I don't like the fit of my pants, I think. She is wearing a black dress. Probable that it is her favorite. She often mentions her closet, her designer clothes, but they go unnoticed. She owns many, but this particular dress she wears more frequently.
She is in a good mood.
Her life is falling apart.

Where to next, she thought.

What is this now, I think.

We are sitting at a restaurant downtown. I order my second beer. Our waitress leaves us to our thoughts. I sip my beer and wait for her to speak. She takes a sip of her water. I can see that she is tapped out.

Drained.

Purity is filtered.

I rest my hand on top of hers. She keeps her eyes on her glass. The past month she has not made eye contact when I touch her. She keeps her eyes closed when we have ***. It would be silly of her to close her eyes and picture me while we ****, but a man can dream, right? I remove my hand. I sip my beer and wait for her to speak. She takes a sip of her water.

"Are your eyes open when you **** him?" I ask.

She does not falter. She orders a gin and tonic. Our waitress leaves us to our thoughts.
I sip my beer and wait for her answer.

New,
without you,
once lost,
once blue,
I learned how to commit;
let me elaborate:

Words reliably true

Paradoxical in every sense,
because leaving is not facing
a problem, as problems
seem to be everlasting;
however, commitment works
in both ways.
Committing to solitude
is held with less regard
the same way
the kernels in a popcorn bag
are thrown away,
the same as the ends of a loaf,
and broth of a soup,
and sometimes it is
missing the sun for a day's time.

But it will be there again.
It will be found again.

If I thought about you,
would you think about me?
If I give
and you take,
could I ever expect you to give?
Why,
when I'm
with you
I feel I can live,
but time progresses,
and words dissipate;
the need for words
seem less provoked.

You're insufferable.
The humor in this
is what I've become
at my own expense.
This shadow
clinging onto
a discontent
disposition.

Delusions
deemed
deeply drastic during
decomposition,
decidedly.

I decided.
Lights turn on.
Light bulbs flash.
Shadows dissipate.
The same as our words,
decidedly.

To speak in good taste:
My mouth is full,
but this food is delicious.
Since I prepared the meal,
could you wash the dishes?

It's on the tip of my tongue:
I know what I mean to say,
but consonants and vowels
are hard to place,
so give me some time.
This isn't a race.

It could always be worse:
Yes, it could be,
but spare the neurotic,
because hypotheticals,
are never exotic.

If there's a will,
there's a way:
Excuse the jaded ****,
who puts thought into thought,
and understands the
value of a buck.

But to speak freely,
and to lose my filter,
our differences are
commonplace.
I'm a flower
that withers.

And
at the end of the day,
who am I to say,
that my frustrations
differ from yours,
because we keep all of our truths
locked
behind closed doors.

“After hours of evaluations, our doctors came to the conclusion that he was paranoid, but speaking with family and friends, they stated that there were no obvious signs of mental distress. No one expected him to go through with the ******. He had a lot of faults, but most were thought to be harmless. His idiosyncrasies were overlaid with a well thought out patience and understanding. During the evaluation he spoke of compartmentalization, and his lack of emotional comprehension, which he explained should not be misconstrued as “apathetic behavior.”  His words were inveigled, and when he wasn’t applying his charming disposition, he was implementing a passive aggressiveness. This was a man who did not hide in the shadows, but he knew them very well. Darkness was shown through his eyes the longer we spoke, as his pupils grew larger, and his determined stare, a menacing stare, pierced people’s souls.” – Dr. Rebecca Altwater

Thursday

On the train. Not awake. It's not too crowded, around me at least. There is a group of black students, yes, I said black, because that is the color of their skin, and, well, I’m white, and I’m fine with being described as white. This is all factual. So the black, students, high school students, are creating a commotion. (I have always hated using the term “African American” because it has always made me feel prejudice. When I say it, I think of it as a label, and I’d rather not go further into what I mean by *labels). The train smells like ****. The smell overpowers my coffee. The coffee is weak. My body is aching. I’m starting to develop a headache. (The students are now beat boxing). My head is mutating. Temples pulsating. Veins exposed. Eyes closed. The beat boxing continues.

I reach into my leather shoulder bag. I’m not looking for anything in particular, more or less trying to look busy. A woman three seats down is watching me intently. My eyes are fixated on my bag. I can feel her eyes examining me. It’s hard to rule out the theory of having a sixth sense, especially in situations as these. My fingers delicately brush over a novel, the novel I decided to read during the train ride for this work week, to which I haven’t started reading, and completely forgot I placed in my bag — (It was an impulsive purchase) it was now another item that would solidify the self-realization that I am a procrastinator, and considering that this novel was for the work week, and it is now Thursday, just proves my point further. The novel will be shelved, and another novel will take its place in my leather shoulder bag. Although I may not follow through with my intentions I am still a person who stays very consistent. I will swap novels. After work I will stop at Borders books. I’ll need a new novel for work week number thirty out of fifty-two. After a week it will be shelved, and I will start again: buy another novel, and continue to not read it. I’m a very consistent person.

