Sitting at a desk,
pretending to pay attention to the professors monotone.
He wasn't always so dead.
He used to love baseball.
He would crack a wooden stick into the ball and watch it fly.
He would revel in the roar of the crowd.
Like it was all just a beautiful dream.
Now he teaches English.
His joy has been swallowed like tobacco between his now rotting teeth.
His life is a series of graded essays and Shakespearean words he barely understands.
It is as if his only joy is the memories.
Class will stop for 10, 15 minutes at a moments notice because suddenly he is lost in the memories and he can remember when life was good.
That is what life can never take from him.
At least for now.

Up is down and down is up,
Covering with their makeup.
Right is left and left is right,
Cower, run, before the light.

A roaring city shadowed by moon,
Saltwater laps the shore.
In a million years, a simple sand dune,
And a land that knows not war.
We worship artificial gods, designed to entertain;
Music, movies and TV.
We enjoy away our brains.
We’ve never been able to see beyond sight.
We scoff at our own rebirth.
Our arrogance fuels our final flight,
Our wings char, and we fall to earth.

And so I've spoken,
In burning, silent actions.
Long live the quiet.

c n i r p o e o x u c g p n s h g v i y
v p y r g s k e k q w g x e o r q k q d
h d l z f e f z o l i o c z e v e n o v
s e a s x p n l c x c g j d s r o p o a
c k c t h a y k h k t x j u a z n j h f
w k g q d c h v i w x u g z f a d i p z
f t x q p s n p q v m f u s b u a v k x
b h m h g e w k z d q b i l z r n q d k
c p u u y i c v l g k u e o b i j t k v
f j n w k g t t f s y q m g n r d e f l
t y o r j h e g v w v g z c d p m g c r
m s j f a q h e s f s o n x h z y s s k
z b u b m n m e v a t o m a d j f l c a
x q g x n a g y l f l h z b m w l k s q
y p e g g f y b b z o p x g c u f b t a
h e l p j g r z n x z e d g n n c s b b
n o i t c a r t s i d u z w u w w f r j
z l t f n t d o j u p o p k t l y s s k
d m a x f l m s s r b m z g m a i o q j
e r n i o w h k s q m o e t u r w u s a

Picking out the pieces of my hair like petals.
She loves me.
She hates me.
I love her.
I hate me.
I know that I could love her if she'd let me,
but she won't
because
She hates me.
I know that she could love me if I'd let her,
but I won't
because
I hate me.
I know that I love her,
even though
I know
She hates me.
I know she loves me,
even though
I know
She hates me.
I know she loves to hate me but she loves me,
though I know
She hates me.
I know she hates to love me but she hates me
though I know
She loves me.

I learned to love you in silent moments,
like making tea in your kitchen.
I held you then, as we listened to the water boil,
and felt a moment of peace.
And when we blew our minds to bits across New York,
and when you held me in your arms as I cried,
I realized there was nowhere I'd rather be,
than with you.
When I fell for you, I had already hit the floor.
So I fell into the sky.

Trapped in a nightmare,
Silent screams for somebody.
Best to laugh, not cry.

Just before glass breaks,
Does it know it's death is near?
Is it fear or bliss?

I haven't slept in days.
It's like something...
is missing.
My mind is just a haze,
It's like something...
is forgotten.
Maybe it's just a phase,
It's like something...
is changing.
My morals in a craze,
It's like something...
is wrong.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
What is wrong with me?

Six boys in blue are walking by,
Find a child who'll do or die.
Then one dies, to feed the flies,
They were caught off by surprise.
Five boys in blue are walking by,
With a child who cannot cry,
Then one dies, to feed the flies,
He looks into the flaming skies.
Four boys in blue are walking by,
They use the child to petrify,
Then one dies, to feed the flies,
Boys in blue say their goodbyes.
Three boys in blue are walking by,
Use the child to horrify,
Then one dies, to feed the flies,
Pumping lead into both eyes.
Two boys in blue are walking by,
They shoot the red boys, eye for eye,
Then one dies to feed the flies,
Screaming just to end their lives.
A boy in blue is walking by,
He knows they're coming, says goodbye.
Then he dies, to feed the flies,
The child ends him to terrorize.

