you fell in love again
and built yourself up
you made it out west
and made your way back
you partied with the worst of ’em
and killed some bad habits
you fought through another one,
excited for the next

cheers! compass stuck straight up!

now wipe that smug fucking
grin off your face—crumple
it up and throw it in the trash with
the hollow booze bottles and
empty bags, the old ideas,
bloody clothes, and dusty dreams—

because time keeps moving forward, dickhead—
and you’re still in the same place.

with every sleepless night
with every day of doubles
year after year of wear and tear
living on the razor’s edge,

parties and adventures
debauchery and delinquency
time proceeding heavy-handedly
toward a cold, hard, clock,

with waning focus and
goldfish-like attention-span
—internal turmoil—
vacated inspiration and
motivation misplaced
—ill-driven—
the older you get

the packing up and moving
and the not-even-really-unpacking
anymore, from place to place—
the obligations, the responsibilities,
the trying to make it all work! and
to get them ends to meet!

the stress, the worry, the anxiety
—the guilt, the anguish—
deteriorating relationships,
and those forlorn, bereft forever,

the wind whipping whatever
it wants, wherever it wants,
—whirling—
with no regard for
the mess it’s left behind…

it’s years later,
it’s just you, and
“who even are you?”
you ask yourself when
you look in the mirror

shit, you think it’s hard now?
—don’t fret, my friend—

it gets harder

…though once in a while, it’s
the easiest thing in the world.

it’s wild—

you’ve spilt a spell
            beneath yourself
that you can never retrieve—

the details don’t matter,
what you’ve dreamed of
            never mattered

so just lie awake

your desk cluttered, your
            make-up fake
redundant as it ever has been
resplendent as you are

reaching for the stars
in any way possible
            without an anchor or a chain

sleeping sleeplessly
            (sleepy hollow sleepy hollow)
whence you find a better pen;

a better man (or woman)
reclaiming a head
            you can’t make sense of

until it’s grotesque in
            a jar—afar and appalled,
pickled like the rest
            of ’em (pickled and pruned)—

and ahh—
            Almighty Blah

finally (really, this is what
            it’s come to?
this is what it takes?

of course it is [you knew it
            when you blew it all along]):

            change.

(Venus is the pentacle,
            and she still watches over you
            [albeit from a comfortably
unsafe distance], her maniacal screams
            confused for laughter—

            harmful and harmless, regardless)

Who’s to tell you how to handle?
when it all goes down,
down further than you ever thought,
thinking your way through it

pacing and smoking,
smoking and pacing,
sitting with yourself,
lungs turning black,
it may not be productive,
but hey—at least it’s not psychoactive

maybe the brain didn’t develop right
you breathed in too much butane as a kid

and you’re told you can’t deal with tough situations
though it seems you’ve been doing nothing but!
your whole life

compartmentalize,
your therapist tells you,
compartmentalize—
there are separate dilemmas here,
though infinitely entangled

you can’t let it break you:
your will, your love, your faith in humanity

so don’t close your open arms,
and don’t deceive,
but maybe raise your guard a little bit
with loose, honest fists
and fight through
however you have to.

of capsizing
only a couple missteps away—
maybe a few, maybe just one

i’d tell you to stay afloat
if my lungs weren’t already filled with
the same water
that’s taking you down.

If you bottle it up
and blow it out
you’re doing a whole
fuck of a lot
better than I am

I’d rather break it down
and breathe it in—
for the sake of self-deprecation
and future devastation,
if nothing else

because once you destroy
the person you thought
you knew, you get to rebuild
them just like you
always wanted, just like
you always thought you would

now get to work
on a better Babel
if you can.

aka in replication of the sound of a body tossed from two stories on a late summer night on a dark, leafy street in Montréal—depending on the weight of the bones, et al (nails and hair and other organs and such, etc., etc.), the angle of contact, and the fundamental structure of what lies beneath; the chemistry of the concrete, the temperature of the pavement, the age and tone and character of that course, unforgiving stone:

¡¡shhh-MAKK!!
*fsss glubglub*

tapping through (no that is not enough, ask Rilke),
scathing through (so what who cares, it’s been done before),
screaming through (ok well anyone with half an ear can hear that)—
pulsing through
clamoring
hammering
disheveled
merciless

until nothing and nothing and nothing is left,
well that’s not hard to hear
that’s not hard to tell

it’s after that

…after that

when everyone forgot to give chase
they’ve all been tuckered out and turned off
tarred and feathered
given up the good fight, passed out

it’s then
if you can still hear it

murmuring
below

from the whispery willows where once we
have not yet lain
deep
at the core of the earth’s muck

it’s then you know

you never asked for this
it’s the gift and the curse
you’re grateful and perplexed
resolute yet beginning to accept

it is meant for you
you are meant for it

(the dirt is dazzling
this brine is brilliant)

and you’re at least half-a-step toward
what you’ve heard to be called

peace

even if for but a few fleeting moments,
then it’s gone.

I must’ve read
your letter
1000 times—
the words
still haven’t
changed

it still
ends with
goodbye

yet under it
            under it
                        under it

lies future and trust,
            lies dormancy;
                        lies the things you cannot say—

                        so let ’em out
            let ’em out
let ’em out

           and when you’ve thought
           all those thoughts through

           go to sleep on the couch—

           (bark’s better left on trees)