the life happens, where it all begins.

Why gaze from the top? There’s a whole world between start and finish, I think.

You are somewhere between us and the stars.

I remember you, Love. I remember you in little bodegas

And antique shops and small farms I don’t know where.

There was something visceral in my stomach when I met you.

There was something that popped and churned like cauldrons,

Stupefied in the headlights that are your expressions, your laughs, your tone of voice that says

Everything is okay, now,

The digressions twisting vineshaped and Holy and I am here to listen.

I am here to love you,

To descend faithful, to construct monuments of your silhouette,

To cherish your portraits as works of the Renaissance.

Ten cigarettes and I’ll sleep tonight,

Ten cigarettes and I’ll figure out the difference between abstract and pointillism.

You are within every vein wrapping through my arms.

You are within the seconds on my wrist.

You are everything and I am here,

You are love, separated by two hours and one half a tank of gas and

I’ll drive ten thousand more just to see the look on your face when I tell you:

I am yours for as long as this monolith stands,

Black and red and azure in deep orange glory.

wolfintheskye:

Daybreak Glistens Softly Against Mahogany Floors

I remember you, sunlight.

I remember your favorite color is red and your fingernails in my backbone and finally think I’m much closer to being happy when I die.

Believing in the blue collar, cascading queer on heteros in their pressed crisp button downs, unknowing of unholy matrimonies in Greyhound bus stations getting head from the ticket boy in Pensacola,

He told me he’d never seen anything besides the Naval Base men and he didn’t know anything but the lines in my jaw and wild eyes that looked good, maybe.

We went to the Waffle House and I gave a crackhead my leftovers,

“Fuck you man! The fuck I’m supposed to do with this shit?”

He got on his bike and rode away.

There is magic inside Santa Cruz and I can’t believe it’s been a year since that hell, deprived and senseless wandering hoping I wouldn’t get high that Christmas.

And I didn’t. Progress, no?

Sobriety is the dulling of the knife, the catastrophic awareness that everything is here for us, the smell of shoeshine, the kerosene daydreams while I spray down the upside of an oil pan and wonder,

“What time is it in Soquel?”

Honey turns to blood, I’m tired of ripping myself apart for love in far away places that remind me of death.

When you lose 100 pounds and you’re still unhappy, are your bones just too heavy?

wolfintheskye:

I Was A Better Alcoholic Than You, But Now I’m Just Better: A Confident Epiphany

There is still some kind of sadness seeping out of the soot from wildfires three thousand miles from home.

There is still the smell of that house on this blanket,

I can see your beer bottles towering higher against old wallpaper, your collected glass, your aroma of desperation as you reach three decades old like a Best Used By date creeping closer, closer, closer.

I know exactly what it is like to put my entire life into nine plastic boxes

In under twenty minutes.

Strange awakenings in this end of November.

I want to paint my nails and wear that coat from Monterrey so the hoodlums give me funny looks as I pump gas into a blue Corolla, check the oil, clean the windshield.

It feels good. It feels good to see my ribs when I stretch, it feels good to hold my skinny hips and feel my hands on these bones and finally fucking love myself. I do that thing in the mirror, tongue slides against teeth and smile-

“God Damn, baby!”

It feels good.

I love these late nights, these tofu scrambles in the late mornings, skipping lunch, and a big dinner. Not a place to go except up.

I love wrapping my fingers around my thighs because I can do that now, I love these cold winter runs with my nose running and my legs running and everything running.

I love catching myself smile when I wake up, I love the veins in my arms, I love the clothes I wear because I make them look good; never the other way around.

I look militant with this shirt tucked in.

Reminder: say “I love you.” to yourself more often.

wolfintheskye:

I am tired of poetry.
I am tired of the cheap attempts
To make people feel something,
Tired of the nostalgia,
Trying to look past what I’ve become,
Thinking nothing.
Writing nothing.
Looking at bloodshot eyes behind smoke, and
In front of my mirror.
I just want to sleep,
But darkness only gives me patterns,
The faces, the voices
Who scream as their eyes roll back
And pop.
Woes and blood.
But nothing is new.
Everything turns to black and white eventually.
Layer after layer after layer
Of spiritual shit-show being pressed
One on top of another
Into my disease infested brain
And then I will stop.
Because I want to reach the end
With enough time to tell my demons,
“Look how far I can go.”

wolfintheskye:

Mercedes-Benz Can Suck My Dick

Inside the single-use threads stuck into blue strong plastic there are new words melting over me volcanically:

“Mandrel; Oil Centrifuge”

Hung on tags across plasterboard.

And the cuts on my hands touch cold metal and my lips touch strong hot coffee as if I’m living in some Springsteen daydream, blue collar and full of confusion and dirty fingernails.

There is sustenance in masking tape, there is brokenness in numerical order, there isn’t a smoke break any time soon.

I’m alone, pestering to tell a story to anyone in this place and nobody is listening. I sing Danny Boy to myself like an obident Irish Catholic.

There is dust from the new concrete, the new walls, the new ceilings, all seeping heavy into my lungs.

Dylan is whispering out of phone speaker:

“I don’t wanna work on Maggie’s Farm no mo’!”

And I know what he means, gasoline-smelling flannels run cheap around here.

“Swaging Jaw Set”

Small metal hangers of six sizes waiting for their moment to hold something up and stay there forever. Me too, me too.

Knees stiff from crouching, I’m wearing a women’s medium and realizing it’s just my size:

Hourglass.

I got hips.

“Detent; Camshaft”

wolfintheskye:

I Spent Ten And I Won Ten

I am the thirty year old rusted unused ashtray clipped into a bowling lane projector,

Loose in the mold and depravity and desperate need to be spoken to softly.

Yesterday, drinking bottom shelf Perseco and grapefruit juice listening to house music in a steeple room outside Northampton. I can hear the rabbits eating hay and shuddering. I blow smoke into an old deer skull and laugh until my stomach feels atomic.

Fingers tired and bloody and cut from late, late mailroom nights. I miss night shift because the whole world is asleep, it’s just me and the truckers and a bottle of cheap bitter caffeine pills from Walgreens: the way it’s supposed to be and heaven. The sun hides until 7am smoke break and I watch it peek it’s head out over a sea of mail trucks. Nothing is that beautiful and ridiculous at the same time.

I sense the winter months taking hold of many people’s heads. Happiness dies with the New Year. New England fills your ribcage with ice and your breaths get shorter. Maybe it pushes pain down deeper.

Good to see P. eating again. Daze and loss and heartbreak. No ones died yet. Things are okay.

stability:

im so tired but ill probably be awake until 3 am for no reason

(via scorpi-ohh)