Part of me died when I lost her.
Part of me died when she wrote the first poem. It's just so much pain.
Part of me died when she looked at me and said "YOU can't take anymore?"
As if the thought that I was in pain was foreign to her.
I am broken.
Part of me died, with a noose around its neck.
I was in the garage, a rope to my left and a hook above me.
There was no time to think.
That part of me will never return.
I don't think any of them will.
I will always love her. Perhaps she will always feel the same.
But,
The part of me that has the strength to push on,
Died.
Choking
In
The
Air.

Sometimes I am aware
of the bird's music,
but often I forget.
Some unconscious piece
of me
sets it aside in favor
of the roar of engines, and the screams of circuitry.
But I am happiest with
the sound of waves;
Earth's primordial wail of infancy.
And here, now,
I remember.

The thick smell of bureaucracy emanates from all,
The jury in the courtroom,
The students in the hall.
Eyes and ears determine,
What only hearts can know,
A gavel banged within our minds,
Closed curtains on the show.
A furnace flickers brightly, into it lives are thrown.
We peck at those we've never met,
Until there's only bone.
Strangers smile warmly,
Although it causes pain.
Books that have no covers,
Belong to the insane.

One, two, three, four,
I remember life before.
Five, six, seven, eight,
I'm not someone to agitate.
One, two, three, four,
Bring him to me, shut the door,
Five, six, seven eight,
Only death will liberate.
One, two, three, four,
Born to live in times of war.
Five, six, seven, eight,
I was made to mutilate.
One, two, three, four,
Vile and evil at my core.
Five, six, seven, eight,
I need screams to meditate.

Silence doesn't come easily anymore;
we have abandoned ourselves
in favor of slot machines.
I have grown weary of spinning bells,
colored lights, and empty words.
Patience is my companion now,
and serenity follows closely behind.
I will walk the path alone,
and revel in the company of stillness,
as wanderlust guides me deeper
into the woods.

What words are there
for the air, personified.
For when I met you, you told me,
"I see me in you."
and the music soared.

It's an original sin, incandescent,
an absolutist's balloon monsoon,
but Eden's air comes in whipped cream cans;
the serpent had no need for names.
Blood hits the ice,
and the dextromethorphan hits too,
and yesterday, tomorrow, a crystal glows
briefly, never to be seen again.
The concrete tunnel is filled with spiders,
chewing at my brain as they suffocate,
beneath the weight of expectation.
And now, beneath this jellied tree,
I see the God I've ignored all these years,
and I bask in the artificial glow of LSD
before I realize my mistake.
Because when homeless men that went to Harvard,
smoke **** with you, hungover,
out of an Apple,
why change a thing?

While I'm being taken,
To a paradise home,
Where all my dreams wander,
And all my friends roam,
She's being held down,
Trapped in a glass room.
She's held there alone,
Because it's her tomb.

I am tired of love poems.
Every ****** one blends into the same river of broken hearts,
of incomplete souls and endless meaningless metaphors.
Love isn't a glimpse of divinity,
it's not the sun or the moon,
it's not the rain or a kiss.
Love is a glimpse of yourself,
it's the end of reason,
and it is every fool's poetry.
So for all the artists of the world,
I want you to know something.
So long as you try,
love isn't something you will ever understand.
So please, just write about something else...

Take a trip on a pill,
It'll be quite a ride,
Swallow the tablet,
and swallow your pride.
Lose yourself in the haze,
That it casts on your mind,
Open your eyes,
The stars are aligned.
In this trance you can see,
The you you want to be,
But don't get too close,
Or you'll never be free.

I dream of you,
No remedies.
In walls of blue,
Are memories.

Of you and me,
Intertwined.
So carefree.
So ******* blind.

