He walks into Patty's Pub
on the corner of 27th and Vine
with a guitar in his hand
and a bag on his back.

The bartender marks an M
on his left hand.
He is only 18; he is a minor.
But he pulls a water bottle,
filled with *****,
out of his bag and takes a drink.

Inhale, exhale.

He listens to the other performers
sing songs about
love and loss and regret.

None of the stories compare to his.

He finishes the bottle
and plugs his guitar into the amp onstage.

He sings
"I will never see her face again. I will only see her ****** veins. She said it was all my fault. My fault her life came to a halt and she couldn't catch her breath".

Inhale, exhale.

"The blade in her hand slit her wrist, and she twisted and persisted and I couldn't stop it".

Inhale, exhale.

"I couldn't stop it..."

He splinters his guitar
against the stage floor.

He falls on his knees.
He couldn't stop it.

I was perched
high above the busy market streets
in the stone wall trees
across the street from your favorite cafe.

You took a seat in the patio
that overlooked the sightseers
living in the moment,
and the photographers
trying to capture the time that was moving too quickly-
knowing this moment could last forever.

I morning light was radiant
in your dark brown hair
like a glimmer of concealed hope
that you and I both share.

I glided down from my arboreal
with my wings - blemished and fragmented,
yet cheerful and warm -
dancing in the warm sea air.

I landed on the rooftop
and I sang to you,
like you've always imagined me doing.

You smiled. A sublime sight to see.
And you closed your eyes and listened,
and breathed,
realizing that time is moving too quickly,
but knowing you can capture this moment

and make it last forever.

A poem inspired
by the awe and majesty of the pouring rain
falling upon the cathedrals and the vagrants
that say their Hail Mary's and Our Father's
on the front steps.

A poem inspired
by the love of a woman who
accepts the faults
and ignores the mistakes and regrets
that haunt many dreams.

A poem inspired
by the friends and the acquaintances
who hold up the hands of the weak
and give them a new sense of hope
and a new sense of buoyancy.

A poem inspired
by the soft melodies
floating softly over the plucking of strings
and the pounding of keys
ricocheting off the walls.

A poem inspired
by the enlightenment of the mind
that only comes once in a while,
but when it does come,
time stops and everything is perfect.

Had you entered my room
at a quarter till nine,
you have have found me painfully asleep,
with weeping and gnashing of teeth,
muffled by the pillow
my face was consumed within.

Nightmares
about dying from a broken heart
and living with a breaking one.
My father holding his collapsing chest,
and my Wish finally laid to rest.

The best of me seems to digress.
My jaw grinding,
grinding, grinding,
grinding unti the alarm sounds.
And as I lay minding the
terror-laden rest,
my heart starts beating out of my petrified chest.

Sleepless dreaming -
Where slumber does not lead to
vision does not lead to
nightmare or wonder.

Unreal City -
Where each headstone,
covered in moss
and shrouded by fern,
sharply reads:
"THE HORROR!  THE HORROR!"
And those whose souls
still cling to their withering bodies
speak so placidly about The Buried:
"Oh, Mistah _____?  He dead."

Sleepless dreaming.
Where cities crumble into the ocean
and giants buckle at the knees, yelling:

"Shantih!  Shantih!  Shantih!
"Oh Lord, where is The Peace
that passes all understanding?"

We hit the prairie
with the windows rolled down.
As the sun started to set,
you took off your shoes-
your barefeet on the dash.
You lit a cigarette
and the glow as you inhaled
revealed marks of a very great adventure.

We let our hair grow long together
because it looked cool
when the wind
ruffled it a bit.

"I wish we could drive forever", you said.

I agreed:
We could have chased the sun for the rest of our numbered days,
because we knew it would be the only thing
we could hold on to.

The leaves
seemed to wither and die
slowly this year,
as if the foliage red
sliced its veins and slowly
bled out.
Autumn glows yellow
like a book gradually develops
jaundice and eventually
collapses into dust.

