I try to count the stars.
A vast selection of fossils.
C'est la vie, leviathans.
You burning orbs,
you want to comfort me?

I lay sheepless.
I'm a shepherd
who lost not one sheep,
not two sheep,
but the whole of them.

It's like your first time
smoking **** as the smoke
floats across the black light
like a whispered prayer
to God
or a damnation
to Satan.

That startling paranoia,
with that tinge of euphoria.

It's what keeps your hands trembling.

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.

After-rain sidewalks
soaked our weary feet
and the glistening of the Fall storm
fell softly from your eyelashes.

Your eyes were changing colors
from green to hazel.
Your floral dress complimented them well.

You know I didn't have a choice
to peek between my fingers
while you quietly hid behind the trees.
The trees that moved in rhythm with each other,
welcoming us to simply follow the

1 and
2 and
3 -

We loved in arboreal.
Our rings were numbered high above
any evergreen that scraped the infinities.

If only death could wait for us.

The waves
collided with one another.
A genesis, in grief and ashes,
seemingly outside
the gates of hell.

The screams
of new birth
suspended me
in the air.
As thick as tree branches;
as crooked as their twigs;
they fastened around my hands,
and I soared high above
the disharmony.

Wavering, incomplete.

My life
flashed before my eyes
and I saw you
standing amidst a red sunrise.
"Don't wait," you said.

"Don't wait."

The world of my spirit
was freed from the shackles of my flesh

and the skies were reborn.

There's tea brewing in the kitchen
that may or may not be ready.
I haven't heard that proverbial whistle
yet.

You introduced me to Oolong tea
a few years ago at that cafe downtown.
You drew me a picture of a sad boy
in a collared shirt and unkempt hair.

You said it was me.

I drew you a picture of a butterfly
with a beautiful wing pattern

I said it was you.
You never noticed one of the wings were torn.

You never really knew why I did that,
didn't you?
Well, words are fleeting now, and-

Oh. My tea is ready.

If I leave before you,
don't threaten me with
lithium.

Don't follow
me outside
and try to act with sympathy.

Change is a *****,
and I'm married to it
till death do I part,
and leave it a widow.

And when I leave you,
don't threaten me with
lithium.

My eyes are fixed
upon the hills.
And the lights that glow
from the downtown neonesque
battle the stars
and win.

The sail the sidewalk streams
I send an S.O.S.
from my (pharmaceutical) bottle
as the gutters and streets swallow
my hollow pleas for deliverance.

To the choirmaster:
Are your voices rising
as well as you conducted them too?

Are you doing good to Zion?
Are you building up your walls and are you delighting in right sacrifices?
Are you offering burnt offerings? Whole burnt offerings?

Are you offering bulls to the altar.

Are you going to just stand there and pretend nothing is wrong behind that mask of yours?

I know I am.
Come join the party!
We're starting to get a crowd growing, and another layer of make-up is going on the faces of
the broken and the bruised.

Yah, your face too!
C'mon, all of us are doing it!
Let peer pressure puncture your
legs and jump off this bridge with us.
We will rock this room for hours
until we hit rock bottom
and bottom out and
crash and burn and
burn alive.

I know my transgressions,
I know what I'm doing!
I know what the hell I'm doing to myself!
I don't need you to tell me when to
stop smoking
stop drinking
stop cursing
stop lusting.

Stop murdering your brother, Cain,
and let Abel be.

I can't stop.

All of these demons know my name.
They rot and they ruin this fragile frame
and blame me
and me alone
for this travesty that was caused.

Now, I've tried to die already.
Three times! Let's make it four.
I am just a ***** of a living being
that doesn't deserve this
breath
after breath
after breath.

This voice is yelling "YOU CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE".
This voice is yelling "CRUCIFY HIM!"
This voice is whispering "Take and eat. These are the pills that were given to you to stabilize your mind. This I give you so that you can sleep and never wake up. Take and eat, son".

Don't you dare call me son.

These demons may know my name,
but my Father knew it before I was conceived.

I am my Father’s, and my Father’s alone

Father, please, listen to me! This is your son!
Please don't say you've forgotten my face
because Father, I constantly forget Your name.

Father, I'm shattered and sorry.
Have mercy.
Have mercy on my bloodguiltiness

Father, this world is scary.

Dad, don't let go of this small hand of mine.
Cast me not away from Your presence.

I just want to come home, Dad.
Against You and YOU ALONE HAVE I SINNED.

