the failing heart, mine goes out

to yours, my wonder at such in

your early age, the reason I could

not attend your funeral, I told you

this at the last one in my dreams,

a world I was confused to be in, we

were driving around too much,

too reckless too much, and then

we were in the beds our sleep was

to take us over in, I was made aware

of what was keeping me awake, how I

was so wrong, enhancing the suffocating

reality following me around even when

I am awake, off in places not 0ne knows,

refusing to reach expected depths, where

you must make up your mind, I cannot

balance on a heart linked tightrope

for long, my mind so vertigo prone,

disconnected from the meaning

of the beauty always surrounding,

that feels fine when I am numb

and able to whine without shame,

hands not covering my mouth, intrigued

by the responding fatigue, the reasoning

imagination, pictures in our eyes

reflecting upon the vast sight

presented before them, all

of your friends are now looking

over their shoulders

12 Sandy BLVD

toss remainders

across the overpass

with our ever burning sides

compelling our sole

city stumbles with vaseline

paths to slither

and slide/ I furnished frost

bitten majesty, subsided our trust

I own the one lie, comprehend

nothing of that

we find on

the east side.

The trench of Portland

night. Where my freedom


the fight of instigators

flavorless projection

of the neck

they bite

A Punk Rock Preacher In Holiday Park

trouble raising the crass ride to holiday park,

my flat mate was on the train behind me, I noticed

when he got off and tried to follow him, but

I stopped, see, and turned around with

an enlightenment favor from the fashion flashing

blindly, past the scenic sights of abandoned homeless

toddlers drawing chalk families and suns on the walls of these brick

buildings  The freeway the veins of the city racing upon

my back, alongside I ride in a cage, released wild on

northeast 82nd avenue, doors to my left. The landing

of a flight up and out of the city

deep in the middle of the noun that verbs the pro-noun adjective,

waking up at night to polish the shine

of day, quick stops, I see my dirty

room come alive/ the wind through the window waking me

sudden from idle dreams

length reserved and devoured in closet shoe boxes

you keep but never dig up, whats in there…

we are taught to hate or forget

Excerpt from chapbook coming out in May, “A Distant Skeleton Cowboy”

the following is from the chapbook i will be coming out with in May, its a combination of poetry, prose poetry, and the journals I kept during a month-long stay at a treatment center for addiction in eastern Washington last year.

Day 6

I’m awake. Again today was eaten by the mouth of gruel, slept late (we have to be up by 9) and was screeched awake by the hall monitor who is an old man that obviously went to Vietnam. So, that did not go over so well, any one that tries to control me is bad news, so after I had a cup of coffee to get enough energy to get angry, I walked up to this man and ripped him a new asshole, and it felt fucking great. I made up this lie about me being naked and he needed to respect my privacy, which everyone should, but hot doggy I let him have it. But see, I really just have a problem with authority and throw a fit when ever told to do anything. Even if I am being disobedient. And I was. I was twenty minutes late to lecture. David(my counselor) had had a bad day as well, had to take his son to court for possession of marijuana (…heh) before even coming into work so when I attempted to go into my rant of anti-authority whiny bullshit he quickly interrupted me and said “if you don’t like the way things are done around here, pack your shit, and get the fuck out.” I was fine with that! I got up and walked right to my room and started to pack my things(again), when about 5 minutes he later came bursting into my room, found me crying and pacing back and forth(I cry too much but I’m heartbroken). He sat me down, apologized for saying what he did, explained his not having a good morning as well, which we actually shared a laugh about, and we went back to our group together. I got to talk to my mother today which immediately put me to tears the second I heard her voice. A doctor gave a lecture on addiction and genetics and the major increase of opiate addiction due to OxyContin. It was in fact quite interesting. I said a lot of things in group today that was rooted from not having any drugs. I simply acted like a little baby. Its weird, I write in this journal as if I am outside of myself, just observing. While I’m still in the insane mind and mood that I write about in the first place. My group, who I am really starting to appreciate, listened and then calmed me down. Made me realize I was completely in a state of irrationality. I apologized to the old fellow, who is actually very nice, for getting in his face this morning. I felt bad and I still do. And I feel bad about throwing a fit in group. I feel positive. For once. It feels good that getting upset is okay. Freaking out all I want. I need to get it out of me so I can stop setting myself up for getting crushed out there. Today, just for today, one half hour at a time, I want to get high. I got a card from my mom in the mail today. I sobbed with happiness to hear her when I called her, because even though it was only six days of not being able to call her, it felt like ten years. Meth is the only drug I have never done. Smoked crack once. After that I shot molly into my hand, I still have a bruise from missing the vein once or twice. I welcomed death, for what I had been and what I was doing then. Full of top grade shame. So I went to take a shit in the mens public bathroom earlier, because Josh, my roommate, was taking care of his own business on our shared toilet. While sitting there blasting my bowels all over the inside of the toilet bowl, I looked down to the tile, and it was wet, very wet. Definitely a lot of water on the floor. I thought it was just a shitty mop job, though when I pulled up my shorts I realized they had gotten soaked, being around my ankles, with which was actually PISS. Someone had pissed all over the place. I walked to my room that thankfully was right across the hall dripping urine and jumped in the shower and put my piss pants out onto my back patio. That was not very fun. I applaud the piss artist. I am jumping back and forth from wanting to fucking hang myself with my bed sheets, to loving life as I did when I was a kid. At night, I become so lonely and sad, and wish I would have done things different. I would have still had a girl that I was so madly in love with. But was just so scared to lose her, that I wasn’t able to trust her, therefor came accusations and fights all the time and eventually she moving to the other side of the country to forget about me. This was always the cherry on top thought that led me to get loaded. So right now, I am craving like hell. Exactly like hell, I am craving a hit. I wonder what she is doing, if she ever thinks of me. I miss her. So badly that I can’t talk or write extensively about her. This is beyond enough. Let all these tear drops on the page clarify. I miss her. Thus is the doing of night time. The dark cloudy feelings of a broken heart. David told me not to listen to my thoughts right now. Probably a good idea. If I were to, I would be either using or trying to die or most likely, both. Over and out.


hey. god, I am very late. Sorry. I am knew to the blogging thing so if I do one of those things that obviously only a knew person would do, keep faith, i’ll pick it up. I am reading James Tate and Giacomo Leopardi and a new book of Ted Berrigan letters called “Dear Sandy, Hello.” I like the Berrigan book the best I think, right now. Leopardi can help with my dense ranting. I am sure me being a Tate fan is not a surprise really. Okay, sorry for being so late. but i’m here now. k

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