this is a new place
a new time for me
and ive never been here before
not here like this
maybe once before,
but that was on the cycle down

sometimes i need to move
to make sure that im in control
of my own reflection

im watching him looking
back at me
and i just know
that that fucker
is up to something.

all the while
things are moving
just on the edge
as im watching
a movie about sounds
and wishing that
someone would talk to me
that way

and now that i am in the throes
ill tell you something else
a secret everybody knows
a secret nonetheless
ive never truly been a one
for free or spoken word
the things i do and speak and write
are better seen than heard
i write instead in flashing rhyme
that catches unawares
not flowery, but in its time
a fuller meaning shares

then tired of this back and forth
we contemplate our honest worth
and ever lonely on this earth,
we pray that someone, somewhere
trapped in the confines of their
time served here
reads our humble verse.

ten cent poems
hiding in numbers
a shotgun blast
of ink and paper
hoping that one slug
strikes true.

knick an artery,
crack the bone
call yourself
a marksman wordsmith

im sorry i saw
through the muzzle flash
im sorry i told

but to be fair..

you lied first.
and im not sorry.

Step one,
choose your topic.
Likely yourself.
Because what greater
subject could there be?
None
surely.

Step two,
choose an image.
Find something
that can serve
as a metaphor
for you.
Find the rain forest
for instance.
Or perhaps a pond
frozen over in winter.

Yes,
these should serve nicely.

Step three,
place yourself
somewhere in the midst of these things.
Let you be
the trunks of the trees
supporting the lush, green canopy.
You, poor, tired,
supporting the thick boughs
that are the real life
meters
and
meters
and
meters
above you.
Or is your face
the ice of the pond.
All that people ever notice
is how much you can take
before you break.
But there is so much more
just beneath the surface.
So much
teeming with life.
No one knows
how deep you go.
No one will know
until the ice thaws
     (which is unlikely to happen anytime soon.
          but the metaphor was never meant to extend that far.)

Step four,
write yourself in
to the piece
in such a way that no one else
will be able to identify you.
     (Unless they're damn cunning.)
Perhaps disguise your identity
within the purpose of the piece
or the flowing imagery
seeping through the spacious cracks
in your technique.
Riddle the work
with subtle ins and outs
and minute complexities
that vex the reader
away from your intentions.

Nicely done.

Step five,
ruminate.
contemplate
your reflection
as it appears
in your monitor.
Not the image of your face
bouncing off the glass
but the snapshot
of your thoughts
so opaquely back-lit.
Remind yourself
that this is for you
and no one else.
Proofread.
This is just for you
and no one else.
Revise.
This is just for you
and no one else.
Justify
this is just for you.

Step six,
post to a public forum.

Check back in an hour.

I don't want to sleep tonight
so we can hear the rain,
and watch our memories slowly spin
like whispers in my brain.
You say forever feels like love
and death is but a day.
But little help that offers me
when you're a world away.

So I don't want to hear the rain
if it will wash you out.
But someday soon we'll find the tune
our life can sing about.

Don't tell me that you love me
'Till you find a way to hate me
And still like me all the same

I so wish that I could see you
In a dimly lit cafe
Treating your spiced chai like an injured bird
And your face like the exhibits
Of local art on the walls around you

I thought I saw you there once
But it was too smokey
The air thick with conversations
And reunions after 24 hours or less
I'm so sorry that I missed you

But I know that later on I'll find you
Like I always tend to do
Sitting in your usual spot
Exactly like I would expect
On our couch
At home

Listen up, kid.
Here's the story.
Everyone is
gone to stay.
No one else can
hear you pouring
words to paper
day by day.
No ones reading,
no ones laughing.
No one follows
story lines.
All this time you
think you're passing,
shining colors
to the blind.
God is dead and
so is writing.
Only fools
enlist your cause.
There's no point to
all this fighting,
Nor's there money
In your flaws.
Listen up, kid.
Here's the truth now.
Every day is
One too late.
Sure you dream, but
Whats the use now,
When youre lifes
An empty slate?

We are lost in the tide
just a few feet from shore.
We are swamped by the size of the sky.
We are fickle and frail
and I've never felt more
like it won't matter how much we try.