Saturday

My alarm went off for thirty minutes this morning.

Sunday

Glenn, my brother, calls me early in the afternoon to invite me to dinner. A family dinner. And he informs me that our mother will be there. He graciously asks me if I can attend, but I know he only invites me because he is dreading our mother’s visit. Very seldom do I see or hear from my brother and his family, but when our immediate family is added to the equation I am the first person he calls. I am (and this is how he put it) his “emotional confidant” when he becomes too overwhelmed. The reason this is, is because it has always been a one way street. His perception of me is not the most desirable, but he trusts my word. The term that comes to mind, when him and I converse, is that I am self-destructive. It must be easy for him to give insight to this speculation when he is just as irrational as I am. Our only difference is that I have embraced the idea of negative and positive spontaneity, whereas his neurosis comes from self-induced pressure and stress. When I die, it would not be in vain if it happened without warning. I am reckless. If he died unexpectedly, it would be of great shock, but it will most likely be the cause of a brain aneurysm.  It’s funny how irony works. You know, us being brothers, and him seeing us as total opposites, when in reality our similarities outweigh the obtuse differentials.

Wednesday

It’s the halfway point of the work week. I have my new novel, untouched, in my leather shoulder bag. For the last three days (including today) I have arrived at the train station an hour earlier than usual. I made this decision Monday, and have found that it is a more logical time. Although I have an hour to **** before work, I avoid my headache (the black students) before sitting at my office desk. Thankfully, there weren't too many pros and cons that came with this decision. It was fairly easy. I could have continued to deal with an excruciating head pain, one that would stick with me throughout the day, or sacrifice an hour of sleep. The latter was the correct choice. When I came to this conclusion on Sunday I could not rest my brain. My mind was at ease, I felt relieved and content, but I was apprehensive nevertheless. Monday came and went, (slowly, because of minor sleep deprivation) along with all of my anxieties from the past week.

I never thought I’d say this, but seeing a therapist helps. There hasn't been much to articulate yet, concerning my listlessness, but my insomnia was discussed, and I was optimistic. My problems could be far worse, and when they are, maybe leaving an hour early is the answer. My next appointment is in two hours, at four, and I’m going to leave shortly. I don’t know what I will do for the extra hour I have allotted myself, but I do have a novel I won’t read and a newspaper that was left on my desk, with the headline reading, “Crime Rates Rise: How To Maintain Your Sanity During The Recession.”

Tease me with your words.

Let.
       Each.  
                 Syllable
       Fly.
Free.

And when you drift
away,
I hope this happiness exists,
that you find
to be beyond
your fingertips.

You put the L
in Lust,
and the Loss
in Love.

But let me not forget
my own imperfections.
When you force yourself
to smile all of the time,
you ready yourself available
to restrooms.

Who am I to say what your smiles mean?
Just as I would not expect you to know mine.

The quirks and the relevancy of
daily life
cloud the fact
that progression
is essential,
and that the need for development
is the reason for closure
and travel.

Emotional baggage is only
goodbyes that aren't finished.
And sometimes they will never
be salvaged; relationships are like that.
But it's important to remember
who you explained a few
smiles to.

She was eighteen.

She was eighteen.
I was approaching twenty-five,
closing in on seven years bad luck.
Never did I fool myself,
knowing that every few years a reflection shatters,
and broken pieces are left to be cleaned up.
It is important to find
the differential in conversation
between adult and child.

As we are life, young life
is only a little less prepared
to comprehend the fact that
many answers will evade us.
Effect is a noun.
Affect is most commonly a verb.
Maybe that is why we become jaded.
Maybe that is why we use the word innocence.
Children hope to find a wisdom
that they believe adults hold.
After so long children will begin
to seek their own wisdom.

We put the family dog down.
But what did he know.
We kept calling him a good boy,
and with what strength he had left,
his body would twitch
and fall limp.

October is a terrible month.
Leaves leave.
Breathe steam.
Dogs die.
Ghostly goodbye.
We kept calling you a good boy,
in between feeding you treats.
October is a terrible month.
It's a month full of tricks.

None of us expected you to marry.
Your proclivity towards promiscuity
was well documented.
In any case,
we knew that the reception,
your reception,
would be centered around an open bar.
This would become the precursor
to your marriage.

We knew you were an animal.
A snake.
A fox.
A dog.
A rat.
The black sheep.
But none of us expected
your bite to be worse than your bark.

Behind black eyes,
your wife tried
not to cry.
Explaining to us
the itch you couldn't scratch.
But none of that mattered.
We all knew the difference
between an accident
and an act of aggression.
******* on the couch is one thing,
but you never put your paws on a woman.

We put the family dog down.
But what did he know.
We kept calling him a good boy,
and with what strength he had left,
his body would twitch
and fall limp.