Every day it's been this way,
but you know that already.
Please erase me and leave me tabula rasa.
Hide your face from my sin.

Create in me a pure heart.
Restore to me Your joy.

Open my lips, Dad, and my mouth will declare your praise.

Come thou fount of every blessing,
tune this broken heart to sing Your praise.

Was that a blessing or
one of those superficial afflictions
that kept me moaning in agony
last night?

I mean, it showed me its teeth,
and I was gnashing mine...
But, like an eagle,
took me under its wing
and comforted me.

Stockholm syndrome.
Bypass everything else
and I'll show it affection.

It's cancer.
It's foolish excuse for relief.
It'll **** me, man, it will.

I remember it well.
That naive kind of love
shared through anonymity
when, in fact, I knew it was you all along.

Things haven't changed very much from then,
have they?
We still write
but with a more
colorful
vocabulary.

And with this
I vicariously replace my virtues
with violent vibes and
vaudeville-esque veneers.

I try to become more mature than I was back then
with these words
that fill these notebooks
that ooze
adventure and joy and sorrow and hatred and lust and violence and praise and thanksgiving and trust and disbelief and doubt and
hope
and pain.

My truthbox is full of letters to myself.
Letters that wouldn't fit in an envelope
to send to you.

So I let you read them on that schoolyard bench
under the lamppost.

Did you pay attention to detail?

I went there without you.
Long drives aren't too long
if you imagine you are on a subway car
in New York City, sitting next to
a lady who smells like cauliflower
and a hint of grief, who tells you
that it's not as dark as you think
it is, Sugar, because you're the one
covering the light.

To which you may respond
but I am not seated!
I am floating!  All around
me in empty space is
empty space and no
light can pierce it!

To which she responds with a
chuckle and an offering of
licorice gum, which you
respectfully decline
because the taste reminds you of
your grandma, who passed away
in March as she slept
(BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH)
and left your mother weeping
at the front door,
hoping she'd come visit again.

To which the rest of the car
bursts into a danse macabre;
a movement over the grave and
into a place much colder than
underground.  They, The Wholehearted,
sway with their bones rattling
in harmony until they clatter
to the floor as marrow meets metal -

then the headlights
jolt you here again,
and you realize that
hundreds of miles
of lonely road await you.

I can measure my life in lonely roads.

We'll know how far we've gone
once the ocean stops and we see
Los Angeles
set on fire by streetlights
carlights
spotlights
from the passenger window.

We'll know how far we've gone
once we see the giant orange chasm,
the blistering white snowtop mountains
and the crystal azure rivers
from the passenger window.

We'll know how far we've gone
when we see the amber waves
of grain that I grew up singing about
whispering in the Nebraska wind
and see the capital building
busting out of the fields.

We'll know we're home
when the plane touches solid ground.

Look! The clouds
that blot out your mind-light
are advancing
like a thousand arrows
released from a thousand bows.

It might rain today.
Did you bring your umbrella?
You give thanks to the rain,
but you curse the downpour.

But the faster rain falls,
the sooner the sun breaks free,
right? Right?

We are a forest; we are as dense as trees. But when one of us is cut down and plummets, none of us hear it. It's sad that our branches don't intertwine and our leaves don't share the same green and fall off our twigs when Autumn appears around the corner with its scythe, welcoming the coming of Dead Winter.

We are only a tire swing away from each other.

Our bark isn't climbed by the same children. We don't have the same tattoos, formed by the knives of lovers holding hands, in our wood. It would be better for us to burn down in a quiet Summer Holocaust.

The only way to join each other is to return to the dirt that gave birth to us.

It's birthday season
and the leaves are falling.

So it's kind of ironic.

Birth and death
in perfect harmony with one another.

Blossom all you'd like,
your leaves will turn
yellows and reds,

maybe sooner than you'd think.

All of the free spirits
are flying so high.
Happier than a child
on Christmas morning.

However,

the truth of the matter is
it'll all end

maybe sooner than you'd think

The silhouettes of two deer,
beautifully and gracefully elegant,
stood side-by-side in the midnight fields.

They called to one another
in a harmony that lifted
toward the Eternities,
splitting the clouds to reveal
the splendor of the night sky.

The grass swayed
in the gentle breeze.
This simple instance
of life
said more than words
could possibly detail.

And the extraordinary facet
of life
is that we are all
interlaced
by the simple harmonies
of two deer calling
to one another.