To all the pain,
I'd bring down,
*** and champagne,
Take back their crown.

I'm tired of life,
Without a doubt.
Cut by the knife,
I'm bleeding out.

Panicking,
High in the air,
Scrambling,
But nothing's there.

I cannot fall,
Back into drink,
No alcohol,
I have to think.

About the evil,
I have done.
It seems medieval,
But I can't run.

Tools of torture,
On my brain,
From disorder,
Remove the stain.

I am awful,
This is true.
Drown in offal,
To then break through.

I have learned,
A simple thing.
I can be burned.
I am not king.

You will always be my angel.
When I see the right path, it will be your words that guide me.
I just wish, pray, want, need...
Help.

There are those who walk through life,
on eggshells.
And so, more than death, more than the sky, or the open ocean,
They fear
people.
Not the things they'll do or say,
but what they won't.
That they won't
love them.
That they won't
care for them.
And this, is a great historic tragedy my friends.
For at the feet of introversion,
lie a thousand friendships never made,
stories never told,
and lifetimes never lived.

We are made of parts.
We are made of organs,
Made of systems,
Made of molecules,
Made of atoms,
Made of nothing but themselves, truly independent.
We make up groups,
and groups can form communities,
Towns, Cities, Cultures, Species, Living things.
We all live on earth, a planet,
In a solar system,
In a galaxy,
We gave a name. As if we found it first!
As if it wasn't there before us, and won't be there when we're gone.
And there are a million billion galaxies,
With an infinity of stars,
With an infinity of planets.
Endless, gleaming life.
None of it matters.
It will all come apart

My poems; who have I been writing to?
Are they just words that I have plastered with meaning,
Pinned against the wall with emotion?
Are they written for the lovers I've known,
Or the ones I never will?
Maybe they belong to the demon I dedicate my sins to...
Or is it to the fact that it doesn't exist?
Are they reflections of my soul, or my mind, or just chemical nonsense smeared across canvas?
I would prefer any of these to the truth.
The truth, the unfortunate truth, is that my poems are love letters to this broken, little world that doesn't check it's mail.

For fire's spirit lurking in the church,
and by the ash beneath you, once alive,
Awakening the warmth within the birch,
chaos herself is driven to survive.
The winds of change bring blues and golds about,
setting sun breaks day and shifts to pink.
The ocean drowning, and I, a drought,
The blackened paper, breathing in the ink.
The mirror warps, and with it time is slowed,
A moment's lifetime screams, deflates, and dies.
Aquatic **** procures the sword, bestowed,
and with it clicks the clockwork toward demise.
I rise, I fall, I move from foot to foot,
The bells will beat the flames, and I, to soot.

I remember walking home,
and to myself, at night,
saying:
"Glory glory, hallelujah."
It's new, these fits of religious excitement.
These nights...
one day, they will be the death of me, but
I can't be bothered to worry.
Because today,
I'm young, alive and invincible.
Perhaps I'll pay for this,
but I'm banking on dying first.

The world we live is in is cracked.
It has void where form should be,
And oceans fill the emptiness where it shouldn't.
That's  part of why I tried to leave it behind I think.
The world isn't perfect,
It's actually quite ****.
But it can be perfect with you.
The world we live in is breaking.
Just when you find your bearings,
The labyrinth changes shape,
And you fall screaming into black.
The world isn't perfect.
In fact, it's a ****-show.
But it can be perfect with you.
The world we live in has shattered.
Up is down, left is right, but wrong too.
I can't remember being happy because the world I lived in,
When I could feel happiness, that is,
Is gone. Forever.
This world isn't perfect.
And now it can't be.
But it could've been with you.

One, two, two, three,
Counting down to killing me.
four, five, five, six,
Rowing down the River Styx.
Seven, eight, eight, nine,
These emotions aren't mine,
ten, ten, ten, ten,
Die to see the light again.