This was one dog
we couldn't
throw a bone to.

Image based, and
position placed,
to keep society spaced,
image of peace erased.

Individuals put in groups,
separated by bodies,
as Congress lobbies,
preparing forbidden fruits.

People told to turn a blind eye.
Focused on the one atop the pyramid.
"Spend greenbacks, don't sigh!"
These are government truths!
Not a marketable lie!

Human soul for sale;
morals thrown out to no avail.
Industry infiltrates and states:
Conformity: You'll win, not fail.

He writes good.
Well, using "twenty dollar words," anyone
can coin a phrase.
Call me a ****, as I finish the intended word,
and browse said book to find the meaning.

He writes good.
Well, knowing how to place a period
is rather elementary.
But let me learn you something.

He writes good.
Well, tension is told in fragments.
No? Well. Okay.

He writes good.
Well, a minimalist knows
that every word
counts.

He writes good.
Well, to be a realist,
you must know that
coincidence differs from irony.
Step onto an elevator.
Is it coincidence that every building,
is missing the thirteenth floor?
Or is it ironic that superstition
has laid the blueprint?

He writes...well,
he writes.

In a few words,
I could do so much.

Now here comes the tricky part:
What to write.
What to express.
Thoughts that collide,
as I get them off my chest.

Not knowing whether to rhyme,
or to keep open structure.
A free verse;
open, then converse.
Many ideas to disperse.

Shakespearean sonnet please!
Something to state on bent knees.
Beautiful words I create.
I ams what I ams.
I sees what I sees.

In a few words,
I could do so much.
Maybe enlighten a few souls,
with words and such.
But this isn't my only outlet.
This isn't my crutch.

I guess it was when I found the eviction notice on the front door, or when I was going on three months being unemployed, or maybe even the point where I questioned myself as a writer, is when I sat down and started writing out facts. I was a writer in love with fiction, and besides my non-fiction work that allowed me enough money to eat (mostly to drink, unless there were food specials at the bar) I was writing short stories. I never thought about writing about my life, because in my mind I was still young. I was wet behind the ears; a little **** that thought he knew everything. I know nothing.

Dr. Seidman asked me if I wanted to play a board game.
I didn’t respond, in fact I looked as if I was ignoring him purposefully, but I wasn’t. He sat patiently and waited for me to respond. The truth was that I was apprehensive. This was the first time I had been in front of a therapist, and I didn’t know what to say, let alone how to act. I found it odd that the first thing he asked me was if I wanted to play a game. I was ****** as well. Before I got in the car with my mother I sat upstairs in my bedroom, took out my “inhaler” and packed the bowl. (During this time in my adolescence I was fascinated with marijuana and also with the devices used to smoke it with. I didn’t like rolling joints, and blunts had not caught on at that time. Instead, I would make my own bowls. My inhaler became one of my favorites; it was easy to conceal). I got ******, headed downstairs, grabbed a water, lit a cigarette (my parents were adjusting to the fact their fourteen year old was a smoker), waited outside of my mom’s station wagon, finished my cigarette, flicked it at the end of the driveway, and got in the car. The car ride to Dr Seidman’s office was unbearable. Neither of us spoke, the radio was turned down to a low volume, playing music form the 70’s and 80’s; Elton John’s Someone Saved My Life Tonight was playing. It was ironic to say the least. By the time the song ended we were in the general vicinity of his office. My mother was gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles becoming white, her face becoming red. It was at this point that I realized she was just as nervous as I was.

“**** her,” I thought. She was the reason I was going to see this man. I didn’t ask to come here and she had the audacity to be nervous. She was being selfish. We could have turned the station wagon around and went back home. We could have taken care of any of our problems at home. We didn’t need to consult a “professional” and talk about our “feelings.” This was the point that I felt my life had become the stereotypical suburban life: a life that you would see on television shows; one that consisted of doctors, prescription drugs, confused youth, mid-life crisis, and of course the nervous breakdowns.

We are in front of the doctor’s office. The area surrounding us looks like an industrial park. I don’t know what to think of this, but I in any sense an exterior cannot speak for an interior.

My mother and I are still in the station wagon, seat belts still buckled, the radio still down low, when she turns to me. She looks at me, only the way a mother can, and smiles. I can only bring myself to return her smile with a smirk. I have always been known for my apathetic smirk. I’m waiting for her to speak. I know she is trying to think of the right words, but like me, we have a habit of saying the wrong thing. Our words are always misplaced even though we might have the best intentions.

“Don’t ******* him,” she said

“Okay,” I said in return.

There must be a catalogue book that caters to therapists.

Dr. Seidman’s office looked very generic, like I had fallen into a bad movie, or like the only furniture allowed in the office had to be leather. That is the one smell I will always remember from his office. Even now when I smell leather I think of his office.