The grey cold
lingers in the bitter air
and snow falls like ghosts
declaring here will be a sufficient place to haunt.

I wake up
A time to seek and an time to lose
not to the birds
a time to mourn and a time to dance
or the sun shining through the blinds,
a time to keep silent and a time to speak
but to banshee sobs
a time to weep and a time to laugh
and voices that were once intertwined.
a time to love and a time to hate

I stare
out the window
and onto the unrelenting days
of December Timing-
a time to keep and a time to cast away;
a time to tear and a time to sew.

For everything, there is this season.
For every matter under the sun, there is this time.

I want to stretch my broken wings
a time to die
and fly toward the hidden, hopeful
light of day that is masked behind
the gray cold.

*a time to be born

Once I saw your face pressed against the picture window,
I sprinted.
The soles of my shoes were deteriorating,
but bare-feet was always the way I imagined this

Our reunion.

Three pints and a pipe.
One brother talking to another.
Honestly, I thought I'd never see you again.

And now
I know that you will never be as far away as I imagined.

When rain falls
it arrives like
an army charging down a hillside,
beating their fist against their shields.
Or it arrives like
tears from a father's eyes
as he opens his arms and says
"Welcome home, son."

When rain falls
it is greeted by
open umbrellas and rubber boots.
Or it is greeted by
children with eyes closed
and faces toward the skies
as drops fall on their tongues.

When rain falls
it is caught by
rooftops, gutters, and windshields.
Or it is caught by
the eyelashes of two lovers
saying hello again
after ages of goodbyes.

When rain falls
it lands on
tree leaves
who carry it to their roots.
Or it lands on
cracks in the sidewalk
and encourages new life to burst forth.

When rain falls
it sounds like
the rushing rivers
and the tides breaking on the shorelines.
Or it sounds like a prayer gently whispered
to ears patiently listening.

When rain falls
its promises are protected
by the guard of a rainbow.

When rain falls
its promises are protected
by the guard of a rainbow.

stare at nothing in particular,
but they imagine hands that once
embraced their own.

And that nothing in particular
materializes into
everything those eyes want to see -

another moment to hold those hands
and look into eyes that do not grieve at all.

Light barely drips
through the cracks in the blinds
and the dust floats
back and forth
like snow falling
onto unchristened ground.

I want to yell.
To reach my hands toward
heaven
and scream.

Because we were running.

We rushed our hands
through the grain
and splashed
in the puddles of Spring.
We were light,
glowing and weightless,
as we drifted through freeways
and back-roads.
I followed that river
that flows in you
like a melodic composition.

Now, my hands
reach upward at things not seen.
My feet are motionless,
while your river's current
carries you forward.

The dust settles without a sound.

I listen to the pulse of my beating heart.
It's a feeling I might never forget.
Hell, I use it as an alarm clock.
I wake up and tie my shoes at night.
And when I walk down the city blocks,
I use it as a warning call.

The dim street lights can be deceiving.

"You want light? I'll flicker and cut out
to make your night adventure a bit more eerie".

It's as if someone is floating above me,
lighting a cigarette with a dying lighter,
and once the flame is gone
I am dark. No shadow to follow me anymore.

It's hard to walk alone with a kickdrum heart.

Breathe. Breathe (more).
(Move closer) to your death and (farther away) from your youth
(Open your mouth) and (taste) the stale (air).
Transfer your weight onto a (firm surface).
Push your (face) against the glass.
Do you (feel) closer? (Now?) (How about now?)
How about you (try to forget your feelings and run?)
(Turn) and (scream) and (fall) and (grow) and (give) and (burn) and (sing) and (glean) and (die) and (fall) and (in love) and (with you).

Seven demons out at sea,
the ones I casted out of me.
The tide washes them away
and I pray that they find decay.

Lust was swallowed by the sea-
a failed act of *******.
Greed fell pray to crystal blue
hoping the ocean would make do.

Gluttony, and empty man,
tried his hand at Leviathan.
Envy felt its resentment
and dissolved for mere contentment.

Sloth sluggishly found his rest
in the ocean's sufficient breast.
Wrath destroyed his dreadful cage
and his happiness spilled his rage.

