My body is a home.
Our limbs are bent tree trunks writhing in a storm.

Your breath is wind I bend to swallow.
My eyes are black holes that pull you in.
Our tangled limbs are frozen forever on some forgotten event horizon.

He kicked the can before any of us had even been frozen,
but it was full of his in-law's dip spit,
and so in his mid-sprint he slipped on the tobacco slick and accidentally slid straight into Elizabeth, who felt sick from the sudden hit to her stomach, so then vomitted all over Kent's apologetically bent head.

Realize that there's no such thing,
then give up on resisting this nonexistent ideal of being,
then realize that by even fighting this invisible thing in the first place
that you were really just rehearsing for later-on confrontations where you'll end up either having to stand up for personality traits vaguely resembling nonconformity or joining some bandwagon whose riders are all non-admittingly terrified by traits in a person who they find to be just a bit more than vaguely disturbingly off-beat, or at the very least, too far off from their own safe and comfortable sense of normalcy to be considered worth hiring/keeping/promoting.

Do you know what I mean?

Cracked the only egg left in the basket.
You really shouldn't plan your whole strategy on something so fragile.
There's a question left unanswered but I'm afraid to ask it.
The yoke of old folks is their fear of change.
It's unfair to blame them for it;
it was ingrained at a young age.

I have no friends,
and all of the ones that I do have
don't like me very much.
Maybe it's because I go around telling all of my friends that I have no friends,
which is probably a **** move.

I had a dream that I was rollerblading
in quick sand,
on a treadmill,
down a never ending tunnel,

Head over heart into some distant fading darkness,
being pulled back into an almost familiar abyss.
You lost me at the outset,
but now I'm finding myself in this.

Your intent is to drown me, I know it.
I've told you far too much.
Placed every key inside your outstretched hands,
and now you're breaking all the locks.

Did I mean to let you in?
Is it too late to bar admission?
Is it even possible to get you out now that you've gotten in without permission?

You're not welcome in this place:
Intruder. Alien. Imposition.
But I'm so glad you're here right now;
please save me from this prison.

Parked the part of myself I'm not so hot about
too close to the part of you that gets fired up
by the proximity of an engine in heat.

Oh, what a suit;
what fine noble thread,
below blinding pearly whites
and such a nice hair of head.

"Lose a little now to gain twice as much later.
Don't be a dope," (schmuck, fool, sucker.)
That's what he said through sharpened teeth.
I should've known better than to believe a single thing.

A wolf invited himself inside and talked me into buying his sheepskin suit, but it turns out that he was a fox disguised as a wolf in sheep's clothing, and so I bought the wolf's skin too.

"A two-for-one deal,
whaddaya say?"


I can't believe I fell for a walking cliché.

I can't remember where or when or why, but I do remember thinking
"if only I could be like that,"
"if only I could have that kind of life,"
"if only I could behave and act in such a way that was a better reflection of my own deep down as-of-yet unfound ideal personality type,
as a better version of myself; the me I want to be but can't even imagine being:
then I'd be happy."

Come to realize that I have become that version, but just as I've changed, so has my own ideal version of what I could be (which is to say, that despite achieving vaguely recalled dreams, I'm still not happy.)

It's like running a race against yourself,
surrounded by wraiths of what you could-have/once-were/will-one-day-become running in the other lanes.
The trick is to close my/your/our eyes and meld them all together;
the key is to maintain this pace.

I cleaned my room today.
It started with the closet.
I tried everything on, and based on the fit, decided whether or not to toss it.
(I mean, donate.)
I filled two boxes.

Then I went in a clockwise motion from there, attacking and reorganizing everything I came across.
I took **** near everything out of my room so that I could mop it.
Then I put everything back in,
got drunk while watching Netflix in a very clean room,
and eventually wrote a ****** poem about it.

The moon does more than pull the tide,
it pulls on insides too.
It twists intestines into knots while causing monsoons on the other side of the world;
a swirling pool in the stomach of a girl.

I wonder how many books you've read on creativity.
Have they made nearly as much sense as your writing does to me?
(In that case, it's probably not very many.)
I often wonder what it is that makes one poet better than another at poetry.
Is it something in the ability to let go?
To feel free to type wildly regardless of judgement/ego/typos?

I doubt it.

Like a thing hanging from the branch of a tree that's really just a bunch of atrophied limbs,
standing oh-so-ever still in the middle of winter in July,
and adding just enough weight to break the twig;
now we're watching people die.

Just by hearing you think it,
but I swear I'm seeing a whole different story
hidden between the lips that you're telling your stories with.
It's not enough to spill the beans that've been circling your width.
Semi-solid liquid rulers are difficult things to measure thickness with,
but this cake's so bulmically thin that it's destined to make whoever eats it sick,
and I just lost my appetite anyway.