The possibilities
of Summer are gone
and Winter inches her
ice-cold eyes
over the horizon,
turning her gaze inward
as the skies turn gray
and melancholy falls
like a torrent of freezing rain.

I ponder these things
while birds begin their
southern retreat
and night-time darkness
arrives swifly,
equipped with
Orion's Belt as
a holster and
the Crescent Moon as
a revolver.

My feet seem to be frozen
to dawn's frost as it
wraps it's frigid fingers
around my ankles -
shackles fitting for a
prisoner trapped in
the Season's purgatory.

My father was a bayonet.
My mother was gunpowder.
I was born
as a bullet fired from its chamber
aimed at the enemy's heart.

Cautious eyes never see
my burning hands before I
rip them apart
for I do not know what I am doing.
Agressive fists swing
toward my barbed wire skin,
but even the luckiest hands
lose their fingers.

I am not a time bomb
set to explode;
rather, I am shrapnel
from my bayonet father
and my gunpowder mother.

So, if you get too close
expect a fallout
and listen for my voice
in the reverberation:

*I do not know what I am doing.

What brings me here are multiple *** and cokes
and my lasting impression on so many of the
cool kids and the following broads
who think this is a cool thing to do.

Me? I feel my eyes start to fall red
and my face starts to resonate heat.

*****? No, I'm not at that point.

Yet.

But I can see spots of light and feel my ears pop.
This is my life in a bunny costume.

In a Deadmau5 head my roommate crafted,
I DJ a basement of partyheads.
I smoke my cheap cigarettes and think
"wow, what would my mother think?".

I have never thought how this would spin my world upside down.
But this is Spring Weekend. And the dance floor is open
to new adventures and brilliant encounters with strange people.

I can only imagine how God is looking at me now.

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings"*

Here stands a city,
stretching as far as
the east is from the west.
Dark and deep is the night
on the streets lined
with desolate lamp posts
which once ago held
light
to those who walked
to a place they called
home.

The moon beams
pierce apathetic clouds
and cast a milky
gleam
onto a decaying brick wall
overspread with faded Krylon.

Situated next to a broken
window
upon the crumbling clay and mortar
is scrawled a message:

"Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

A shattered visage lies
cold and numb.
A man once dominant and
inspiring
now is decomposing
in the ratways of his once
gleaming
empire.

The spray paint can rolls
from upon his fingertips
and his faint whisper
is as fleeting as a
morning breeze.

"That's not what
I meant at all.  That's
not what I meant
at all. that's not
what i meant at all
thats not
what i meant at
all what i meant
not at all..."

I saw the glimmer in your eyes
and the drops fall down your face.
"It's not like I've never seen you cry"
She knows something I don't,
and she'll admit something I won't.
She's alive, alright, but where did she go wrong?

Where did she go?

I can barely close my eyes.
I can barely taste your lips.
"It's not like you have to feel this way"
Now, my heart must skip a beat,
and my mind must go wandering
because if I'm not meant to feel this way,

I should let it go.

Won't you tell me what is wrong?
And tell me, what is right?
"You were right, I did not want to hurt you"
Just put your mask back on
and fall back into the waltz.
You're alive, but when were you so right?

We must let it go.

I fell prey to the promise of rest,
and I dreamt that
the birds fell through the sky -
they forgot how to fly.

I'll wake up
and the city skylight
will guide me home.

Where did you go?

In my anxious sleep,
I dreamt of a road
that divided the ocean
into a Northern Kingdom
and a Southern Kingdom.

I started my journey from the shoreline.
As I stepped onto the path
my legs began to move on their own accord,
as if they were magnetically attracted
to their final destination.

I moved without haste,
with a tempo of a maestro
conducting the symphony of a chaotic Armageddon.

The waves crashed against the road,
but my feet were warm and dry.
The sea creatures of the deep emerged from the abyss,
but my body was at peace.

