Rain fell like bullets of glass.
The wind blew from the mouth of God Himself.
The cold was suffocating us.

Fragments of a disaster,
and we embraced each other amidst it.

Words like red wine dripped from your lips.
Thoughts like tidal waves crashed in my head.

You were wrapped in a blanket,
and I simply stared at you
as I stood underneath the streetlight.
In moments, you'd be time zones away,
seas of water and seas of uncertainty between us.

We did not know if this moment was the end of the show
or simply the beginning
of beautiful poetry.

So I kissed you to find out.
A one-eighty degree turn on my heels
from whatif to whynot.

My only regret is that
I thought the only option was
to let go of your hands
and simply walk away.

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."

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.

The weathervanes
swirl snow into shimmering spirals.
The trees,
in slow rebirth,
retrogress to barren skeletons.
The cold leeches the green
from the emergent grass.

I perch atop wire farm fences
to rest my wings, to mend broken feathers;
the wind moves silence amidst the cold,
for my voice is void of song.

I see a flock flutter in the sky,
their call beckoning my flight to be one with theirs;
our voices to be one as we sing
songs of hopeful blessing
amidst nature's dissonance,
and chimes will resound from porches
and deer will drink from running waters
as if nothing has moved backward at all.

I will have a new song to sing,
as clouds break, revealing the splendor
of divine daylight.

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).

A panda sit on the frozen water.
Another stares at me from the wall.
Two pandas.

Then my phone rings.
The bears sing!
And bees swarm from their mouths
and sting me with needles.

Needles full of ***!
LSD!
ACID RAIN!
ICE COLD *******!

And then there is no more pain.
Sleep comes.

The pandas sleep under my bed.

The current cautiously carries me
between canyons frosted with crystals
incessantly sparkling under the sun.

It's blinding, this ravine.
The owls hovering about me
hoot hoot hoot their pleasant accord.

The stream takes a turn
and becomes pavement.
The canyons become metal poles
and the crystals convert to street lights.

The front tire hits the curb
and the sirens' sound
violently throws me behind a steering wheel.

The owls transform into vultures.

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.

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.

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.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the Mississippi
down the border
of Mississippi.
The girls with
the purple party beads
and the sax buskers
on the brown streetcars
drink through their
Mardi Gras,
down streetcars named Desire.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the slow jams
from the Apollo
during Locke's Renaissance.
The young gangsters
down every block
drop their
fists sticks knives guns
and shake to albee.

Holy Spirits
move through
vast cathedrals
and through
empty pews.
The zealous hearts
and the corrupt voices
all drink
and listen
to the voice
of the serpent.

I truly believe happiness
is listening to your hometown heroes
play their final show at their favorite venue
and crying with them as they play their final song.

And everyone in the crowd sings along.

It's always been a dream of mine-
a dream as big as the state of Nebraska,
but they've taught me, my hometown heroes,
that hope IS a good thing.

And my hometown is Lincoln. And my hometown is where dreams come true.

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.

I could fly you there.

We could feel light and free together.
I could hold your hand and jump off of this bridge
and glide over the waters with you
and even the rocks and the fish will wish they had wings.

I will break through the air and the clouds and the heavens.
You could come with me
and I will show you the moon
reflecting the warmth of the sun.

the boy watches as
snow falls quietly and peacefully outside, similar to
the way his grandfather died
in his sleep -
with a quiet dance, soothing and liquescent.

he treads through the cold dusting the frozen flakes fall onto
his hair and slowly melt,
freezing his skull,
chilling him down into the part of his brain that kept telling him
to stay inside;
to not speak to her.
"don't you ******* listen?
she is like a rainstorm that floods the rivers;
like a hurricane
that tears trees from their roots."

he cannot hear that voice anymore.

he knocks
as timidly as cherry blossoms
fall from their trees.
the door is opened
by the delicate hands
in which he used to bury his head and weep about
the loss of life and the lives that are
too lucky to be alive.
her eyes -
two jade green courtyards where he would spend days
watching the days go by with a blink of an...
eyes that met his -
clear brown as earl grey tea
and as sad as a child falling asleep
without a bedtime story.
he whispers quietly,
feeling his brain thaw
and his heart clawing and begging
for any scrap of hope.

"did you ever love me?"

"no.
i never loved you. i didn't even try."

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

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.

OH MY GOD I COULDN'T BREATHE.
My throat felt as if it was shriveling,
burning like the sun itself.

It's hard
to wipe away the tears
when your hands are around your neck.

I inhaled and caught my breath
and chuckled a little bit
as my exhaled breath floated across the lights,
casting a beautiful shadow on the ceiling.

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 tried to write today, but my head is filled with so much anger and my heart is so confused as to why I’m so angry that I crashed and burned and tried to pick myself up and put myself together but I realized that this brain is so malignant and so highly medicated that the only thing I could do was walk around all day as a cracked and punctured and bruised shell of a man that incessantly screamed until his lungs collapsed and his vocal chords burned down and his blood was dripping from between his teeth and he couldn’t believe that he believed he could actually write something today.

I've watched as my leaves changed
from emeraldgreen
to jaundiceyellow
and tumbled from their blood vessels,
for my body could no longer support them.

