a box of suggestions.

it all boils down to a box of suggestions for that noise space inside of your head.
and the whole world will watch sifting through the toxic tumbling mess,
a hiccuping disarray of words and phrases.
spoken by friends mostly made of pain.
they drive to work
and home again after the day has happened.
they often say, although alone, their thankful.
speaking to the officer who pulled them over while sleepy eyes guided them home.
explanation of their hourly traumas to the figure with a flashlight in their eyes.
there's holes in their tongues, stumbling for words.
their lives are so hard.
corporate and furnished.
shaken by the small words and phrases,
suggestions in a box.

i walk the lines between now and then.

do you know how it feels to be shrinking ?
to be falling short of everything asked ?
to become smaller
and smaller
every fucking day?
"in the end the only steps that matter are the ones you take all by yourself."
i have no legs.
no walking.
no steps.
i'm idle.
lonely.
and fucked in the head.

"you don't always need to be fixed, emma." - Diane. Leader of 4th AA meeting. Sober since 1992.

fix me.
but i work just fine.
fix me.
i guess i'm worn down.
fix me.
they say i have a few screws loose.
fix me.
i've been formatted wrong, it's a mistake.
fix me.
no this is wrong, i'm just...
fix me.
i'm broken.

path of painted lines.

i live by default.
follow the constructed lines painted on every road.
many have roamed this path previous to myself.
watched the limbs on each tree beside the road grow taller,
reaching the sun.
watched as each branch stretched across the horizon,
while worn in shoes treaded the gravel.
rubber against rock.
roots against soil.
beams against the blue back drop.
heart against chest.
tears against pores.
me against you.
you may think you took over.
as you robbed me from the path of painted lines.
but my rubber soles are still treading the gravel.
and i'm watching the limbs grow.

just another thing to distract you.

every room in this building is stuffy.

full of empty connections.

useless secrets.

dried scabs, chronic cold sweats and slow and heavy breaths.

rib cages are tired of being lifted.

each bone torn from the tissue connected.

shaped like the pipes beneath your sink.

you've discovered the beating figure.

in synch with the beat beneath the skin of the wrist attached to the one who tore those bones apart.

beating harder than the drum of mainstream tunes.

you watch it,

but don't dare to touch as it pulsates.

shrinks, pulls in for a split second.

releases, returning to it's plump state

thump 

thump.

              thump.

              thump.         

the wooden cabinets with metal handles in the art room.

they house each glass plate handed to you on your wedding day.
you wore satin shoes.
heavy vail.
their wooden, dark and consistent.
metal handles.
grasped by familiar hands.
searching for your morning coffee mug.
you need to wake up.
he already left for work.
satin shoes on the floor of the double door closet inside the room you share with him.
metal handles.
on the door to that mutual chamber.
it's dark and consistent
like those wooden cabinets.
glass plates resting in them.
the ones that were handed to you.
and him.

crooked ken.

tall and gawky.

awkwardly misplaced.

big hands.

small cup of coffee.

thin mustache.

thinner lips.

baffled me,

how he stood so still.

so content.

he spoke once.

of a prayer whispered to those above.

one repeated by my own lips after every gathering.

chanted.

and mumbled by few.

but he spoke well.

with his big hands.

coffee cup on the table.

Day 9. 6:24 pm.

you and i baby.
we're locked in the cellar.
door slammed by common pedestrians.
cross walks weren't enough for them to invade.
they all came, stampeded my hardwood floors.
the tiles in the master bath never looked so bare.
but their dirty sneakers aided the simplicity which accompanied each room.
i'm in the cellar though,
and all i can do is stare at you, and listen to them.
walk on my memories.
step on each year.
stomp. stomp. stomp.

