People sit alone
outdoors
and stare into
their phone

Let it not be mistaken
they are not losers
or weirdos
clearly they are on their
device, they are important
they are not lonely.

They have a whole world
that cares about them
in that phone
they are busy
they sit alone
but are not lonely.

I would much rather see
a person, sitting there staring
at the everything and nothing
around them

enjoying the fear
enjoying the judgement
enjoying the loneliness

But, at the same time,
here I am
sitting in this
quiet, crowded courtyard
writing this on my phone

Isn't that the role
of the 'poet'?

To observe problems
they're entangled in

To be all theory
and no action

To hope that your writing
will reach everyone else
in the world
except yourself?

I drain the cold bath
I'm in, and drain the glass
bottle in my hand
both filled with a dark liquid
I watch the last swirl of water
struggle to get through
the rusted drain

why am I in this god-awful
motel

I know why

I have addictions that drove me here
Drove her away
Drove my hands
to smack my children
Drove these tears
screaming down my face

I make a list of things to blame
and exclude myself of course
but what does it matter

What does this poem matter?
I don't actually have a family
I don't have kids
and I don't even like to drink.

I know I should have
called you back
but
for some reason
I
just

didn't.

Ask people what animal they would be
if they could be anything

more often than not they'd prefer to be some type of bird, which I heard is a sign that they feel trapped in their life and are in need of some sort of freedom

I understand it

but still find it strange in a way
with us being at the top of the chain and all
how much more capable we are of being free
and are even spared the absurd beaks

but birds can fly anywhere
and do what they actually want

I wonder who has been telling these people that they can’t

I don't know
I said I wanted to be a bear
what does that say about me?

It's about 2:30 in the morning
there you stand
a janitor
weilding your gigantic
paintbrush
in a full jumpsuit
and a bald cap.
Nobody's around.
The mophead slaps the ground
you dance with it
Swirling it all
across the checkered tile
with such grace
and such beauty!
Soak
Swash
Squeeze
Repeat.
What magnificent art
Such extraordinary
masterpieces
being created
night after night
across this marble floor!
Why,
Michaelangelo would be
turning in his grave!
A shame though,
That the paint is clear
and it dries away in about
15-20 minutes
and no one will
ever see or know
the greatest art ever created
by you,
the unknown custodian,
the master of sanitations,
the mop artist.

As I put down my phone
turn off my television
take out my headphones
close my laptop
and look up
into the distance
at the trees bending
with the wind
the clouds smashing together
in a dance with passing planes
and wild birds
in one
massive
chaotic tapestry
I'm reminded
what really matters,
and it isn't me

You complain about the heat
I fan you until
I am sweating out every
ounce of my will
for you.
You complain that it's too cold.
I strip down
to bare skin and wrap
you until you are comfortable
and the smile on
my skin is a grayish-blue.
Your malcontent has drawn
me weary
My heart's marrow
drips out slowly
to feed you
and keep us alive
But what us
can there be
once it is all dried up
to nothing but bitter air?
I guess
I'll just have to wait
and see