I've witnessed petals descend from blossoms:
a flowergirl tossing the colors into the air
to pave the way for a father to let go of a daughter.

I gazed at buildings and bridges
buckle at their knees
as cornerstones and foundations fail-
Atlas crumbling under the Celestial Sphere.

I've seen many things fall.

But I've never gazed upon a girl,
fear as heavy as millstones
eclipsing her overcastgrey eyes,
ghostwalk off a ledge,
waving a whiteflag
as she plummeted to the ground like a bomb.

I pour myself
a glass of
Klonopin water
and chase it down
with a handle of
cheap *****
and a cigarette.

I move slowly
and stand in front
of my bathroom mirror
and watch my eyes
change from
bloodshot
to
blackout

and I ghostwalk
to the bottom
of my mind,
the venom slowly
filling my veins
and I dive deeper
into this hideous
numbness.

I went there without you
and I had a visit with my grandpa.
April may be the cruelest month
but October kept him alive for a moment
longer.
We listened to Mozart and
visited and visited some more
until our throats yearned
for water and for rest.
With another kiss on the forehead
he left me for Good.

I sat with Jesus again -
this time in an Astrovan,
remnants of the serpent still
stuck to His heel.
I asked Him to play
Lacrimosa for my grandfather
at the gates of Heaven,
to which He gave me a hug
and we drove back toward
the rising sun.

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.

When the
song bird
is gone;
when the
evening chills
settle in
your bones;
when the
hills are
too high;
when the
waters are
too deep -

the world
needs you
to let
your light
shine.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

My joints ache and my back is broken.
My lips are parched and my throat is decaying come on and hydrate my being.
Because I know one thing is for sure -
Heaven and Hell both long for my soul,
and this dense and gyrating battle
exhausts me immensely.

My eyes are sore.
With one blink, the dawn returns to dusk
and the owls start to call out to each other
No sound of the morning songbird
or the church bells signaling the Seraphs to flight.
I am always in the night,
and always in transit with the nocturnal

Let us hold each other to sleep.
No liquor will drown the moon away.
Sense my brokenness and fill this empty vessel.

We are shipwrecks needing rescue.

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.

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.

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 went there without you.
The invitation for Winter
was a blanket of fog,
and my feet were peeking
out from the bottom.
Winter breeds dread
and I coped by spending
restless nights hopping
from bar to bar in
hopes that the right Spirit
would guide me down those
lightless streets and lighted streets,
down the sidewalk on Madison Avenue
trying to make it back to 65th so
I could sleep in my own bed.

In the room the women come and go
talking of D'Angelo.

Black Messiah, not Voodoo;
"Ain't That Easy," not "Playa Playa"
playing through someone's iPhone
out the Bluetooth speakers
on the coffee table next to
the gin and the ashtrayspliff.

The Demon was brought
out of me by the Jack and Coke,
fire from my mouth and eyes
and the headache!
Oh, I begged, on my knees,
my besought hands folded,
asking for the tongue of flame
to be removed from my head!
That my personal Nephilim be
extinguished by the deluge!

And he left me,
as silently as he came,
in a puddle of my *****
on the bathroom floor,
clutching my legs to
my chest.

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.

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

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 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.

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.

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.

The sky is masked
with billows of gray clouds
that have made their journey from the north
and move without haste
about the Gateway to the West.

No bird casts its silhouette
against the dreary backdrop,
and rain falls
like tears from our eyes:
two wanderers
hands interwoven,
trying to find a place to call home
so our weary feet can rest.

Oh, we are prone to wander.

She rests her head on my shoulder,
her soft brown hair falls
gently across her amber green eyes.
I rest my head on hers,
and we are timeless.

She whispers: "Everything is going to be okay"

I drive west
and she drives east
and rivers and roads
finally fall between us again.

The sky breaks its masquerade
and the gray dissipates
and the blue is radiant.
The birds take flight,
their wings directed toward
the four winds-
no concern for
northsoutheastwest.

I look up and whisper:

*"Everything is going to be okay"

He orders a plate of his favorite cigarettes
(Lucky Strike) (filterless) (nostalgia)
and a cup of coffee
at his favorite diner across town
that surprisingly hasn't burnt down yet.

He sits at a window booth and
he observes
a couple making lust in the street(Lucky Strike).
He observes
an infant child begging his mother to stay(filterless).
He observes
hummingbirds pecking at the corpse of a dog(nostalgia).

His hat is emblazoned
with valor and bloodshed and death.
His legs are turning into dust
out in the midst of a battlefield
where other soldier's limbs are turning into dust.

Yeah, he fought for t(his) (nostalgia).

I yearn to gaze into a lens
to view the outer space.
What my eyes will see all depends
on how I view this place.

Alive and well, stars burn with life;
while others, growing old,
will view these orbs with growing strife
until themselves are cold.

An asteroid falls across the sky
to find its resting place
in the minds of observant eyes
then die without a trace.

A satellite reflects the gleam
of our colossal seas-
vivid as a child's first daydream
to journey where they please.

I yearn to gaze upon these lives
in space that's all but void,
but I open my sightless eyes
where space is none but void.

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'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.

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.