sneakers laced up tight
double knotted
and tucked in to the left side of either shoe.
a ritual for the runner.
I’ve got this theory,
that people hate to run
because it gives them too much time alone
with themselves.
for me there’s always been something soothing there
no past
no future
even the ipod fades out to dim beat
not unlike the tic of a clock
beside your writing desk.
so im left with just the sound of my feet
the rhythm of my breath
and that refreshing taste of cool morning air
no past
no future
no thoughts
there are few finer things
than the emptiness of the road.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
an empty wallet
a few crumbled up credit card receipts
and the spare change leftover
from another days haste,
pulled out of yesterday's jeans,
and strewn across her nightstand.
the one right beside the half-empty bed
because full was never
just someone.
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 12:13 PM UTC
Chair rocked back against the bricks
two splashes of blue
glossed over and steady
trained on Frost’s luminary clock
the two all too often paired
dwelling together on the cost of time
smoke from the cigarette at her lips dances off
and up into the sky.
A half bottle of grinning intoxication held fast
between her thighs,
nagging at the edge of her vision for attention.
The moon has often made for her, a poor date
but with the tools of inebriation close at hand
a deep wound quickly sinks to a dull ache
from a dull ache to a mild consideration
and finally forgotten,
until the moon falls again from the sky.
with this she thoughtful twists the cap
back onto the bottle.
coherent enough to tell her date
“Best to save some for tomorrow night”
the moon seemed to give its silent approval.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 2:42 PM UTC
Standing sober here.
Surrounded by drunken cheer
I wonder, coincidence?
You smiling there
In your little red skirt
And your simply-done hair
Staring back at me
Smile, soft and loose
Resting there so naturally
Resisting the urge to look away
As you come in close
Holding nervous breath
In a nervous throat
Waiting to hear your voice
"Care to dance"
I would love to...
And tell me love,
That Im not dreaming
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 7:40 AM UTC
Staring at the night sky.
Back to the asphalt,
waiting.
The stars are dimmed by a thin cloud smattering
hanging above relentlessly,
the result of a windless evening.
Only here on a lampless island
could you see through to the stars.
The water laps rhythmically against the dockside.
Consistent.
Reassuring.
It seems I’ve been out here forever
awaiting my shooting star.
Irritating clouds matched with crisp night air,
make the search troublesome.
It’d be irrational to wait much longer.
Reconsidering.
Then she tears across the midnight sky.
Brilliant and promising.
Perhaps the brightest one yet.
I’ve never been a man for wishes,
but I have an urge to make one right now.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 7:38 AM UTC
The liquor hits heavy
As Saturday night usually does
One lone soldier on the far end of the table
Mocking me in his bright red shirt
A single bullet dripping in my hand
The deafening blare of the underground
enhances the effects of intoxication
Blinking and Breathing,
Struggling and failing to break its grip.
A noise to my right causes me to turn
And notice the face beside me staring back at mine.
A reach into a backyard fire
countless rides and cigarettes, one particular
through the worst kind of blizzard
A spring time confession
A day under a bridge, spent letting go
A winter pact, the broken glass of a rolling rock bottle
Alone, far from home, a letter and a picture
Proudly hung from my locker wall
My hand upon it every morning, hope, somehow
A lyrics rings clear from the clammer
"Nobody wants to here another story about how you couldnt write, right?"
recognition, my partner in crime
Turning back to the cup,
Exhale.
The ball released fluidly-- sinks into the cup with a sound of satisfaction
How many "tables" have we stood at together?
I made that cup.
And I'll keep on making it, just as you've done so many times for me.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 7:37 AM UTC
There’s this dream I have,
the wind soft on my face,
the salt smell of the ocean inhaled deep in my lungs
all the way through to the bottom of my soul.
I open my eyes,
the ocean lapping gently at my toes
a clear blue sky mirrored by crystal clear water
the sun shining down on my body
the sand formed to my figure
like i’d been here on this beach all along
I stand up and search the shoreline
as if I hadn’t been here so many times before
its barren and abandoned
not even a rock amongst the sand to heed my passing
the sun falls through the sky ever so slowly as I press on
only the whistle of the wind in my ears
the caress of the weathered sand
the cool water running up and over my ankles
and then away again
I find my imprint just as i’d left it
to stubborn to fade from the oceans weathering
I lay back down in the sand
and close my eyes
When they open again its dark
the lights off in my bedroom
so on these nights of celebration
I find myself searching the crowd, anxiously
another drink to settle
I’ll walk hand in hand with the devil
before I walk home alone tonight.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 7:29 AM UTC