On his desk was a calendar, assorted writing utensils (although he had a name placard with a golden pen inserted in the center), and a desk lamp with the customary green glass shade. The wall to the right of him, and next to the office door, was lined with assorted books; filling up the bookcases that took up the full space of the wall. I was sitting on a leather couch that faced the office door. He was sitting in his leather armchair in front of his desk. He looked at me; I looked at the elaborate stitch work of the carpet. The office was calmly lit and relaxing, even though I still looked tense. I didn’t want him to look me in the eye. They were dry and red and I was high.

“Would you like to play a game?” He asked me.

I continued to stare at the carpet. He kept silent while waiting for my answer. I was thankful for that.

When I was tired of the carpet I glanced up and over to where he was sitting to find him looking at a marble chess set. I was expecting his eyes to be on me. They weren’t.

“What kind of game?”

“What do you like? I have board games, we can play cards, or checkers, or chess. Why don’t you tell me what game you’re good at? I’ve played them all countless times, but I’m always looking for a good challenge.” He said with a subtle level of smugness. He was trying to entice me, to challenge me, and it was working.

I spotted the checker board. “Checkers. I’m good at checkers.”

“Then checkers it is,” he said brightly. He stood and grabbed the antique looking checker board and grabbed a table to put in between us. He placed the board on the table and moved his seat closer. We were now face to face and ready to start our first of many strategic games.

Our first meeting was spent in front of a checker board in silence. Very seldom did we exchange words. After three games of checkers (which he won), we shook hands and he told me our session was over for the night. He walked me to his office door, said hello to my mother with a formal introduction, and told us both that he was looking forward to seeing us both the next week. My mother asked me to wait in the car while she asked the doctor a question. I didn’t argue. I walked to her car and unlocked it. I sat and for once in a long time felt at ease.

I went into Dr. Seidman’s office with a pre-conceived notion of talking, or not talking, about my feelings and what caused them. Instead we played checkers. We watched each other’s moves on the checker board. He had a way of making a vulnerable situation bearable. He put my anxiety at ease. But while I sat alone in my mother’s station wagon I couldn’t stop thinking of one thing he said before I walked outside. He said he was looking forward to seeing both of us the next week. I was curious by what he meant when he said “both of us.”

I spit blood at work.
I wandered off, to smoke.
I spit red.
Walked inside.
Full screen.
Blood on a napkin,
buys you five minutes.

I make your food with love.
My sweat and blood,
you savor.
Bread with your meal.
Compliments of my body.
I suggest white wine,
with your meal,
seeing as how the only red,
we have,
is being spat to the ground.

Eighty-six emotion.

Cooks yell at servers.
Servers at cooks.
Customers at servers.
None of which is justified,
but putting up with *******,
is harder to swallow,
enveloped in heat.
Cold hands filling glasses,
seems easier,
to deal with,
rather than slicing meat.
It's rare
that you can,
find people willing to battle,
the heat of the kitchen.

Too many mediums.
The simplicity of conversation,
died today.
Died after the eighties,
because,
the neon lights,
and lines of coke,
wouldn't last forever.

You can't buy a cup of coffee.
Take your drink from the counter.
Move out of line.
There isn't a payphone inside.
You couldn't order a large.
It's a Starbucks.
Ask the homeless man in the bathroom,
shooting his dreams,
into his arm,
if you can borrow his iPhone,
to make a call.

And **** it all to hell,
if he asks you for change.
You only have a card.
Your piece of mind,
comes with a receipt.
But give him credit,
because he'll take an I.O.U.

Light your cigarette with the same hand,
holding the coffee.
Pass by people that do,
and people that do not.
Exhaling smoke,
some to which is blown,
up an *** or two.

Today is Tuesday,
or Friday,
and you have work,
or you don't,
but right now,
you are where you are.
At this moment,
there aren't any expectations,
but your own.

And when payphones,
become fewer,
and fewer,
You can take solace in knowing,
that calls will come,
less frequently.

*But a business card is mandatory.

Writing in ink brings security.
Because my mistakes can never be erased.

A last minute worker on a mission.
Being a busy bee.
Talking a game too big for his ego.
Leading into a massive contradiction.
Wondering, what is the role of society?
Telling you to be everything you can be.
So you make up tall tales to excite.
But only left with excruciating anxiety.
A man that had it all verbally .
But nothing to show for his empty words.

He contemplates his next move.
Knowing that might even lead to procrastination.
"It always does," he says.
"But does it have to?" Asks his conscience.
Dumbfounded now, because he understands the right answers.
Coming from the back of his mind.
Creeping through.
So his work will get done.
And get him out of this bind.
"Thank you," he thinks.
"You're welcome," replies his conscience.
"Anytime."'

It must be this third cup
of coffee that has me on
edge. But not to confuse
anxiety for indigestion.
I'm sick to my ******* stomach.

Maybe you could be a little sweeter?

I said, maybe you could pass the sweetener.

I'm not one to stir the ***,
but I need something fresh.
This is stale, and the grinds
taste like pennies.
My spit is red.

