I was sharing whispers with the dark,
and it told me dreams are charged with white light shining through the farce,
and if only everybody else could see;
then maybe everything would be illuminated.

I was having drinks with heathen's hearts.
They told me everything is what it seems but all is naught,
and if only I could glimpse the setting sun;
the moon would shine with forgiveness for every person ever wronged.
I forged alliance with the asteroids on our path.
They said, "everything is falling and that now is just a fact."
I found a seer with one eye.
She said said the whole world's going out of wack and that we're all gonna die.
I told her everyone has got a special sense;
we've gained our super powers through the loss of innocence and if only anyone would challenge us.
How quickly have we learned to turn our substance into dust.

I held a fork with hopes of finding a fit meal,
but sustenance only ever comes to those who proper learn how to steal.
I swear I've had my fill.
The world is nothing but a sharpened knife
and I've no blood left to spill.

Sure as ****, we'll deal with it.
It's only as bad as its ever been.
Filled to the brim -
we'll take sips to keep it from overflowing.
Whatchu know about it?
Sunk in soiled circumstances.
Interconnected systems perpetuating lifestyle choices
boiled down into easily digested commercial advertisements.
Yea, I've been craving for that thing for reasons I can't explain.
Subconscious whims leading me to succumb to it.

Sure as sin,
we're all doomed to fail before we begin.
The only saints left are singing long forgotten hymns on forsaken street corners.
I could give two *****.

Add them up.
Divide by the average number of birthday wishes that could never quell the flames.
We're all forsaken.
We've only ourselves to blame.

Started but unfinished.
Built up then diminished.
Transfixed by astral bodies
on their way to undetermined destinations.
Dilated. Validated. Consecrated and interred.
Discovered cavern never entered.
Nothing and always all at once.
Everything is everything.
Still dreaming after being woken up.
Anything as everything.
A beginning and an end.
The journey taken in-between;
that's the key:
Existing.

I'll black out the windows if you pull down my drawers.
Slip on a ****** and lock all the doors.
I'll show you mine if you show me yours.
I'm ready to go,
what are you waiting for?

I'll debase myself if you'll meet me in hell.
Swallow us whole -
the seed and the shell.
The holy unknown along with the rest.

I'll fill you up if you're feeling empty.
Say hello to your hallow.
I'll play your notes on my frequency;
caress the ******* underneath feigned sympathy.

"You complete me."
These and other clichés.
I'll fold you into countless shapes
that contour to fit my insecurities.

Slide through another phase of identity.
Subconscious characters carrying out chores of clarity.
What could be simpler than the contours of your body?
I rest my case.

Amber rays shine on a hand that weighs the pros and cons
of an ace of spades against a flush of hearts.
Trade one in to get it started.
A three of clubs leaves me brokenhearted.
Deuces wild;
meanwhile, I'm delaying tricks that will leave them convinced
that I've still got their number.
Stacked as such,
drawn into a straight pulled right out of my sleeve.
Your queens over kings ain't got **** on me.
Ante up.
I'll put you all in.
I only ever play for keeps,
and I always win.

My older sister grieves when I tell her about my favorite movies,
because she realizes, in every case, that I relate to the protagonist.
(They're almost always tragedies.)

Life can be so rich.
Dig enough holes,
and you'll find they're all connected.
Dig deep enough -
past all the **** -
and you just might hit a mineral vein.

A mother and son standing at the edge of it.*

"What happened?"

"Some say it was a fire, but I don't believe it."

"Why not?"

"Well, a fire that big would've left marks, but there's no scorched earth or anything."

"Then what was it?"

"Poor engineering, maybe. Or some great storm came and knocked it down. Maybe a combination of the two? No one really knows for sure. What do you think?"

"I think . . . I think it just fell in on itself. They built it too big. It couldn't stay that big like that. It just broke apart one day."

"Hmm. Well you know what?
I think you might be right . . . "

He spends a third of his time with a cigarette lit;
Comforted by the slight weight of it between his fingertips.
His head is perpetually surrounded and scented with smoke.

Last night, I woke up to a coughing fit;
The hacking sound of thick sludge from deep within his lungs trying to find its way out.
He spits globs of phlegmy mucus.

Every now and then,
I'll catch him putting two empty fingers up to his lips,
as if it's automatic;
nevermind that he doesn't have one yet lit.