Pride found me in deep pleasure:
My satisfaction - his leisure.
He drove me to the great wave
where six deadly sins were enslaved.

we wake up in sun-drenched rooms.
we sleep to faint, nocturnal tunes.
and we roll in glorious as the clouds
with a lullaby of sound -

the sound of the rain.

we wait in hope of brighter days,
as we watch the tree limbs sway,
and we're onto whatever hope we can find
that sleep under these blue-washed skies.

we fall soft like autumn leaves.
we're swept on by a tranquil breeze,
we land upon the puddles and streams,
and drift away to bigger seas

to the sound of the rain.

I've been awake for awhile,
pushing forward this idea in my head
like a surgeon guiding his patient to the knife.
It's at the front of my head,
ready to shatter the glass of my forehead.
Or, better yet, gently move down,
and slide between my teeth
like my chilly breath on this cold day.

There is always time to take into account.
It's needy and it's hungry for wasted minutes.
It claws at the door until I turn the ****,
and, like a wave, collapses me.
And this idea, so overwhelming and heavy,
will tell me to stay on the ground,
let more time past by,
and soon I will fall asleep on this cold day.

This idea isn't a fair gambler.
There's no areas shaded gray,
trust me. I tried to find them.
Once you're in, you ain't goin' back,
like a criminal taking his steps toward Old Sparky.
This idea might render me like that criminal, actually,
and maybe you'll realize how this will haunt you.
Write your requiem on this cold day.

New snow falls
to the ground
that is covered
with old snow
that fell as
new as the
past is concerned
and freezes upon
the tree branches
and the tops
of buildings that
shimmer and sparkle
and dance with
the rays of
the cardinal sun

The bitter cold came
quickly; it arrived on
the brittle fangs of snow in
October, falling before
Halloween ghouls or the
Advent of December.

We locked ourselves in
that Sunday, watching
it coat the sidewalks
while the little one
knocked blocks together
in front of the fireplace.

You sipped coffee,
crossed-legged on the floor.

And, I swear, no
August heat has ever
made me feel as
warm
as the bitter cold
that came quickly
in October.

We make a mess of beautiful things.
We scatter them across our floor like snow.
We lay in beds of pictural dreams
that nobody else but us know.

Moments upon moments of color ring
around our heads as we grow and grow
with grace upon grace held in our hands
like God himself is fighting for our side.

It's funny, I awoke from this dream with such open eyes
and to my surprise it were your eyes that cried.
If anything, it was I who deserved those tears.
We make a mess of beautiful things...

There's a movement in the air
that's causing everyone to
wake up before the sun rises
hold hands with their hatred
make a painting of all there is to love
listen to a crescendo of anything that makes sound
kiss the hands of everyone they met
travel the map to find the lost
and finally
skip to the last chapter in their books
to read their happy ending.

Does sleep visit you often?
How do you lay upon your bed?
Do you ride the REM drug?
Do you dream?
Do your eyes dry and crumble?
Can you feel anything?
Do you wake up in a cold sweat?
Do you wake up tasting colors?

Do you wake up wising you were someone else?

I sent you an invitation
to the last meal I'll have
in days.

I signed the letter
with my own hand,
just to let you know
it was actually me.

But you've given up on me,
haven't you?
(I've already had my fair share
of abandonment).
You probably lit the invitation,
along with your precious cigarette,
on fire.

Did it cry for mercy,
that letter of mine?

Or did it curse you,
like so many of my invitations
have done before?

My guess is the latter.
"******* YOU", it yelled,
"ROT IN HELL LIKE THE **** YOU ARE".

All of the words
I never had the
courage to say.

I sent you an invitation
to the last meal I'll have
in days.

I'll dine alone,
and I'll send a letter again,
just to let you know
it's actually me.

I stood at the water's edge
in a movie-esque scene where
it was me and me alone
staring at myself in the water's reflection.

My echo lead me here.
You said I made a sound you would never forget,
but that's something no one should carry but myself.

So my echo lead me across the fields, and
over the hills and,
down the valleys until
I was stopped by the shore and
I realized there was no way to
take
my words
back.

They're always going to echo in your head.
But believe me, I tried to catch them.

I took a walk down to that elementary school again.
The first time was vibrant and honest.
This time I realized the first time was just a waste of breath.

The streetlight burnt out underneath the bench we sat upon.

You're a thousand miles away,
and the distance is quite pleasant.
But now you're a red devil or a white ghost
haunting the halls of my house,
or the streets that we drove down together.

My God, I have so much to say to you,
but words are like cigarettes to me now -
I'm running out and ****, I want one right now.

Maybe two.

One to forget you and one to forget that elementary school.

Now all your love is wasted?
Then who the hell was I?

