Aesthetics

Whiskey stained whiskers.
The iron taste of blood sensed before opening eyes.
Cracked lips, the proof of dying from slow dehydration.

Obviously vascular with skin stretched over hard muscle.
It redeems all other sins of the flesh.

Ghost

The only patron sitting at a bar
A Ghost in a pre-neon city

Ghosts exist
I know because I am one
Shying away from the light of day
Silently occupying my space in a house of the living, while the others mill about
The sounds of talk and laughter and marital sex and television keeping me at bay

However
When the house resembles that of the dead;
I dance around merrily
Taking in the fruits of the living
Misplacing things purposely, leaving objects unspoken for

I am a Ghost
I go unseen, for I fear the judgement of living eyes

I grind my teeth and talk in my sleep,
But every other Woman in this town could tell you that.

Growing

Learning the land like a Lover's body.
Paved trails through the woods are museums to nature
Stand silent, surrounded by branches and all that which claims them and you'll see what Grand Central Station was modeled after

I often mistake that hollow feeling for a sense of Zen
Being empty is important
Being empty is being open

A cup must be filled up though so you can transfer that liquid
Water/Gold/Thought/Idea/Knowledge
Quench Someone's ill thirst

Empty has never been synonymous with serenity.
Constant transitioning along the paths we've chosen and continue to choose.

Backs to the Female, facing the Male

Zen for the price of a cab ride
When it's not an open bar but it's free to all with currency
Getting Women more drunk than they truly think
Plan B is in the back of my nicotine obsessed mind
A to B to C only makes sense
But what exactly is that?
The vibrations of humanity and disorder
Resonant frequencies
The drums beat into existence
Always walking a fine line between Zen and being numb

Pain and Pleasure

Female voices carry in a newborn spring breeze
They pass by me with briefness, like leaves continuing their journey to nowhere
A Woman with a voice that sounds like She's given a blow job or two in a movie theatre before

Our existence is a series of brief and fleeting moments
Episodes of coming and going
Leaving is easy but returning proves to be the more difficult action

A lot of people waste their time and life concerned and worrying about juvenile questions like:
"Is there a God?"
"Am I a good person?"
"Will I be happy twenty, thirty, forty years from today?"
These people don't see or know themselves, let alone what passes through their senses

There is no Right or Wrong
No Good and Bad
All that exists is Input and Output
Only Pain and Pleasure

Full Moon

On any night where the moon hangs low and full, there is an urge that pulls at some Men's hearts. Especially after a few drinks. A desire to leave society, run naked through the woods screaming for no other reason than being alive. An appetite to destroy themselves and anyone within arms reach. Figuratively or literally. The transformation is not physical, but still leaves one completely unrecognizable.  On any of these nights, look for the man with his gaze fixed upon the sky.
The next day in the shower the hot water hits the back of my head, where my neck and skull meet, soothing the remains of any primal intentions left over from the previous night. That "day after phlegm fueled cough" only a smoker knows begins and I discharge tar and mucus. Probably the most satisfying thing that I'll do all day. The hot water runs down my body, making me feel somewhat human again, while outside the bathroom window birds can be heard. Winter is coming to an end, listen to those birds. Washing my face, the stubble feels rough on my hands and reminds me that I'm no longer a boy but a grown Man. "Goddamnit act like it." I think to myself while trying to remember if I wronged anyone last night. I don't think so. Probably just took advantage of a sympathetic ear at the worst. Outside, the cigarette smoke travels through the air quickly as I puff away some of the headache. Listen to those birds. Watching some teenage kid deliver newspapers to the houses surrounding this one reminds me of doing the exact same thing as Her at that age. Walking through this neighborhood, delivering newspapers, listening to sad songs on my Ipod, thinking sad thoughts. I was damned from the beginning, but listen to those birds. Winter is coming to an end.

Within Arm's Reach

Let us toast to whoever's closest
Drink to our identical desolation
A centrifuge
Holding onto each other while the room spins around us
Exhale me from your mind's body when you can no longer take the suffocation