Day 9. Second AA meeting. (white ovals)

doors crack open.
strangers stumble in.
hold the door for those behind.
sit down in those fold up chairs.
listen and speak
time leaves your thoughts,
and you get lost within the fluorescent lights above your head.
tapped on the shoulder by the finger of someone unknown.
distracted, they hand you a woven basket
full of crumpled dollar bills.
you shove your dry hands in the pocket of your pants.
chap-stick.
and a button from your sweater
it fell off during your cigarette break.
you climbed a tree.
perched on a limb, and smoked away.
you thought of sitting there.
while staring at the crumpled green paper
resting in the woven wood.
you spent all you money on poison.
contained in a plastic bag.
about the size of your keys.
in the form of an oval.
white.
about eight of them at a time.
and while you rested your eyes, and allowed your body to float,
those eight ovals swam inside of you.
you crushed them up, pre-floating.
leveled your head to the dresser,
and pressed your finger to your left nostril
hard
and fast
the lines disappeared.
school ID next to you.
closed eyes.
the ovals,
in powdered queues.
inside of you now.
and your eyes, are now focused on the crumpled money.
broker than ever.
what are you doing ?
question yourself.
but don't think to hard, because their watching you
sit and stare at the basket.
it all started with crumpled bills.
that green material equaled ovals.
ovals equaled floating.
floating equaled freedom.
so how come you feel so stuck ?
invisible ball and chain.
all because of white ovals.

eyes.

and you can't see me.
but the wind sees you.
and although each blow is stronger than the next,
your bodies stand strong.
we can see through you though.
we're watching.
just
      stand
               strong.  

Subtle but not underground.

 Look at me in the eyes and tell me where the good goes.
look at me in the heart and tell me breaking is among the impossible.
look me in the hands and tell me tired only exists within the seas.
look me in the head and tell me heavy is a mere illusion.

do they know how to cure the disease no others see?
speak slow.
walk slower.
follow the map.
don't allow your path to fall off track.


remain calm.
eyes ahead.

they'll catch you if you fall.
but don't think they'll keep you safe.
beneath the stairs you'll stay
and they'll walk upon you
walls will creak
the ceiling above your head, cracked.
eyes closed.
your path is off track.
panic
running

across the moss and over fallen branches.

i'll tell you now,
i guess i should have told you then;
clouds are rolling and i cannot feel a thing.
but i can promise you one thing,
even though exhausted, morning will come.
and i'll stand up straight.

i know i can't loose focus.
but i've been doing circles
and we're slowing down again
and i feel myself letting go.
subtle but not underground.
it's early evening.
and i can't wait until morning comes.
although exhausted, i will not pull away.

Lady at NA meeting.

round and clear.

the same color as my grandmothers silverware.
rusted.
golden brown, no longer shine.
they rest on your face.
perched on your nose.
held by your years.
ontop of your ears.
those openings which are poured through.
the words fall from mouths unwanted.
although you may block the sense which common minds reffer to as hearing.
you still see.
however, bare faced; you are blind.
but round and brown, accompanies your face.
those circular see through figures.
coated with that dark outline.
as dark as grandma's silverware,
which lays in a red velvet box.
beneath her round reading glasses.

.

sink deeper.
get lost, engulfed in the salt water.
tumbled sand castle at the shore.
tired mothers.
"come back here, honey."
long legged, dirty hands, left shoe on the right foot, lunch still on their cheek.
voices are faint.
but still present.
back to the ocean floor.
face to the sun.
eye lids, coverage.
you're naked though.
skin bare.
lifeless, but each wrist holds a pulse.
floating, remembering.
don't forget.
the water's got you.
sink.
sank.
sunken.

oh, test tube.

swallow me.
allow me to swim within you.
i want to feel what it's like to be inside of you.
i want to take you in.

First AA meeting.

white shirt.
tassled fabric
messy hair, collected stature.
she began.
one knee bent.
right leg locked.
left leg loose.
looser than my joints.
her dates have stories.
attatched and intertwined with each number.
"four years on the streets", she said.
chemicals were for breakfast.
a small needle for snack.
time with him for lunch.

cold air and a sidewalk for dinner.
"i'll be fine", she mumbled.
that's what i thought.