Monkey banana,
Climbing trees and smoking canna
bis, it's bliss, over the abyss.
Monkey banana,
No pants, just bandanna,
Screaming "ooh ooh aah aah"
from inside my cabana.

And so, I am again awake at night
anarchic freedom holding me it's willing slave.
Never again in love, but once more its fool.
The day I worry is a distant light;
there are no roads before me left to pave.
Working with bare hands, once more a tool.
Now I breathe, the night's a sight.
Abandon clothes and jump through the waves,
away from the graveyard, and the ghoul.

I was reminded,
in the hush of existence
Of fire, and blood,
and the terrible screams.
And I? Responsible.
But in my moment of complete failure,
I resolved to something strong,
and died.
Now, in another life,
or mine still, I suppose,
I think to myself
"It's such a beautiful day."
and decide, in silence, within and without, to go for a walk.

I am the words of scorn on a child's lips,
for a sleepy, fetid home.

I am ingratitude, and spilt milk.
I am the frozen boxer, the burnt lightbulb.

I am the sickly mirror,
who peers into an illusion of identity.

I am pain, and nerve.
I am the one who waits.

Pavlov got something wrong,
because classical conditioning,
is for the classically trained.
I, meanwhile, live halfway between the operant
and the mountain,
and an iron cast bell.
What he didn't realize is that the dogs
cared more to sink their teeth,
into old Ivan
and buy their freedom for a day.

Oftentimes, you realize, that the shaking of an intangible void, desperate, clinging before it too is lost on an otherworldly transform of otherwise incomprehensible, nightmarish, or null thoughts, buried between the conceptions of self-deliverance and a bone-knuckled release into an endlessly exploding oblivion, or the intangible touch of a thousand tiger's treasuries.

I am One,
My god is the sun.
One and two,
Now I hate you.
One, two, three,
A killing spree.
One, two, three, four,
I like this one, she's my *****.
One, two, three, four, five,
Very few of us survive.
One, two, three, four, five, six,
Maybe it's cuz you're ******* ******.
One, two, three, four, five, six seven,
Each a sin which keeps me from heaven.

One, two, three,
Beneath the tree,
Beg forgiveness, your final plea.
Four, five, six,
Breaking the sticks,
Pray to your broken crucifix.
Seven, eight,
Escape your fate,
I'm following you through the gate.
Nine and nine,
The stars align,
Ripping out your ******* spine.

A floating point value,
Of a test score four-years-old,
Can float away your dreams,
And leave you homeless in the cold.
A floating point value,
Defines the friend's we've built,
Watch them steal the you you were,
And drown in a night of guilt.
A floating point value,
Separates you year from year,
Defines your rights, your days and nights,
Your every sip of beer.
A floating point value,
Separating me from you.
Close your eyes, count to five,
And wake up someone new.

Breath in, breathe out,
Forget all the problems you're thinking about.
Live in the moment, swallow your fears,
Close your eyes and see with your ears.

Same ****, different day.
The wheel never stops turning.
So I set the bomb...

A sunbeam strikes a gong within the soul,
the forest whispers through the canopy.
The naming of the rain reveals the toll,
wind blows away the self to set me free.
I strip away my armor without fear,
the body underneath has been dissolved.
I sacrifice my sight to be a seer;
through astral eyes, I judge, and am absolved.
As joy takes up its journey by my side,
And I take in the things I'll never do,
I let go of my arrogance and pride,
now the only way out is fully through.
Confounded by the cosmic, I will sing:
"Spread love to every person, place, or thing."