I think he's comforted by it;
The smoke that encircles him like a phantom embrace -
There is someone whom he can't forget.

Lung cancer took his wife three years ago;
He's determined to also die from it.

Everyone knows magic dolphins don't have dorsal fins -
it's a well documented fact.
The Bedouins who discovered super salmon have done extensive research on that.
Every mating season,
they swim up the sides of a tsunami
to rain roe upon unsuspecting salami salesmen.
It's a hard business to get into,
unless you're from Genoa.

That guy out there doing his own thing:
Yea, he's my hero.

Let your shining beacon lead me to this foreign shore;
the sands are unfamiliar, but I know I've been here before.
I can recall the curves of this roof as if they were the ceiling to the heights of my own dreams,
with the layout of rooms teasing the deepest parts of my memory.
I've this thing for remembering details -
shapes and scents in particular.
Struck dumb in the shower as a long since past scene takes hold of me;
picking blueberries in the sun.
Playing on the swing set that still yet stands,
as if some ancient monument in a half-forsaken land.
We've both grown a bit rusty.
The chains creak from the strain of my weight,
but nothing ever truly gets forgotten:
I have before and always will belong in this place.

Nine million maniacs scribbling nonsense on the wall
in a mad but noble attempt to make sense of it all.

I look forward to nostalgia twice as much as forgetting.

I've spent the majority of my life developing the body while ignoring the mind.
Wait, I mean it's the other way around.
I get confused sometimes.

I'll climb all of your mountains.
Show me all your peaks.
Let me look down on the rest of the world so that I can determine their disease.

Grind me to pieces with your gravel.
Tear me limb from limb.
There's no distance I won't travel to find what beauty lies within.

Throw me in the fire.
Spread my ashes in the wind.
Breath out the remnants of this life
so that I may live again.

Sinking is simple.
Drowning is easy.
Rowing is hard.

Climbing into the boat -
that's kind of tricky,
especially when the wind is trying to convince you to swim instead.

Floating is a breeze;
you just need something to give you buoyancy,
but you'll never get anywhere that way,
and sharks are waiting underneath.

Sailing is difficult.
Navigating is complicated.
I just want to find an island
where my mind won't be confiscated.

Pirates are everywhere;
taxing and taking,
pillaging and breeding spawn who will grow up
feeding a corrupted captain whose name remains unknown.

I just want to find an island.
I just want a place to call my own.

I haven't packed my bags, but my mind's already gone.

The sickening sinking feeling that comes with sleep still persists.
Is this what dying feels like?
I know bliss is fleeting, but it cuts deep,
and gives me a reason to continue to exist.

Who're you getting back at?
This act has to be directed at someone.
Are they watching?
Will they see
the instagramed photos of you kissing me?
Will it make them jealous?
Will it make them angry?
Will it result in a late night text message that reads;
"Please come back to me!"

It's the birds in the air -
how fair is it that they should fly care-free
only to land on power lines that help your faraway words get said to me?
Replayed through my head in dreams where I'm climbing up some impossibly tall tree to grab at fruit that withered weeks ago.
Bitter flesh tastes best when blended with the rest of the roots.
I can't keep track of which of these fields actually yielded vegetables.

Snipped at the base,
soaked in water,
sprinkled with lemon juice to spruce up the taste.
I just need a minute.
Please, just give me a moment to clean up the place.

Over thinking and analysis
can result in self-paralysis.
Digging through dirt for truth can leave you stuck in a ditch
with dimensions the perfect size and fit
of your own body.

His head spun so fast that he kept forgetting where he was;
Laughing as his cart flew off the tracks to crash-land in a graveyard of carnival ghosts.

"I've lost my way," said the sea gull.
"Can you please direct me to the coast?"

His eyes rolled so fast that he lost sight of himself;
smashing the magazine rack into the bookshelf
which sent every never-read novel straight into the trash.

"I'm lost," said the runaway.
"Won't you help me to get back?"

His arms flailed so fast that he sent the silver-surfaced sphere soaring past multicolored circles to crash through multiple ***** resulting in flashes of blue, red, and green to play across the shadows of his face.
In a frenzy, he shook the machine and caused a tilt.

*"I've lost," said the mason.
"Everything I've ever built."