I saw the lighthouse-
the journey's end;
she gleam resplendently
on the opposite shore.

I sprinted toward her
through the soles of my shoes
down to the bares of my feet.

To be in her light again...

Only to be awoken by my anxious consciousness
in the darkness of the early dawn.

The wind erupts -
you've frozen up
and curse the Cold North
with outstretched arms to the sky.

Oh, how I straightened my tie
and left the warmth of the South
to find your eyes, full of doubt,
staring into themselves through reflections.

"Let go," I say.  "Come inside."

Through all folly
and all anger,
you're frightened here.

You yell:
"How can I start again?
It's all a dream to me now.
Inside is cold, too.
I cannot let go."

Goodbye is inadequate,
but how can we say enough?

So you depart,
I watch you set off.
You sail on rivers,
you float on seas.

I'll be the light in the fog
if you decide to row home.

Your son sat on your lap
while you waited for the bus
to pick you two up.

Do you remember?

It was a cold December afternoon,
but the moon was already out.
It was rising as the sun was setting,
do you remember?
Both giants were reflecting off of the bus stop glass.

You had your son in one arm
and your bag on the other.
Your bag dropped, remember?
I picked it up for you, remember?

The bag spilled onto the sidewalk.
Your journal and wallet and camera, all of it.
I picked up the contents,
gave it to you when you stepped on the bus,
and you smiled.

Do you remember?

I said you had a radiant smile,
then the doors closed.

Dear, do you remember?
...dear, don't close your eyes now.
Please remember, dear...

do...yo u . .   . re me mber   m    e   ?

I dreamt I had potpourri for supper.
I had candle wax for dessert.
I walked home on a Persian rug.
and I slept on a bed of blueberries.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

I dreamt I was swinging on a wooden swing
hanging freely from Orion's belt.
Waves of something.odd and something.frightening
splashed on my bare feet.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

I dreamt I climbed onto the back of a Chimera,
and flew over Peloponnese.
And saw the splendor of Olympia,
and I thought I saw God sitting His throne.
I reached out to touch His hand,
and fell to the depths of Oblivion.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

It just was.
And I awoke to the reality of gravity.

Train 1
What happens when
you throw hard candies
at the passengers of a double-decker bus?

What happens when
you yell "*****!" at the ladies
on a yacht circling the downtown canals?

What happens when
the sky-deck of the tallest building in the U.S.
puts pavement over its windows?

What happens when that seagull
perched upon the chained buoys
turns into a swan?

Train 2**
What happens when
my father gives his last cigarette
to a homeless man begging for change?

What happens when
the lovers on the loop line
never disconnect lips?

What happens when
the buildings collapse into
the great plains again?

What happens when
the cameras of tourists
lose their capabilities to capture this moment?

I don't associate well with anti-Christs,
false prophets,
and freelance pharisees.

I don't concur with tax collectors
and their dreaded ideas
to wrench the world of its money.

A friend once told me
I am ******* heartless.

She's never met these people before.

I.

A twitch,
a slight itch on my arm.
Colors blur-
a child's scribbles
outside of the lines.

A burning heat in my pocket-
a needle to inject
that chemical freedom.

Sweaty palms
and a serpent whispering
into my ear.

Throw it away.
Light it up, friend,
Four days
it’s been far too long.
sober.

Escape!  Just let go.


II.

Wonderful, wonderful, I am nature!
I am designated to be brave!
To grow tall!
And you will never comprehend me.

I am a cure for history!
I’m an inspiration!
A beautiful scene!
All dreams and no panic.
I’m all rock and roll and cool waves.

I am a revolution!
¡VIVA LA REVOLUCIÓN!
I am a trend you were so afraid to bring back.
Everyone was wrong!

I will not be changed,
and I will go out with a bang…

III.

A bed,
shivering and white.
Lights.
Bright, sterile lights
flickering softly like trapped fireflies in a mason jar.

