After my sweet Gary was murdered for his swish, I never believed in zombies until they started turning on me. I’d always enjoyed those movies. Luckily I wasn’t in a crowd when it happened otherwise I’d have been overrun and chompin’ brains with the rest. I responded to a knock at my door one August evening, just past supper. My recent slovenly behavior was a disgrace but this time the fact that I left my golf clubs in the foyer saved my life. The putrid abomination lurched at me clutching a pamphlet in its decaying hand. I split its skull with a nine iron. It fell onto me. I wasn’t prepared for this. I’d heard of people preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse but hadn’t taken them seriously. Now zombies were everywhere. Barbecuing, mowing lawns, frequenting malls, socializing on the internet, texting, consuming more for less; and I had no weapons, no long term food and water supplies. What should I get first? I chose weapons. My car was in my driveway since my garage was full of stuff. I grabbed the biggest knife I had in the kitchen and kept my nine iron. I snuck to my car. I sped down the street to Gander Mountain. I plowed through a group of them and smashed through the store entrance. I made it to the gun section. I dispatched the zombies wandering the store and grabbed a semi-auto carbine and ammunition. I blazed my way out. Tripped. Fell. Uniformed zombies surrounded me but they cuffed me instead of eating my brains. Zombies surrounded me in a courthouse. Now I remember, the zombie at the door told me. Jesus was the first zombie. He died then rose from the grave. He didn’t want your brains. He wanted your soul, on many conditions.
chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’
Standing to fight
In the heart of the city
The jungles of asphalt
where neon flashes evil
as sidewalk dwellers
window shop hate
and find peace labeled “Not for sale”
I cling to my beliefs
in lamp post graffiti
Spray painted wishes
fading in color
and store owner nightmares,
defacing the brick walls
surrounding my very existence
Fear falls in pamphlet raindrops,
beyond the welcome mats
of big box politicians
in paisley ties
and sharp creased slacks,
shaking hands and scamming votes
circled in cigar smoke and cheap wine,
fall on unsuspecting ears as truth
until the “sorry we’re closed” signs
spin in favor of loss…
opening for business
to the throngs of the needy
I see their eyes, hollow,
faltering of sorrow as worry
becomes the next day’s problem
Reaching into my pocket I retrieve
the multi-colored wings you gave me…just in case
and I fly to be with you
Unable to face the fall…of humanity
How is it you can get to me
when I barely had you.
Scars reopened, and all I can think is
"He's still gone"
Tears are threatening to over flow
my heart is ready to burst
How do you expect me to breathe
when the only air I knew was you?
How am I supposed to smile
when you aren't there to cause it?
How do I keep from falling apart...
when you were the structure holding me together?
Do I dare say I love him?
I loved him?
no... I still do...
NO I DON'T
How do I fix this?!!?
please.. I'm emotionally beat..
All I can do is think about you..
and I know, younge love.
"you'll get over it"
I need an instuction pamphlet
or a "How to get over it for dummies"
or a hug...
How could he have done this?
Snuck in my chest and tore out my smile
and my vision,
leaving me blind, cold and empty.
I left you,
I promised myself I would
to keep you safe
from this fucked up world's view.
If I left, then why does it feel like you took everything,
I just want to smile..
some nights I wish I had never met you
and never opened my heart.
Because of you,
I lock my heart up
in a cold stone box
I've soldered the edges
and built a wall of cast iron.
Now I feel myself becoming cold,
as cold as the box I locked my heart in
and I won't open it
not for anyone.
I only have one heart..
I dare not break it anymore...
White maze for the middle classes,
collect your museum passes at the door,
continue through into exhibitions,
photo pictures of art you won’t remember the name of
but because you’re educated you’ll hope to retain its
name, medium, date and frame size of,
and equate them with those pieces you Googled before you came.
Through the double doors
her cries walked down the corridors
whilst cradled in his hands, cradled carefully,
he stood upright in boots on the
newly polished granite, shipped-in, floor.