The best part of waking up,
is having a *** to **** in,
to have a glass half full,
but who is the fool?

The fool is the man,
that runs out of coffee filters,
and uses toilet paper,
instead.

I drink my coffee black.
It's an absolute.
Why mix cream?
When I don't believe,
everything is so black,
and white.

What I do take,
makes tomorrow.
Goodbyes, do not happen,
until the next day.
Closed eyes.
Goodbyes.
Until next times.
Why sleep,
only to wake in analysis.
Red eyes; because sleep is
for death.
When your arms go numb,
you find release.
Dark circles.
Light moans.
Sleep deprivation.
Self deprecation.
REALationships.
A man stuck in the clouds,
because walking on solid ground,
will eventually become worn;
cracks form
and spread,
and that is time.
Time makes no mistake.
Time shows the etch lines,
sketched in a face.
The rings on a log.
The ***** jewel.
Words that still resonate.

I'm a grown child.
Twenty-five, in a little while.
A quarter century.
I believe, we are all children,
at this age.
At thirty.
Forty.

We seek fulfillment.
And, I suppose,
when we have children,
it will implement this unknown,
Intensity.
We live for intensity.
We suffer by convenience.

Remember, having a child,
does not make you grown.
Simply seen, is child with child.
The biggest responsibility,
in life, is life.

Where are you without knowledge?
What are you able to pass on?
An idividual mark is small.
A blip on the radar.
Insignificant,
when you're a grown
child.

People can see into the future.
Their future.
One with others.
One with others gone.

Time.
Is.
Man-made.
Happiness.
Is.
A.
Choice.

The bad day.
The awkward situation.
The birthday.
The ride home.
The next day.

Heart and mind decide.
Who we let into our world.
And what we read,
and who we are,
allows us to be intimate,
we excel by far.

What does that mean?
You're acting funny.
I'm not in the mood.
Are you ******* serious?
I've had enough!

In any close relationship,
fights will happen.
They always happen.
Start to finish.
Friendships seemed diminished.

I'm sorry.
Me too.
My fault.
No mine.
Friends?
Friends.

Every relationship we hold.
With men and women.
Define us.
And when you have friends,
it is your decision to be apart,
of their lives.
It takes nothing but heart.
So fear never strives.

Happiness.
Is.
A.
Choice.

It was the drugs.
I said through clenched teeth,
as pressure on extremity,
exposed vein, in vain.
Left me pondering false immunity.

There is romance that goes along with destruction.
The needle gleams in the candle light,
the brown powder starts to bubble,
euphoria will make all right;
mixed around, it swirls.
Stronger than a cup of coffee,
weaker than a peaceful sleep.
Chemicals prolong internal pain.
Tears produced from withdrawal weep.

Fallacies of ambition spread.
Others see you, as eyes shut.
You're always awake.
And you'll make your point,
make no mistake.
As body meets grave.
As ground envelops granite stake.

How much did he take?
This can't be real, this must be fake!

How much did he take?
This must be fake.

This is a poem.
And there was a tree.
And a person underneath.
Gravity happened.
An apple fell.
It rolled on the ground.
Many things roll.
Like a ball on a smooth surface.
That was a comparison.
Poems work best with relation.
Some people love.
Some people fear.
That is enough for some.
Black and white is simple.
Some like complexity.
Metaphors.
Obscurity.
And in the end.
I guess what every author wants.
Is someone to take the time and read.
If only from beginning to end.
This is the end of the poem.

Do you know what I mean?
You asked.
I told you I did.
Although, I did not expand.
I left the explanations up to you,
that night.
I left a window open,
to clear out the smoke.
As you cleared the air,
and through animated gestures,
you let your mind spill out
onto the proverbial canvas.
You called it negative space,
but that was your discomfort.
You rested your hands.
Do you know what I mean?
I wanted to rest my hands,
on top of yours,
I needed to know you were real.
Do you know what I mean?
My eyes never faltered.
If I blinked, you'd be gone,
and that I did not want.
All I wanted was you,
at that moment,
all I needed,
was you.
Do you know what I mean?
You started to pace.
My hands hit the table;
yours hit the air,
because idle hands
are devilish when kept by your side.
Disconcerting, felt mine,
hidden in the depths of my pockets.
Anxiety ridden,
I searched for change.
A penny to free my thoughts.
Only a paperclip, a button,
lint and other nothingness.
I surveyed the room,
looking for a moth
to hit the light.
Do you know what I mean?
I knew what you meant.
I know what you mean.
I told you I followed.
In a figurative sense,
I followed.
In a literal sense,
it was implied.
However, I kept that notion to myself.
Considering the following you have built.
I knew I would distance myself,
from that familiarity.
Do you know what I mean?
We are perceptive.
Acquaintances see this,
and thoughtfully they are left
to their own devices.
Because God-forbid someone becomes close.
No. No, that vulnerability is tangible.
It's nauseating.
Food for thought,
I'm sick,
you know.
I expel my insides.
Still surveying the room for a moth,
and I spot a butterfly.
Do you know what I mean?

