Seven Stages

This is an oldie, but a goodie. I'm trying to edit it for performance purposes, so feedback is always appreciated.

So unable these days to analyze subtleties or shades of gray are we that organized lists are developed for things such as grief and are handed out to those experiencing it like candies to wayward children.
The Seven Stages of Grief, as experienced by many, but through the eyes of me:

1) Shock and Denial- no no no, that's not me, I just know that if I give it a month or two I can have her  back. Her new boyfriend isn't me, he doesn't know her favorite foods and shit. I know, I know, I know she needs me. I can feel it like hot led in my mouth, her kisses -mini wishes of tongues lashing and teeth clinking, drinking a Merlot of spilled ambitions... 
I know! I'll cut my hair and quit smoking and sing words prettier than before. I'll get a job and a car and a cellular telephone. I'll get that college degree that's been escaping me for all these failed years in between.
I'll buy her a pornographic DVD and send her pictures of me in her bras and panties she left behind.

I can't feel my left arm anymore. The proverbial mammal of mammoth proportions is sitting on my chest.
Systems performing in backwards fashion, regression is my new tomorrow, and my spine got it's switches and cables and cords all mixed up.

2) Pain and Guilt- not for me, not this morning, not this evening- I've got cheap bottles of acetaldehyde- a cousin of formaldehyde- to make sure I'm fuzzy in this head of mine. Is it ironic or just funny coincidence that within the same family, one chemical makes people look good dead and the other makes people look good while they're still alive?

Mmm, the smoke that wisps around my throat coats me in everything I wish I could be. I'm loving the dirty smells that sink into the sweat-shop woven fabrics I wrap my itchy skin in. It's not quite gasoline, it's not quite evergreen-pine, but it's carcinogenic for sure.

Mix the two, booze and cheap drugs, like I do, and you can skip the second step altogether. 

3) Anger and Bargaining- This is fucking stupid goddamn bullshit, I tell you. If I promise to quit fucking every pair of legs that come my way to forget her name, do you think she'll want me back? It's worth a shot, whaddaya say?

I promised, I begged and swore true, that I would give up my anger, my oldest mistress, for her. It was a trade that at the time I would have gladly made, if only it would have helped our insides shine. I know her, my piss and vinegar, better than I've known the taste of iron and bubbles in my mouth. I've let her settle into my limbic system and she's a tough bitch to get out once you've let her in. Kind of like pulling my hair out while chewing my nails and the way my old loved one used to caress me after sex, it's hard to give up.

But that failed transaction left me with my currency, my bargaining chip, still in place. The fractured remnants of antiquated hate are my birthright, I'll always hold them tight like a stuffed animal when I try to find ways to close my eyes and stop dreaming of you leaving everything we built behind. 

Fucking hell, fucking shit, I can't believe how motherfucking pissed I am that I can't sell my hands on the black market to buy a ring for her.

4) "Depression", Reflection, Loneliness-  The mirror I use to get through this step is just a little bit dingy. It only shows sepia tones and I really don't feel all that vibrant in its gaze. (you see)
I've been surrounding myself with all the faces I can find, shoving new ones deep into my life, it's been a thrill. But when the noise all dies down and the people fade out, the blank notes that drop on the floor nearly rip me into little pieces of bitter cigarettes, lit and falling back into the bosom of the planet in the form of ash. 

I'm writing the thirty-seven-thousand-six-hundred and twelfth poem about her. What does that say about my affinity for this step? It could be argued that it embodies what a savage who plays a wordsmith would derive most of their inspiration from. 
-simplification is fun, isn't it?-

It is my belief that the coffee and nicotine built up by now inside of me are the only companions I'll need. We'll call that 'bullshit' for now and move on.

5) The Upward Turn- dear god, I've seen blazing wreaths of light change from shades of amber to blue in new eyes I've met since she left. I never needed more, but these experiences still leave me weak in the knees, in all sorts of good ways.
The winter's growing near, and I'm excited for all the rain. I plan on building a movie scene  and kissing a pretty dame right on the lips and hold her by the hips and not let go until the rain turns to snow, that's a promise, I hope she knows just how fucking much gratitude and care my heart can hold. I know, that sounds a little bit cheesy, believe me, I wrote the motherfucking line, hopefully you'll indulge me cliche and pardon the crime.

Nothing can be everything all of the time, and I'm starting to believe that beyond just knowing it. I'm feeling the hope start to ring in the key of c in my ears so goddamn loud that it wakes me up in the mornings without weight on my chest. Goddamnit all, maybe after all, this is for the best.

6) okay, I'm getting a bit tired of this list. I apologize, a real quick intermission...
other than making it extremely easy for a guy like me to write a piece, what are these guidelines good for? really?
 Reconstruction and Working Through-  If I had a clue what I was supposed to do with myself, maybe I'd be less of a drunken buffoon.
 I'm rebuilding my circadian rhythm and forming new habits, singing songs of destruction all the while, drinking mushroom tea to induce a smile, guzzling WD40 to repair my knees, scrubbing off bruises in the shower, finding pennies tails-side-up, reading obituaries on the backs of cereal boxes and stealing lunches from the government. 
I'm bathing in kerosene and playing with already struck matches, finding the reverence in swear words and the chaos in prayer. I'm holding sermons in my garage with a congregation that was never there, and I say amen to the speech I never gave, my eyes cave in and swell, we might as well be lunatics. 

So here is the construction site- a plot of land to be developed. Only, maybe this time around, I'll build with bricks, not sticks, so your huffs and puffs won't knock it down.

7) Acceptance and Hope-
I'll let you know when I get to or through the last stage. It's not today, but maybe tomorrow...

sleeping with the lights on

my body and my mind can't decide what I miss the most
can't sleep on a bed because there's too much room for you
can't sleep with the lights off 'cause i'm scared of ghosts
the leftover pieces of something once true dead in this room

I really tried not to drink wine but time was being a real motherfucker
all I ate was an eighth of hate in oder to try to find my lungs and smother
all of the pieces of you I had left

I'm havin' a blast with balloons filled with gasoline fumes and broken glass
suckin' on 'em like a young partygoer gobbles down helium
I'm havin' a ball twisting and breaking my ankles so I fall down the stairs
flipping the axis of the planet upside down, killing religion

it's too easy to see you
when I close my eyes
so I keep them open all night
it's too tough to feed myself with venom and bullshit as my only salary
so I down bubbly bronze and brown, liquid breads are my only calories

while you were trying to decide the best way to leave me behind
I was busy trying to keep my insides alive
but you've just dried them out today
my pressing concern is that you still haven't realistically learned
that this bridge is forever broken and burned
the remnants being left to rot and decay
I had no say in the matter

you know I might as well have sewn the tips of my lips closed
it would have gotten the same result in the end
I think by now I just might know what it is that I miss the most
goddamnit, I will always fucking miss my friend