What would a poet write about if they ever actually grew up?*

I'll take a stab at it.*

I've got about six errands to run today,
then I'll pick up the wife to join George and Mary for a double dinner date.
We've reservations at a restaurant where it's $90 a plate.
We'll debate the pros and cons of a 401K
against a solid stock option investment strategy.
"Why not have both?" - that's what I always say!
Oh, that reminds me;
I need to update my résumé.

My credit rating went up 78 points this year.
I can finally afford everything I've ever held dear.
I forget what they are . . .

I only ever make things worse.
"Who do you know who owns a hearse?"
I once rode to Denny's next to a coffin;
it was empty.

There's this guy at work
who worked at a funeral home before.
He went through a fast food drive-thru with a dead guy in the back.
He'd died from obesity.

I don't know what's worse:
Tragedy or comedies.
I'm always tearing up at the happy scenes,
and laughing inappropriately.
******* ******* irony -
gets me every time.

Laughter resonates through my funny bones.
We're all having a good time
so that we don't feel alone.

It's grown inside my brain;
this constant repetition of the phrases:
It's all alright. It's good. We'll be okay.
I'm fine. As a matter of fact, I'm great.

Nevermind never minding all the things I love to hate,
and the crying sessions in between.
This ****'s ******' funny.
I'm laughing my *** off.
No, but yea. Seriously.

Can one be traumatized by another person's trauma?
(Isn't that kind of how it works?)
Is there a known cure for an addiction to drama?
Can an entire family tree suffer from PTSD?
What about a whole country?

Yea, but this and that and these and those.
I've pulled myself up from the floor in order to write this prose,
or poetry, I mean.
Whatever that may be.
A conglomeration of words and thoughts and feelings.
Yea dude, but totally.

I've put these syllables through the spin cycle of my washing machine.
Tumble dry. Don't deny my attempt to explain what I mean.
If we're lucky then it'll come out clean.

Nevermind famine and drought,
some flowers can't help but to burst through asphalt.
Autumn may turn leaves brown orange and gold,
but some stay shining throughout winter's cold.

There are trees that survive hurricanes.
Their roots dig deep
into untouched mineral veins.
Unable to be disrupted by furious winds or rain.
They thrive off the chaos and grow from the pain.

You'll never taste a fruit sweeter than one that's fallen from an indomitable tree.
You'll never know the bliss of climbing to the top of it,
and feeling completely free.

Strong roots dig deep.
They throw out new branches despite their disease.
Those stoic statues that remain steadfast in the eye of a tornado.
Hope is the kind of thing that floats.

Swimming on the surface of shark infested waters.
No amount of teeth can cut through me.
I've got an image that gives me strength,
and an unlimited amount of buoyancy.

Consider this soil fertilized.
I realize life is grown from great seeds.
I've fallen asleep amidst your limbs,
and I'm dreaming of the most beautiful things.

Brother: You're like that guy standing at the counter of an ice cream shop yelling at everyone who buys vanilla that they should have bought chocolate instead.

Me: Ha, but no! Vanilla is my favorite flavor. I don't even care that vanilla is associated with "conventional," it's just my favorite. Have you ever seen Thank You For Smoking? There's this part where the guy argues with his son about ice cream; about which flavor is bes . . .

Brother: Okay, chocolate then. So you're that guy at the counter telling everyone who buys chocolate that they should've bought vanilla instead.

Me: Nah bro. You got me all wrong. I'm the guy encouraging everyone to try every flavor. To go with what suits their tastes. I want them to follow their gut, then fill a cone up with the flavor they identify with the most.

Brother: So you're that annoying guy standing behind them while they fill their cup? Telling them, "Hey, try this one! Don't forget to try this one. This one is good too!" Meanwhile they just want you to *******.

Me: Not even. I'm not even at the shop. I'm at the house of the person trying to come up with a new flavor. I'm telling him/her, "Yea, that's a great idea! Add that and let's see how it comes out. You've got a good thing going here."

Brother: Whatever man. Experiment all you want. People like chocolate for a reason - that's all I'm saying.

Me: Well then, I'm saying that chocolate isn't enough for me. I want something beyond chocolate. I want something beyond anything that's ever been invented before. I want my taste buds to be completely flabbergasted by an explosive new flavor. I want to be on the cusp of the next great thing. I don't even care if people don't realize how great it is. I want to be a part of it, that's all.

Brother: Yea dude. Do you know how rare that is? Good luck with that.