I believe that tomorrow, we will all die.
Flaming hail will burn down everything we love,
our schools, our homes, our friends,
the hospitals with old women with cancer and young men with broken bones.
Everything we know and love is going to be destroyed sooner or later, and there is nothing we can do to stop it. Nothing.
We are a quark, in a proton, in a hydrogen atom in a water molecule in an endless, finite sea.
Nothing that he or she, you or me will ever do will matter.
We are blowing through the winds of time,
like dust.
Just as we were once.
Just as we will be.
We are all trapped underground, knowing only darkness all our lives.
We will never see the even a fraction of the light that exists, because it all runs from zero to infinity.
I believe we are all blind, trapped, stupid little creatures,
who scream at the walls of their cage they call existence.
I believe we are cruel, pathetic, beautiful little specks,
who are taught that they are pure, and strong and proud.
I believe mankind is plagued by it's own nature,
self-imposing an endless series of limitations, if only not to be alone.
We call this prison our identity, and we will **** before we are free.
I believe humans are the greatest hypocrites of all time,
a pure and unfettered arrogance across them all.
I believe that the world is no better or worse than it was when we arrived.
It is all just the same, a blend of good and evil that is indescribable.
I believe that to believe in God is a blind man dreaming color,
and if he ever sees the light he will gouge his eyes again.
It is better to see a God who is just than one who is indifferent,
who recognizes your meaninglessness.
I believe that everything I've just said is wrong, because I only know that I know nothing.
And maybe that's wrong too.
Maybe I know everything, and everyone else is wrong, and human understanding truly does reach God.
But then again, what are the odds of that?
Either way, let's make the most of the moment we have on this ugly, beautiful rock.

I wake up in the morning,
with a pit where you should be,
And the air I breathe isn't filtered like it was.
I walk through the day with two broken legs,
And my feet drag along the broken glass.
You say that you're empty, but I'm hollowed out,
And I hate what's left.
I'm innocent, and that's the worst thing I've ever done to myself.

It's funny how God,
Far away as he is,
Plays such a powerful role.
We are God's jilted lovers,
We pray for miracles, those kisses of wonder on our ancestors.
But he has left us, and found a prettier planet to put his coat around.

At first, it is a cockroach,
Which survives every boot-print you leave on it.
Then, it is a vulture,
Circling above, waiting for a moment of weakness.
It becomes a tiger,
Which hunts you in the night, until you wake up.
Suddenly, it is a storm,
And the tornado's of your past are throwing you away,
And you're drowning in the air, and you are singing in the rain,
And then the storm is gone.
So tell me, wise reader...
What is left?

The rising sun upon the fateful hour.
Fog wanders on the parts still incomplete.
The pine tree's sap has gone from sweet to sour,
I carry new weight out into the street.
Electric currents carry me away,
Where sprays of ocean mist will set the pace.
And as the battered night now turns to day,
I look back with a smile on my face.
I speak now to the future as the son,
Live righteously, be true, love everyone.

"Excuse me sir, do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ?"
For a moment, I almost tell him that I was born Jewish.
Or that I don't really believe in a God at all.

I almost tell him, "No."
But I look at his too-thin, pathetic face,
And at his cross necklace.
I notice his red shirt,
The blazing white shoes,
faded jeans without a belt.

I almost tell him, "No."
Then I remember that old trick I used to play.
knock knock knock. The door opens.
"Excuse me sir, do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ?"
The same look I'm giving him now, and the door closes again.
I rob the neighbor visiting his daughter in New Mexico instead.

I almost tell him, "No.
I don't have the time because I can't be redeemed, so *******."
I almost tell him, "Your God is a lie that your parents made up to keep you a ******."
I almost flip him off and say, "White America can *******."

I almost tell him, "No."
But I hesitate, because I marvel at his capacity to believe.

I almost tell him, "No."
But I hesitate. I look him in the eyes.
"No," I say, and I slam the door in his face.

When we are alone,
and our masks crumble,
we are confronted by the mirror.
So close...
you could reach out and touch
your self.
Your sickly reflection
stares back into you, and you are struck by
the confrontation between souls.
Break the mirror, and you will only be left with ****** knuckles.
Break yourself, however, and you will be born anew.

Do you ever look in the mirror,
and see someone you don't recognize?
Perhaps a pimple,
Or swamp-muck,
a beard,
or something of the general sort,
is obstructing your view.
Wipe it away,
use warm water.
Look again,
And you will find yourself reflected,
In pools, the color of your eyes.