I am lonely and loved
and exhaustedly glad
for a few simple minutes of rest,
so I looked to you with
what small fervor I had,
while I stood with my conscience undressed.

You were so full of hope
that we might get away,
but as time passes, so do our dreams.
There I saw in your eyes
all the fear and dismay,
with your heart torn apart at the seams.

It was so cold that day,
sitting still in our home.
It was early as midnight could be.
But the wanderlust shrieks
as the memories roam,
with the mind drifting out to the sea.

I was swept with the tide
washing out from the land,
and it carried me into the deep.
When I got there, I found
there was nowhere to stand,
so I laid down and drifted to sleep.

You were lost in the stars
looking down at the world
with the moon passing by overhead.
You were ground to a halt
as the whole planet twirled,
and you missed everything that I said.

I know what's real won't end until we start
ignoring what we want within our heart.
But deeper lines will never score
the bottom of the ocean floor
more than I feel whenever we're apart.

Songs like shadows softly lift
the light from darkened, tainted lips,
cursed with memories from which
the lighter tones withhold their gifts.

Brighter beams, meanwhile, tell
the shadows where they're meant to dwell.
All contained within the swell
of one small voice's silent shell.

Stories told of artifacts
in hands of greed with hearts of black,
laying in curses, spreading that
which sticks, and stays, and wont hold back.

Hardly living, all alone
within the house she built of bones,
memorizing muted tones
that speak of light theyve never known.

And wandering from place to place,
the sands of time erode, erase
from this world's ever-changing face.
And so is gone without a trace.

similies like crazy
at the end of every day
when we sit and watch and wonder
where we throw our lives away
when we throw our lives away

we're smiling like crazy
at the people walking by
hope that they dont hear us talking
as we laugh and then we sigh
then we laugh, and then we sigh

its similar to falling
yet exceptional at best
when we're standing up together
when we're sitting down to rest
when we're laying down to rest

as simply as i see you
its as easy then to say
that i see us intertwining
in a convoluted way
such a transcendental way



as disentegrating phrases
meet our pierced and weary ears
will we try to patch together
all our long and weary years
oh such long and weary years


but i know when we lay morbid
and we close our heavy lids
we will hand in hand be living
loving life as we were kids
living life when we were kids

I wrote a book called "Useless"
a thousand pages long,
and every page is useless
a thousand letters strong.
And each disjointed sentence
on each disjointed page
makes up another chapter
that I could call a day.

And in this book called "Useless,"
each task I was assigned
took up another hour
I wanted to call mine.
But in this useless novel
where nothing lasts for good,
it made such little difference.
I wish they understood.

It seems most of my pages
were writ without my words
by many other people.
Oh, had I only heard
the voices of the others
who told me not to write
unless I was the author,
and never stand contrite.

The creases in these pages
were put there not by me,
but by the "Learned" people
who thought it best to be
the leaders of my charges!
The heroins and kings
that lead me on to vic'try --
the "freedom" that it brings.

And so they tore those pages,
divided from the spine
of that old book called "Useless."
I loathe to call it mine.
There each and every paper,
now added to their own
collection of these useless
thoughts, was ne'er made known.

'Till dust began collecting
upon the golden leaf
that read the title "Useless"
so powerful and brief,
until I dared to read it
and so lament each time
I had no say in rhythm,
in meter or in rhyme.

And there spread out before me,
each letter cold and black,
contained my very life, still
no life was reading back.
I wanted so to burn it
and send it to its grave.
'Till, better or for worse, I saw
this book is all I have.

I quietly replaced it
between the other books,
now something less embarrassed
by all the space it took,
and realized there with reverence
I needed a new page,
to change my manuscript and
above all else, engage.

And so I keep old "Useless"
so that they might believe
that I write in these pages
for them and not for me.
And here I write another.
It does not have a name
since only time will dictate
the nature of my game.

Now tired of that story,
monotonous and prose,
I altered my technique. now,
it, something like this, goes:
I wrote a poem called useless
though I dont think it is.
You see, it is a prologue.

Beware of armour
that shines too bright. Who knows if
it's never been used?

It's your sunday best
that no one ever sees again.
When its written down in stone,
well no ones questioning it then.
But when you stand confronted
with the parents, brother, friends,
how can you say:
I never really liked him anyway.