Me: Yea man. You've no idea how rare it is. That's what makes it so incredible when you find it though! It's what I live for.

Brother: Well that's . . . that's inconsistent. It's all full of gaps.

Me: Don't you understand? That's what makes it so special when it happens - because of how rare it is!

Brother: Well, good luck with your Rocky Road. I hope you don't starve along the way. Chocolate is great; that's all I'm saying. Lots of people love chocolate.

Me: Well I don't. Let them have their chocolate. I'll keep looking for the next new thing, and when that doesn't happen, there's always vanilla.

Brother: Just stick with vanilla then, if you like vanilla alright. Vanilla is where it's at. That's your thing.

Me: It's not though. Vanilla doesn't quite satisfy. I don't wake up in the middle of the night craving vanilla. Vanilla is not the ice cream I dream of.

Brother: Ha, whatever man! You're ****** then.

Me: Yea, probably. Do you wanna go get some ice cream though?

Brother: Totally.

Filled out this application but left all the questions unfinished.
Been swimming with schools of fish bitten by sharks;
how our numbers have diminished.
This much closer to being fired but never been farther from quitting.
Spitting phlegm during my best attempts to explain it to them;
It spills out like this:

Shook a forsaken frame just to sustain the complex game being played in order to maintain some sort of constant.
Consistently bombarded with confrontations to the stasis of each and every escapist mentality.

Virtual reality narcissism.

I'll start making sense just as quick as I learn to deal with it.
Whatever that may be.
Seems our plight is nothing more than to forever search for an answer that fits.

Thirty different versions
of the same kind of person.
I'm sick of repetitious conversation,
so go on and call me pretentious.
I always find grounds for contention
when it comes to dealing with this thirty-fold type of predictable person.
It's just not worth it!

Now I'm the one who's wrong,
because I've heard your whole life played out
in a four and a half minute long song.
Just let three more foreshadowed words fall from your tongue,
and I swear to god,
I'm gone.

I know when you're young
surviving seems contingent on donning a disguise,
but I've spent the second half of my life learning how to take it off.
Meanwhile, yours has only become more latched on;
to the point where your true face and the fake are one.
All you've got left is that gaudily painted on expression.
I swear to god,
I'm done.

Crashing on top of my bed,
I'll just lay down for a second
while in the middle of doing something important;
fully clothed,
light still on,
door wide open.
Beautiful dreams of madness.

I'm cool with how cool you're being about us not being cool anymore.

What are you doing right now?
Take a step outside yourself to analyze the value of it.
Supersede the meaning of the thing that you think you currently need.
Pick up that instrument.
Open that word document.
Pick up that pen and turn to a blank page.
Action and passion keeps the ennui away.

What are you up to right now?
What are you doing today?
Punch laziness in the face and stay in that place of outpouring.
Streams of consciousness leaking out from outer space.
I've been bitten by something suddenly.
It's time to create.

Shower that page.
Crowd that silent place with echoes of notes.
Paint every blank surface with earnest strokes of rage.
Climb that asymptote.

If you dig deep,
you'll pull up something.
Even in sleep,
there's no such thing as nothing.

Art for art's own sake.
Because progress takes so many steps.
Oblivion can wait.
It's time to create.

"I don't go to any university.
I'm a student of the Universe.
Life is my major."

"Life's a wave man.
You just gotta ride it.
Try to hang ten."

"The gnarliest of rides tend to be the most radical."

"That guy's caught in a riptide.
He's trying to fight the current,
but all's he gotta do is swim to the side."

"Sometimes a wave will crash and smash you against the shore,
and you get cut up by the shells and sand,
but you can't give up.
Just gotta get back out there and try to ride again."

"Save your highways and byways.
I'm a roadside diner where everything is served Sunny Side Up."

His to act on her prone back
with a rope attached to circumvent that.
Because who knew there was always a way out?
Another definite reason to second question double doubt.
I've had enough to fill my quota with or without squared facts.
Cubed into four dimensions to contain the bouncing reflected stream of light that cuts through every fine line drawn by pinpoint pens.
The ink is solid but the tips's worn thin.
I'm about to dive right in,
with seven limbs minus two and a half.
Crack the sphere that's not welcome here with a hammer and a tack.
I've circulated every memo.
Can you remember that every word read gets retained in that blank black back space that hides beneath every keyboard key?
Wait, scratch that.
Hit delete.