The faith chirp
of machines.
A flatline drones, dark and red.
I’m bound by tubes and cuffs and –

Oh God.

How many kids have died in this hospital bed?

Everyday there's a growing
that stretches through the cracks of the ground
while my feet conscientiously step on them,
because if you step on a crack,
you'll break everyone's back.

This growing has blue eyes,
sapphireblue eyes,
oceanwater blue.
The Tempter. The serpent that
crawls freakishly across my feet.

Shall I smash his head against my heel?
No, his eyes. These sapphireblue eyes
oceanwater blue. They're
intruguing.

And if this sin is something that will break everyone's back.
I'm going to step on each one
until every hospital bed is full.

I am a savage;
a knuckledraggervandal.

For me, there is
no comprehensible language
or agenda.

I, confined to a cage
filled with senseless clues
pointing toward oblivion,
have not encountered the pleasure
of being free in a frame.

We never spoke words,
we only compiled songs.

We understood every connotation
behind every tune.

The way I look at it,
a mixed tape is a poem.
Each song is a stanza,
every note is a feeling,
and every emotion
is in perfect likeness with the one who sent it.

Cracked and dry,
they perform my
craft.
Long after midnight.
Past the morning bird
which sings
"welcome, New Day".

Welcome, New Day
I've waited till dawn
to see that radiant
blink
of light.
Orange light
effortlessly fights
its way through
glass
to greet my eyes
with a passionate
exclamation.

Cracked and dry,
they absorb the orange.
Transfigured into smooth,
bone-wrappings.
My joints guide my
relief.

Past noon.
Afternoon.
Evening moon.

Midnight.
Long after midnight.
My eyes will
never
shut
or I would miss
the star of morning
and the bird's melodic
"welcome, New Day".

and it will flow like oil.

It will grip like a lion's jaw
sinking into the flesh of my neck.

Nothing's about to change.
The vicious cycle of
reminiscence to
recession to
unresponsiveness
is a gift that just keeps on ******' giving.

Until I have nothing left to give.

I'm finished.

we still rise to the same sun
we still sleep under the same moon
we still read the same words
we still hum the same tunes
we still feel the same joy
we still feel the same blues
we still play the same songs
we still know this to be true:

we still forget to let go
but we still manage to say i love you.

The pizza boxes
the empty beer cans.
The pipe smokes
the remaining indulgence.

Fractions of time were lost
(probably a few brain cells, too).
I was floating within my synapses
that were shooting this familiar indulgence
back and forth.
They were thinking:

"Why the **** is he doing this again?"

Once you feel this numb, feel free to answer that question.

I'm outside
and the Nebraska sunset is more than welcoming.
Orange and warm,
the birds begin to weep.

From my hand
I drop my werewolves.
All just for one more sight -
From my eyes
the Nebraska sunset glistened.

I danced.

I fell asleep against
the stained glass that painted
the ground with colors that
children only see through
the lenses of kaleidoscopes;
vividness that blind men
only see when holding the
warm hands of their lovers.

I woke up to the bells
singing tunes of the eschaton
and the priest muttering
damnation upon the half-empty
bottle of Jim Beam resting in my lap.

"Want a swig?" I asked with a stagger.
"No," he replied.  "Whiskey is the devil's elixir

and besides,
there are plenty a bottle of Christ's blood behind the altar from which to choose."

The choir girls on rooftops sing
songs of thanksgiving in
harmonious gleam
while the children dance
in vibrant gyrations
underneath the olive trees.

A fire burns while people cheer and chant,
and folk songs flutter like ash.
The sparks fly as burnt wood collapses
and the king takes his throne.

He addresses his court
with eager voice
that echoes across the fields
and all eyes and ears are keenly fixed
on his majesty.

He speaks:
"My people, my friends,
my enemies, my lovers -
from all lands far and wide -
will you open your eyes
and see your live like this?