They came in
from a cloud of smoke
with those blue cans in their hands
(who pays attention to the brand anymore?)

Their eyes glowed
like they just saw a
acid
kaleidoscope
and everything else
vanished. Their goes their
fifteen? sixteen? years of life.

The shy kid down the street
became his own idol.
The small girl from church
walked on the smoldering ashes she created.

These kids don't even know
the meaning of grief.
But these elementaries are
spoon-feeding
it to each other like they know
what the hell they're talking about.

There is definitely glass in the hammer
and my hands are cut and bleeding.
But we needed to drive down that road,
hide behind the earth,
and commit ******.

John and Paul and George and Ringo
are dead.
And we threw their bodies in the dumpster
and drove away.

If only there was more **** to break.
We need more **** to break.

We were so close to seeing the sunrise!
Well, not really.
It was 3 o' clock
and my eyelids felt like cinder blocks.

But it felt close.

It could have been a picture perfect moment.
Well, not really.
Pictures are never perfect,
and besides,
my thumb would have been in the shot.

I am writing this from the bottom of my heart
where all of the strings have snapped.
Quietly, a cascade of smolder shrouds my face,
finally putting my my mind to rest,
if only for a moment.

If there were any melody,
any melody at all,
that can get me by,
pour me a glass and let me be.

It's cold outside.
I think the tears are freezing to my cheeks.
My nervous hands struggle to write this.
But I need to ask one question:

Why does this life have to be so hard?

I went there without you.
She first spoke to me in the Tower
after poetry and drink.
We discussed broken hearts
and unlovable souls
and how waiting can destroy
even the deepest of loves.

She said I was the lark, ascending
(but the ground pulled at my feet).

She was beckoned toward
a city halfway around the world,
where the markets are always open
and the oceans are always warm.

We still rise to the same sun,

I told her through a screen
as she traveled through
narrow streets on a city bus.

We still fall to the same moon,

she said back, shrouded
in the morning mist.

A cool summer breeze
sent your hair past
your eyes.
You opened your arms,
looked toward the heavens,
and the sunlight
illuminated everything
that I fell in love with.

Then you grabbed my hand
and we ran toward the waters.
You kicked off your sandals
and rolled up your jeans.

I followed your lead,
and it was the best
decision I've made.

The wind is shaking the trees and blowing through the hair
of people walking to their destinations
like the world is going to end if they don't make it
in time.

I cautiously say this because
I am one of them, running from place
to place -
anxiety storms around me like the gust.

I imagine those who don't make it in time,
frozen cold by the closing of a door.
Or brokenhearted by a hand in someone else's.
What happens after that?
What happens if these people don't make it in time?

God knows time won't wait.

I asked him to play the riff he wrote, out of a spark of brilliance, on his guitar.
And as I close my eyes,
his finger pluck away at the strings
as softly as my grandmother passed in her sleep.
(I knew she would love this sound-
she was always a sucker for guitars)

I close my eyes and hum a melody.
He closes his eyes and strums.
And for a moment I am with her again,
clinging to the last bit of memory I have left of her.

I finally get to tell her goodbye.

I miss you
sometimes.
Like all of the good books I've read,
you're collecting dust.
Your pages are turning yellow.
Jaundicepageskin.

How dare I
get my hopes up and
think you would ever come around
and realize that maybe,
just maybe,
this olive branch would blossom?

Never listen to speculations.
Never trust the messenger.

Always **** the messenger.

There isn't much
for me to write about anymore.
I've worn out the angst-filled hate letters
and the longing love letters, and
quite frankly,
I thought they were **** good.

The faded white book
stands so tall above us as we rest beneath it
that it’s shadow spreads across the ground
while it hides the sun.

We sit crisscrossapplesauce
on the grass
while the Autumn insects
crawl and climb among the blades.
Yeats’ and Dickinson’s words float gently
into the tree branches above.

Poetry is something I will never understand
and something that is just as scary
as the razorblades
and the pills and drugs
that fade in my past.

But poetry is also something
that I find my joy in.

I’ll be more than happy to confide in it.

One day I'll probably stop writing.
The world would run out of things
to write about.
My mind would run out of things
to write about.

And a terrible lull will linger
over my head.
Probably apathy.
Probably cyclothymia.

I'll leave myself out of everything.
I will only listen to the sound around me,
not the sound that's coming from me.

I am awake.
I swear I'm awake.

She walks next to me
like she'll walk next to me
forever.