Deja Vu has become an inconvenience in my life.
See double; stop to see; faint then see; I see
everything; twice is what I see.

Bright flash before repetition occurs.
Like a warning flash, but I can't hide.
I'm captured.
A chemical imbalance.
A negative developed.

Start reel; cut negative; rewind; see?
Rewind- Rewind, see?
Maybe if I ignore it all.
Maybe if I ignore it all.

A loop. No new direction.
Maybe if I ignore it all,
I can capture my own images.
Collect and store them.
A sideshow is the last thing I need.

Because right now I have my days memorized.
And if practice makes perfect.
Then I have reached my peak.

Rewind- see?

Hand in hand.
A soul thought scorn.
Cradle: new life.
Paw extended: thorn.

Second coming, unknown.
Rapture, as blood shed.
Our savoir, left to die.
A martyr, unbeknownst, is dead.

Walk the test of sand.
As sea comes to part.
North Star brought guidance.
Envy thwarted heart.

A...

Body and title.
Benevolent temple.
Brevity to misconstrue.
Beseeching is ample.

Coarse line drawn.
Completion marked for a later day.
Complacency made eyes blind.
Conception vague, I'm led astray.

Define by showing.
Deplete the art of talk.
Distraught by nature.
Dashed, the outline: chalk.

Erroneous calculation.
Every rhythm wrong.
Expect a hand for help.
Effronteries made for song.

Freedom fought for.
Frivolous attitude displayed.
Feeble attempt concerning unity.
Frightened, we kneel, we pray.

Gullible we've become.
Gregarious while holding motive.
Greed is behind our movement.
Genocide is holy solace.

Hark the herald,
Humans sing.
Habitual enemy of one's self.
Humility stings.

Insecurities overpower our decisions.
Indiscretions aren't seen as shame.
Instability is welcomed.
Idiosyncrasies are left to blame.

Juxtaposed loser.
Jovial perception placed.
Jealousy never apparent.
Just relationships - never disgraced.

It's knowing.
It's knowing that stalls you.
It's knowing what steps to take.
It's knowing what promises to break.
It's knowing how time should be spent.
It's knowing there will always be regret.
It's knowing what seems perfect is desperation.
It's knowing that there are boundaries for relation.
It's knowing what it means to be a friend.
It's knowing there isn't need to pretend.
It's knowing how to be spacious.
It's knowing how to be gracious.
It's knowing that leads you.
It's knowing,
in the end.

The body goes through changes.

The mind grows.

Eventually goes.

There is time spent knowing...

knowing about one's existence,

what love is,
what it isn't.

Feeling

With feet firmly planted on the ground,

it becomes frightful to think of being beneath it.

Food for the Earth, we are.

We populate our planet,

and we have come far.


We've documented man's evolution.

The evolution.
The enlightenment.
The ecosystem.

However, we forget about the gift we are given.

Spinning on an axis.

We're egocentric.

We put ego over eco.


We're contained.

Entomology, of sorts.

Maybe Darwin was right.

My hand rested perfectly,

on your chest.

I made time with your heartbeat.

Rhythmically intertwined, you settled.

For me.



The small of your back.

The hesitation in your breath.

You became lucid.

Your ***** was wet.

Tripping.
Tripping,
Because…
Because society says so.
That’s why.
Tell me I’m wrong,
When…

You have war in the streets, but
I’m wrong to complain.
And you ridicule,
Free thinkers,
And you call them insane.
When you try to take liberties,
That are permanently engraved.

And sell us consumption;
****** abundance;
Utter redundant,
Dreams among us.

Marketing schemes,
Big budget dreams,
Jobs that disappear,
But,
Keep optimistic,
Don’t fear.

Take a trip in your nation,
Consumed with corpulent creatures,
Once known human,
Easily seen,
Wiping Big Mac sauce from their lips,
Clutching Old Navy Bags,
Drinking Starbucks coffees.

Little change do you receive,
From a store,
When it all goes on plastic.

What people don’t realize,
Is that credit,
Is misplaced poverty.
And people speaking their minds,
And making a difference,
Are treated with disrespect,
It’s humanities ignorance.

So next time,

You see a man on the street:
Playing a guitar;
Singing a song;
Painting a portrait;
Projecting a message;
Getting along.

Think this:

There are a lot of way to describe credit.
Only one for money.
You can want to make money.
Or you want to deserve credit.

It only depends on how, you
Think of that.
But one thing that’s always true,
Is the sound of change,
Hitting the inside of a cup.

Children know not,
what love is,
yet.

Just as their parents,
did not,
when they were small.

It is something passed along,
generation to generation,
to use, exceedingly,
when old.


Such a foreign concept,
when not taught.
And yet, when learned,
it is a power.