The art gallery Father and Daughter
are the hidden display
only found in writing in the pamphlet
for today. Some will see them
through cuts in the door,
others may hear them but assume
it’s ambient art-gallery-played-through-speakers
sound coming from the back room.
a generation grown up on video games
blowing them to make it work
blowing our minds to blow ourselves
it's no wonder when we discovered
the fairy-tale reality of cooties
game mode continued to mind trick us
monopoly marathons were memorable,
"I'll take star-crossed lovers' lane
for $120." trade it in for mediocre love story
when the rent becomes too tough to pay
sorry didn't pretend to wear a mask,
"I love you, blue, but I love my red
oh so much more." hitting the reset button
on the heart of a former lover
chutes and ladders mapped the roller coaster
"give me one more chance, I promise I won't
screw (her) up." taking five steps back after
dumping the one you thought was The One
jenga was a car crash waiting to happen
"what happens if I pull out now?"
engineering an escape route to ensure
your heart doesn't topple to pieces
scrabble scrambled our brains
"all I needed was u and (m)e to make beautiful."
so distracted by the chaos of letters
blind to the bigger picture
love was the biggest brainfuck of them all
pamphlet of rules never made it to press
instead of learning to name our emotions
as kids, board games grew brains
took the wheel, said they'd take care of us
named the spectrum, no decoder ring
didn't tell us love had no rules,
that you had to make your own rules
in the end, figuring out all the games
ended up being the biggest game of all
Could you write which song you'd want KISS to end with in your original handwriting?
Could you kiss me?
Remember when we used to hate each other?
Tell Spocky I know he loves me
I think I might have loved you
Did you like girls?
I loved being your son
I still have that Footloose pamphlet you gave me
Thanks for being nice to me
I tacked that picture on my bulletin board
scratch my back?
You were my first step outside kid
I still think you were flirting with me
I was surprised when you swore
Can I get a towel, please?
I was writing poetry when you found me
Paul really is great, huh?
can I sit on your lap one more time?
Far off shores are memories
inside the hull of a leaking boat
I've seen the victories of freedom
in the pamphlet where they promote
Opportunity for everyone
even someone like me
but they don't show the lonliness
of being far out to sea, in the dark
raging to be free
I've spent a thousand lifetimes
being small in a place of awe
I've covered all my bruises
with a sense of propriety
and I'm pretty sure
that you won't see them
unless you read between the lines
Words are just a jumble of characters
that won't make sense
unless they're mine
Ive been in love with losers
and in lust with absolute rakes
My heart has broken a time or two
I've endured whatever it takes
to find my happy ending
and to make words of common sense
unless the end of everything begins with
if only I looked over the fence
I've been in love
I've been abused
I've been abandoned
I've been used
I found forever
I found the road
I lost my best friend
I never went home
I got what I was looking for
when it was least expected
I walked away from a mistake
before I became infected
I endured all the emotion,
absorbed whatever it took
With a sigh, I shut my eyes
and close the book
Should I but drift cross the street
Like a tattered pamphlet that
Could only be used for the first week:
For a fraction of the cost.
Should I but lay upon the floor
As if I was a simple throw
Destined to lay at the feet of those
Who thrive on what they know.
Should I but fall onto the side
Of a dense and forested path
Then I would know how it is to live
Without fear of turning back.
Should I but wake before I die
And renounce my elusive doom
Only then would my mind lie
Peacefully beneath my tomb.
He walked miles for a girl in
that sat with her feet propped up on a Mississippi
sunset shining in the lenses, reflecting,
her eyes, his eyes,
never looked so swollen as the day that she put it in
Tupperware and ate it with a plastic fork,
driving home to Delaware on an
empty tank of gas
clutching a scratched rosary, telling herself it was
still pure, that
unpurity sunk into the Mississippi sands and
she doesn’t think that southern seashells will ever find their way
to the east coast.
Ten years later, he is still standing in the
same place she left him,
creaky board on a smashed front porch,
except today he wears a terrycloth bathrobe but
still barefoot, callused,
cracks from heel to heel, he sets out, towards
the highway, newly built and roaring
it runs behind his old place, and he often finds himself
wandering after a shot of too much whiskey,
finds a place between a memory and a slight drunk,
finds a place to sit his ass and watch the cars go by,
swearing at each
motherfucking damn car…
this remains relevant as he sometimes sees
during these moments,
glancing back in the rearview
and he will feel the acid running, acid rising
from his stomach,
burning the back of his throat,
then goes back down.
She sits in church and doodles
his name on the back of
a donation pamphlet,
stained glass light turns her white dress
blood wrenching, heart
and she thinks to herself that
“this is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me”
How often do we bleed invisibly?
They write letters to each other
that will never be sent, and
if they were,
would never make it to the right addresses
return to sender
return to the places in between your bones where
the sadness sits,
a tulip wilted with frost,
anguish oozed out by accident.
Wipe them on your kitchen towel,