There is no bloodshed or death
and I can see your lungs expand with each breath.

Now, please fill your cups
with the strongest of wines
and let music ring
with the loudest of chiming.
Let peace fill your souls
and love cloud your minds.

Lay down your swords,
pax et concordia
for love is the strongest of wards."

I splashed in the puddles
for the first time in my life
and tried to be careless.

Like the child I used to be.

All things come to an end.
Childhood,
and the rain,
and now, it feels like
the past four years
have passed away like this storm.

It didn't have to die.
Now it feels like I'm the next one
who has to.

Quietus.

Or another synonym for death.

I still need you.
Like the child that clung to
the carelessness that died so long ago.

No one** (has ever told me
that I should have a sense that
my life) belongs (on this earth, right)
here(, so I can continue to be) more than
(I ever imagined I could be.
Except for) you.

Let us keep our fondest memories
clutched close to our chests.

For if they are lost,
the wind will sweep them away
or the sea will toss them into its abysmal blue.

Rather, let us tie them to the laces of our shoes -
              and take them always with us.
Tattoo them onto our intellects -
              and reminisce upon them often.
Lock them in our hearts
              Do not let them die until they
              all
              stop
              beating.

I.
He writes a letter
and sends it to her:
"My vacation's ending;
I'm out of my mind.
Tears follow after
days when I still felt
alive.
I never conquered Hate;
Love has been waiting,
just wanting some kind of sign
to trust,
(I never thought)
to hope,
(I'd die)
to care.
(alone.)
Please tell my mom this is not her fault."

II.
She writes a letter
to the one that she cares for:
"Tomorrow holds
a reason to live
and a reason to grow.
Days when I can still
feel the good things we know.
I can't wait to see you again."

III.**
He takes a taxi,
a young man drives.
Hope fills his eyes
at the end of the ride.
She arrives
safely with suitcase in tow.
He says,
"I didn't think enough."
She says,
"I should have not been gone for so long."
He is back safe in her arms,
without much regard
to the moon or the stars.
He keeps his head up and sails
through her pretty eyes.

She says,
"I'm yours and you're mine
and that's it, forever."

: I'd rather be in the middle of
nowhere
with you

than be on the edge of
everything
with anyone else.

passes
in a flash of famous last words.
An extravagant way of
going out in style
that is only witnessed
by those stargazers,
spread out amongst
layers of blankets,
that are lucky enough
to be watching
without
blinking.

there is joy in this:
that you woke up this morning;
there's breath in your lungs.

A nightmare kept you awake
last night.  I can see the
dark recesses in
your eyes where rest
used to be.

You dream of a sinking ship.
Its captain submerged under the waves,
thrashing his arms
toward the water's fleeting surface.
You want to plunge your filthy, filthy, hands
into the water, but you see
the man's face as your own.
And you watch as your lungs fill with liquid,
your eyes closing like curtains pulled
on a cold winter's day.

Oh! you wish for dreams of the shore!
To hear the lark overhead!
showering its song upon you
as a lullaby for your hollow eyes.
But you are drowning.  The lark does not make a sounds.

It's not making a sound.  You are drowning.

In the waiting room,
I watched two little boys
play with shadow puppets.
They transformed their hands
into figments of imagination
under the ghostly sterile lights
as doors swung wide
and gurneys and white coats
escorted the suffering
into rooms dressed with
pleasant paintings of peaceful woods -
placed on wall that have seen
far too many flat lines;
windows that have heard
far too many last words.

I’ve burnt through so many cigarettes that
my mother would be ashamed of me.
And I could blame my father
for leaving his 100’s by his wallet and keys,
giving me the nicotine for free.

What will it cost him, though?

My lungs were becoming his lungs.
It’s frightening how a vice
turns into an addiction
that turns into an idol
that turns into malignancy.

I watched him hold a lighter.
I watched him hold the cancer between his fingers.

I’m watching him turn into the ash
that fills the ash tray sitting in our backyard.

