The Malemute and Me

I hide my heart
when it rains
and even when it shines,
for reasons known only
behind my eyes.
ive wasted many years reliving my past,
of what i have no memory,
but the aftermath has
and will last a lifetime.
blanketing my mind
with a grotesque fog
hindered solely by
self-doubt when stepping onto
these city streets.

Hank once said that he
felt alone,
suicidal and near death
but never lonely.
i must agree,
especially when skeletons of debauchery
seep into my skin and
drain out onto my
machine gun,
where doubt dies.

only in silence,
where words arent spoken from
open mouths but broken hearts,
can one raise the most hell.


One room

I sit drunk and naked inside a room of summer. where night roams free and the knife i carry, filled with ink, shivs its way in between my ribcage.

laughing until my death, the shadows begin to hover and then disappear, making this a room made for happy people once again.

The Coast

the coast.
without trees or pastured scenery
are hills hidden by spear shaped like hair made from tortured grass.
grey, dismal and near death,
until the wind waves and
shows their heart.
the darkened air
is haunted
by the wings of blackened crows–
a place that thrives all alone,
like me,
yet, without the dilution of breathing.
it is the single most passionate place
i could ever want to be.