A force that can overthrow,
ignorance.

Love is impressionable.
Love is always justified.
And love, can
sometimes be malicious.

It is passion. It is security. It is an honest belief.

What is love?

It is a wall between two cities,
the rocking chair in the corner of the room,
and the recipe book shelved.

It is the wine glasses,
the lover’s warm breath on your neck,
and a locked bedroom door.

It is a book,
the men following footsteps,
and the flash before detonation.

It is strained vocal chords,
the incessant ringing of a phone,
and frown lines etched in a face.

It is the sirens announcing defeat,
the tears that become screams,
and doors being kicked from their frames.

But, one thing love is not,
love is not a heart.

Love can never be a heart.

Love is a key.
Love is changed locks.
Love is a blown bulb.
Love is the smell of rain.
Love is a river overflowing.
Love is a torrential downpour.
Love is the ups and downs.
The good and the bad.
The old and the new.

But one thing love can never be…

It can never be a heart.

Save the date, the letter reads.
The date staring me in the face,
with the time right beside.

I remember our time, although
it was never dated, only stated.

My face gleams,
reflected in the gold embroidered letters.
The date and time leaving an impression.
The letters and words sinking in.
Permanently pressed.

The letter sealed two fates.
A celebration to connect two souls.
But no room for a third party,
at the party that is.

Guests will arrive with gifts,
setting them atop the table.
As I find room for my excess baggage.

Perfect gift to receive before the honeymoon.
In my eyes, not others.
As they approach and say,

“You ruined her day! Do you even care?”

And I reply, “I do.”

It seemed as if,
you fell into my blade.

Searing pain, screaming
my name.
Hand gripping chest, and finger
points to me.
I'm to blame?
I'm to blame.

Bitter.
Sweet.
Your eyes running,
while you stay stationary.
I lick your tears,
because...

I've waited;
menacing stares are dry,
there isn't need,
for moisture.
Solidity gone, against,
soluble grain.
I've waited for your tears;
I've missed them.

But in the end,
when your misadventures,
become takes of legend,
I will take pleasure.
A tale is a tale,
but a corpse is a tally.

She told me that she was "unconventional" in relationships.
She said, "I understand you not wanting a relationship, but wanting companionship."
"Don't say it," I responded.
My hands clammy.
Knuckles white.

When one man leaves, another comes.
It's selfish to wipe tears from your eyes,
when you still haven't wiped your lips.
Another man comes. Another man leaves.
Yet, you call me,
to talk.

You associate with men that give you oral,
and what you ask of me is voice.

You spoon feed me your words,
and I hear your voice shake.
I taste your vulnerability.
I rest my hand on your chest.
I feel your disillusionment.
I feel your heart,
beat.

Each of us: promiscuous persons;
I thought you would have been stronger.

I wanted to ****,
and you wanted to make love.
But I couldn't.
The only love making I knew,
came after a dial tone.
I left your call, waiting.
I've always had your number.

And now I can see your letter:
bold and scarlet.
And I still call you friend.
The "unconventional" harlot.

Once upon a time
There was a story never told
A soul that was unknown
A man who grew too old

Privacy was his game
This game he played so well
Secrets aren't of shame
In retrospect they were sometimes swell

Mr Hermet's shell grew too small
Enough to make him crabby
Too many objects to hold
The man looked surly and shaggy

Like a grape in the sun you find
All the years past weren't too kind
The texture soft and wrinkled
This man still undefined

The tears run like waterfalls
Too quick to slow down

Same as the time this man has left
Not enough to make amends
Maybe some to gain respect
If not, go ahead let the end commence
But all in all he did his best

I told her.

I told her,
I loved her.
I told her,
we couldn't
speak,
to
one another.

I watched her lips move.
As she told me she didn’t love me.
I watched each syllable leave her precious lips.
She looked into my eyes.
But…

But I kept my eyes glued to her lips.
I wanted to hang onto every word,
knowing that when her lips were not parted,
our fate was sealed.

Done…

Done, is the drink in his hand.

Done, dim are the lights,

last call.



As faces fade,

and the door opens,

lonely is the man,

that fails.



A shift in seat,

eyes wandering,

left to right.

While all the while,

he wrote;

he writes.



October air,

carries,

the man home,

to the streets.

Yuppie < Beatnik,

in public,

he speaks.



Parked,

in a bench,

his bed.

Words written, they

position his neck,

he rests his head.



Morning, glory!

Next day, reprieved!

and,

joints rustle,

as leaves are blown by the wind.

Away goes the old,

death is easily carried,

away.



This life,

his life,

carried away.

Not knowing,

that,

destruction is beautiful.

It only takes one’s self,

to realize.



To realize,

a beauty that:

Is not at the end of a bottle.

Is not an ashtray full of butts, or

of what ifs.

It’s not lights out.



It’s the glimmer in someone’s eye.