It’s funny how weak one sees another
when one has overcome a dependency.

Put down the matches,
and give your lungs a break.

I didn't mean to **** myself.
It was just one of those
spurofthemoments.

I colored outside
of the lines. I
took the falsehood
seriously and believed
I was invincible.

The camera never lies,
and I believed every
photo it said.
What a fallacy, would't
you agree?

I was born amongst
neon lights and
bristling palm trees
on the scorching, receding beach line.

I am my mother's only one.

Several years spent
in garages rented out
by owners who felt sympathy
for my mother and father.

Many miles roaming,
sleeping in the backseat of cars
against my father's body -
all 125 pounds of him.

I am my father's newfound drug.

My mother and father
would take me back
to the receding beach line
while my mother weeps softly
and my dad smokes his last cigarette.

I am a life worth reverence.

She collects daisies that blossom in her backyard and keeps all of the sand dollars she finds on the shore when she listens to the waves at night while she thinks of YOU.

She collects them for YOU.

she started purchasing Grateful Dead and The Flaming Lips records because that's what YOU listen to when you need to escape.

She wants to escape with YOU.

She bout the slugs and the magazine and that GOD-**** cold piece of metal with the glossy trigger because YOU are holding the same vanishing act in YOUR hand.

She wants to vanish with YOU.

She sang a cappella
so loud that the love
and her personal
Via Dolorosa
in her words
and in her melody
floated tangibly out of her lips
as if it were the
walking-wounded soldier's
letter to her
that she received many years ago.

"I miss you, darling.
I'm coming home soon,

I promise"

The two sip wine
from small styrofoam cups
they've stolen from the general store.

The wine? Stolen from the church.

(Take and drink)

The cardboard sign rests on
the knees of the
man. A scarred face of a
woman rests on his shoulder.

The sign reads:
Will you have the backbone to seek the love we have lost? Will someone give us anything to feel?

Every day there's the dull roar
of shattering backbones.

(This cup of blood)

An amber leaf twirls upon its spindle branch
(Please do not hope for anything more,)
But hope is all I have

but was interrupted by the winds.
(for you know nothing about the way things are.)
to carry me through these cold days

And the amber blade breaks away from its home
(Find someone to sweep you off your feet,)
until I find someone to simply fly by my side.

and is carried away with the breeze*
(because that someone cannot simply be me)
Do you think that someone could be you?

on a 12am bus
downtown San Diego
movershakers and dopplegangers
dash across dimly lit streets
all covered in thick layers of shadow
eyes flicker in alleyways
move like lightning bolts
always making contact with you(r body)
eyes that move to the seat
next to you
and think only about
*** and *** and ***
on a 12am bus
downtown San Diego
where everything looks
better way better
when your mind looks
for a way to escape
prison break its way
out of your skull
beat you ******
and light you on fire
on a 12am bus
downtown San Diego.

You're a river...

You sat along the fire.
You saw the light -
your self.

Your self ought to know
it's over now.
It's all.

Your sigh's alone -
Your soul.

You sat along the fire.
You saw the light -
Your soul.

You're so far alone,
you're full of life -
your soul.

You sat alone by my side
the fire burned
radiantly*.

I imagined myself leaving
someday.  Trading
plains for seas, exchanging
something loved for something
unknown.

And maybe it's the fear
of quietly whispering
goodbye that unsettles me.
Maybe it's the inevitable
end of familiarity,
like the sun's western descent
after a day that should not
end.
And when it does,
we all pack our bags
and say farewell.

Eventually,
I will trace new roadmaps on the
back of my hands;
I will find the familiar
creaks in the floorboards.

And when the sun sets,
someone will leave a light on
for me.

I'm in the hands of
faithful optimism
or
youthful foolishness.

I guess it's up to you to choose
the former or the latter.

I'm bound to find the answer,
but love is a rhetorical question
with no elicit answer.