I cannot raise the dead

When the flesh has rotted

And the bones have turned to dust

As if there were never bones at all

The flowers I plant in the surrounding earth

wilt and die

An attempt at necromantic gardening

Necromancy exists only in fantasy

We make our perceptions

Based on what we see and feel

But we never know that person’s

feelings

self perception

Actual self

Our vision is fabricated

by what our senses tell us

and our senses are keen at lying

I’ve have been acquitted or rather accused

of all the wrongs

where you are definitely right

this is a strange repetition of the event that happened around this time last year

and now you quit and it’s only fair

this jar is similar, but not the same, as the same one as last week

but the effect is similar, but not the same one as last week

Last year is like this year, except the weather is hotter and I didn’t notice the flowers

and there is a distinct lack of baseball

But there are blue hued fish tattoos, and enough day time drunks and nighttime hangovers to appease me for the summer

there was never brunch however, what a unique touch

But the sights and smells oh they stirred me

Dismissed, into the nether, a dog hair on my suit case

the loose shirt

that made its way

the interloper

and nothing happens she says on that faithful night

i just scratch myself and burp too much

and I’m a sponge for myself

But I would have done anything for you

and would do anything now

if only this wasn’t a strange repetition

In the beginning
We feel every feeling we want to feel
Cheeks grow sore
And our wants are fulfilled
By who we want the most
That incline has no peak
And we pinch ourselves to make sure it’s real
Because surely the vodka and the horror movies are false
The invention of modern movie magic

The end always begins somewhere
And every force has its equal
And the opposite
But somehow
That opposite always feels worse
With more booze comes a greater headache
And right now this hangover is enough to make me crazy

By this point

my palms are rubbed raw and my

teeth are well ground

the time is measured in decimals

the sweet moment that might have never happened

The build up of self diagnosed sociopaths and self indulged narcissists.

More passion than any of the slightest seconds of any previous seconds

The heart beats in this awful rhythm because you know you won’t feel it again for the long time

Hold on to the moment you sumbitch

go home

jerk off

thats all you gonna do.

There’s a rock hard peach pit sort of thing

Sitting right above my gut

I imagine it has a purple hue

A seething summation of everything I felt for a short while

But wanted to feel for a long while

A porch meal frequented by firefly visitors

An evening hangover at the unknown hour

Even these are nothing compared to the tea and whiskey

Faces sore from smiles

A friendly reminder

My parents are standing back to back. Mom is having problems standing, leaning against the wall, but that’s because of grief. Dad is having problems standing because he drank too much. 

I approach, the parents standing back to back, a space between like a canyon. I traverse the canyon to get to the kitchen. I squeeze through. Mom is crying with her back turned to Dad so Dad doesn’t see. I know this. I can feel it.

Dad asks why. Dad doesn’t seem to know, while everyone else knows. Of course everyone else knows. Friday night was a sensation and it hurt just about everyone. The sensation began on the subject of parenting. 

Halfway there now

And last night when we stood in the old spots

There was rain and booze

And a whole lot of poetry.

My best efforts were made to leave you

and now I realized I need you

Take the old drunken walk for me

Remind me of every step

Describe the white door to nowhere

The diagonal across

The sit down steps where you bled

This is the big end

One of many that will come before

the biggest of them all

I swear there was nothing I could do

That’s what I tell myself

So I don’t start crying these useless salty tears

I’ve made this walk before, but it’s been a long time, and here I am retracing old steps on wobbly legs. Back then, I’d be drunk, but I am dead sober and cold. Retrospection is this sort of curse I have, and here it is, nagging at me. There’s a statement I’ve been telling myself: “I have done this city wrong.”

Right from the start, every step was wrong. I mingled wrong, I drank wrong, I walked wrong, I spoke wrong, I slept wrong. I lied wrong.

That last one is the kicker.

I came here with a plan, things to look forward to. And now I’m leaving with, again, retrospection and bitterness just towards myself. Not towards the people I wronged, but myself, for wronging them. All those plans. The best laid. Falling through the unsupported floor I installed for myself. Bad planks that I slipped right through. I’m in the basement. It’s dark, flooding, and I am making no attempt to escape.

I’m sorry. To myself, to others, and to the city.

It was three wild turkeys