The morning dew,

that reveals,

the previous night.

It’s the ink, bleeding.

The newspaper that crumbles.

The makeshift home,

that conceals,

a lost soul.

Small specs of white scatter the night sky.
Each illumination is unfamiliar, and so distant.
The worst part: Looking up is looking at the past.
The scattered sky is littered with ancient visions; death has never been so apparent.

I stare above, watching the lights with an admiration.
My sub-conscious is as scattered as the surly sky.
My past is also the only light I see.

Everything I think is comparison in theory.
If I can't be certain I can't misconstrue an empty perception.
I stare above, deep in thought, my universe is speaking.
My intuition glows, as the North Star guides me.

Only when the leaves die…
Time changes; days shorten and nights lengthen.
I fall as the colors change.
I fall as the temperature changes.
This proverbial color wheel is always on time,
it happens every year, and yet my comfort stays the same.
There is no change, same expression, that of a surly disposition.
Not having the warmth of sunlight might be a factor, but
I need to learn how to change my schedule.

Like a monster peering at a full moon; the Harvest moon is gleaming at me, taunting.
I stare at my hands, which gradually turn red.
The weather has me feeling cold.
I’m cold.
Less time; less sunlight; less patience; more irrational thought to consume.

Orange rays of light turn to a dark sky with an orange orb.
A prophecy that is told light-years away; a lifetime away that’s not in reach.
I hold my red hands above my head as I try to grasp the orange glow.
And deep down I know that is the wheel turning; the color wheel turning counter clockwise.
My world is shattered while staring above.
Everything is going back, but not in time.
Time has slowed. My universe is spinning too fast.
I’m disoriented.

I suppose this is normal.
I should know this is a constant in our world.
Seasons will change.
Time will change.
People, places, things.
But, I’m at a loss for words.
I keep thinking of nouns, when I can’t place the right verb.

Hours will pass and the days will pass.
Days will turn into weeks.
It will become colder, and that is when warmth is needed.
I need body heat.
I need to be surrounded by loved ones, but…
But that also takes time.
It is a transitional period.
It is to a degree.
Or for a lack of better words: It’s adding wood to the fire.

Crying is pointless.
Tears turn to icicles in a matter of seconds.
Which is self-loathing frozen in time.
And as the months move by…
The sun shines brighter; melting my sorrows and eventually evaporating.
My fears and troubles rise above me.
They get lost in the clouds.
And those days when it rains,
when people feel uneasy.
I know it’s our troubles falling back down.

The temperature rises, and I am content.
I hold my hands above my head as I try to grasp the orange glow.
And it feels good…
It’s good.
Until, everything starts to change once again.
And then I fall into my yearly routine.
Only when the leaves die…

Passing by suburban street signs.

They have simple messages to follow,

which is quite nice when I think about it.

As opposed to my concrete jungle:

tow zone; no parking zone; drug free school zone...

yes zone, my city is zoned.

It’s a grid that has an agenda,

to separate by market value.

Homes side by side to show self-worth,

not unlike the suburban structures.

Pre-packaged balsa wood ready for new families,

as dad puts in the new mailbox,

with dollar sign next to the address.

Impeccable lawns; fresh paint; no furniture

yes empty, the houses are meaningless.

It’s a show for other homeowners.

Reality happens behind closed doors,

in cities and suburbs.

I’m just following the street signs,

maybe I can find one that is for the public,

symbols or words.

It doesn’t matter, just as long as it isn’t a facade,

or an endless journey; a mirage.

I rest my head
Only for a moment
To gain some piece of mind
But a warning would have been nice
As reality slips away
And my cycles begin
Do you know that feeling?
The one you get in the pit of your stomach
The feeling of excitement and love
Well that took over
I see the cause of this feeling
And I walk toward it
With each step I start to feel complete
If one person can make you contemplate change...
Does that signify lust or love?
That moment I knew I was ready
To learn and appreciate everything I could
At least that's what I thought...

Because when I opened my eyes;
to see a bright sky;
I knew I couldn't have what I wanted.

So I sit at the table with a cup of coffee;
thinking of a way to accept this.

Out of class; out of state; out of mind. Carelessness implied; wrong questions with answers to find.

And perception viewed and seen as shame. But, coming from the shadows, I say I'm not to blame. Only if strangers knew the real side of things. As anxiety expands and spreads its wings.

So my disposition would be clear. And people would know I believe in fear. It is represented through a single tear. People aren't prophets, they're not seers.

And that might be the reason I hold composure. Knowing there aren't cameras; no exposure. No bright lights as the clouds part. A notion that stings and steals my heart.

With all that said I wonder why I feel lost. When my mood dictates weather, and the earth sees frost. So yes, I act cold. Some see bold.

But that is the farthest from the truth. I'm just the image of confused youth. The mental equivalent of mental abuse. Yes...confused.

It brings my mind to a bind. As I state: Out of class; out of state; out of mind.