I'm not saying that I'm not capable of it.
I'm just saying;
I'm not meant for it.

She has no qualms with the status quo.
She wants little more than a family.
The white picket fence,
the red painted door;
that whole idyllic suburban fantasy.

Just that, and nothing else.
She feels it's all she needs to be Happy.
A cozy pleasant house,
and a perfect little family.

She wastes no time on iconoclasts.
She thinks they're silly and make her laugh.
Never been one to be impressed by taste.
She'd rather have a humble man
with an honest face.

The doctors said the chances were slim,
"but stranger things have happened still . . ."
Not a candidate for contraception.
She'll never have to go on The Pill.

Her standards have changed in light of the news:
Nevermind prince charming; wit, grit, or being wooed.
She's got her dream and intends to follow through.
She's just chasing a miracle.

All those men caught up in the latest health trends;
"That's your best bet," he says -
that's what her doctor recommends.
She swallows her pride and takes them for a ride,
all the time hoping for a godsend.

Prince Charming is the last thing she needs.
Any chance at true romance is something she could do without.
She's just looking for potency,
and a very high ***** count.

She's okay with ending up as a divorcee,
a single mother - even a widow.
She's willing to go through whatever it takes.
She's still holding out for her miracle.

But what does that even mean?
Caught up in definitions
and playing with the meaning of things.
Life seems so real, in fact;
it's like a lucid dream.
The way we deal with that is at the core of all our being.

I was lost when you found me,
then I got loster.

In a twisted way,
it's really rather romantic.
Both too stubborn to ever give in to each other's whims.
Two old dogs refusing to learn new tricks.
They never knew too many in the first place.

They seemingly hate each other.
No love is clearly apparent,
but there's this obdurate will;
this obstinate sense to stick together through thick and thin.
They really must have taken those vows seriously.

It's like two gnarled trees that grew in tandem.
Trunks and limbs twisted towards the light of some shifting sun.
Any attempt to remove either of the two,
would surely result in the death of the other one.

They take something from you that you'll never get back,
and they leave you with something that you'll never get rid of.

I love this all so much.
Just us, being here, like this.
Let's all live together,
for like,
forever.

My fingers sting from playing a six string.
Neglected piano keys notwithstanding.
Small pain for the sake of understanding something.
Learning starts with touch.
It'll hurt worse before I'm done.
First the basics, then the fun.
I'll climb this rocky learning curve;
playing cacophonies for no one.

Let's call it Big Fish in Small Pond syndrome.
Trying desperately to get these guppies to see the beauty of swimming against the stream.
It's all about the struggle, man.
Do you know what I mean?

Forgive me for being so angsty.
Chalk it up to a Holden Caufield complex.
Too much time contemplating what comes next.
I guess you could say I'm obsessed with death.

I'll drown eventually,
meanwhile trying to get them to believe it's not my fault.
Blame it on a flawed support system.
Blame my family, blame my friends.
Blame everyone and anything but me.

I'm starting to see it a little more clearly,
(though I'm not about to go for a psychology degree,)
but I think I now know what my problem is:
Hubris.

I've got about forty-two more rides to take,
before I'm 42.
To be exact,
I'll extract four more strains of sap
from two different kinds of trees.
Grind them up with twigs and leaves
to leave me heavy in a state between wake and sleep.
There's a 4:2 ratio of diseased to clean blood running through my veins.
(Contemplate a number long enough, and you're bound to go insane.)
I've got forty two thousand hundred million neurons currently exploding in my brain.
They're all dying in vain for the sake to explain a simple number.
Before the two of us met,
I had the fortitude to remember to forget too.
Every memory of our quartet centered around me and you.  
Four score and two billion years ago
was 68 billion years before the universe was born.
4 + 2 = 6. Four times two is eight.
I've stained the floor with two different shades of paint.
Isn't it lovely?
Ain't it great?
I'll wait for two signals before I wave my two hands in the air.
I've got four fingers on each,
and two thumbs to get me there.

Read a short story today
about a guy who has a dream
that he's writing a poem.

Took a nap when I got home.
Had a dream about writing a poem.

Woke up and wrote it.

This road looks like a picture
that I took before my time.
It sticks with me like déjà vu,
but I'm about to drive.
Get out of my way.