Can you help me find a remedy for this swollen heart?
She says it's just a side effect of all the alcohol.
"If you let me have my way, I swear I'd tear you apart."
She says I'm getting my aching organs mixed up,
and it's the liver that's in need of a detox.
****'s all out of context.
I told her to forget it.

"One of these mornings will be the loudest you'll hear,"
but my head's still ringing from the echo of ten years spent ignoring alarm clocks.
I can see the too-bright light at the end of the tunnel,
but I'm getting off at the next stop,
and I can keep hopping these cars ad infinitum.

"A long time ago, we used to be friends,"
but I've broken half-a-hundred promises since then,
and I'm in no condition to up and replant these seeds of doubt that my family tree dropped nearly three decades ago.

This ain't the song to end it on.
And these aren't the words either of us ever wanted to have to regret not saying,
but why can't you just say what you mean?

"We met one day in wet cement,"
and our swollen hearts have been slowly hardening ever since.

The bars and stars and cars and races.
The dates and states and quakes and phases.
The quirks and shakes and guilts that stack like spinning plates.
(Not everybody makes it.)

When they come crashing down, just look for a broom.
If you use your hands you'll get blood all over the floor,
(and we don't bleed over lost causes anymore.)

Make peace with the thing you fear most.
Make love to your Self and dance with the ghost.
Make amends with the villain and **** your heroes.

And in the morning, make toast.

The twisted carpet entangling toes.
The overgrown paths that lead to places no one ever goes.
The odds and ends of where-to-begin's and stammering out the sentence,
"Nobody knows."

I have a hand and somehow all five digits are still intact.
Clutching at thin attempts to make an impact.
Slipping through fingers.

Won big to lose bigger and now the whole thing's a forfeit.
The ones who were in the back are all moving to the forefront,
and the worst bit is that I don't give a ****.
Not even a little.
In fact, I'm glad to be rid of it.

Please don't be pretty,
please don't be pretty,
please don't be pretty,
please don't be pretty* . . .

Hi, it's so nice to meet you.

*Ah ****.

I fell in love with a dancer once,
back before I'd come-of-age.
I was sitting in the audience with my family,
and she was up on-stage
along with five other dancers:
two couples and her partner.

The guys all dressed the same.
The girls all dressed the same.  
And yet this one stood out to me for reasons unexplained.
It wasn't just her pretty face -
In fact, all three were pretty -
but something in the grace she moved with,
as if she were the epitome of beauty.  

They wove in-and-out of each other in a spiraling ballet.
I strained to keep my gaze trained on her form,
as if she were the pearl in a gypsy's shell game
and I had my life-savings riding on the outcome.

The steps grew more dramatic.
The partners recoiled from each other.
The lights grew dim, for a second,
then the music crescendoed,
and with a grand flourish each couple reunited then froze in place.

A look of horror on my face as I realized the loveliest dancer's partner had made a mistake:
the hem of her skirt had got caught on the hand that was now on her waist,
and a black-leotarded wedge between her legs was on display for however many glorious, grueling, stomach-churning seconds that pose was held for until the lights went out.

The performance left me feeling a mix between elated and tragic,
and I sat staring into that blackness transfixed, as if
by some kind of magic.

How exhausting it must be to be the enigma.
To mean everything and nothing at once
to everyone and no one in particular:
To let them down just to pick them up;
to make everyone go nuts.

To pull away and fall apart,
like a cardboard box on a kite string.
In a meadow full of wild daisies,
with a truckload of duck feathers tucked inside a couple of chicken-wire cages;
leaking.

To lie awake while dreaming of escaping.
To sweat out every fear.
Crawling through the little door in the painting just to fall asleep again.

You know that ringing in your ears?

You've been gone so long,

That "Eeeeeee?"

and the ache's grown so numb,

That's the sound of the ear cells dying,

that I can finally stand to listen to these songs again,

like their Swan Song.

but they sound different than I remember.

Once it's gone you'll never hear that frequency again.

As if there's something

Enjoy it while it lasts.*

that I'm missing.

Break it.

What's a beautiful piece of shade like you doing in a wasteland such as this?
I wish I'd've found you sooner.
Would you mind if I rested here awhile?
Me legs are tired from desert travel.

I saw you from a distance,
but I wasn't convinced that you weren't just some phantasmal image.
You know, like a mirage?
Lemme tell you:
I'm so glad that you're not.

Thanks for the respite
and the breath of fresh air,
but my search isn't over
and my fate is out there.

I've spent an alarming amount of time just sitting in a car
while parked in some front yard,
beer in hand,
jamming out to favorite songs.

Every point you try to make will never get made.
Everything you say will be twisted.
Before long, you'll realize that you'd been better off never having said anything at all.
After it's too late, you'll spend the rest of your life trying to correct this mistake.

By "that," I mean your current negative emotional-dependency attachment, and by "healthy," I mean neurotic and exhausting.

If you feel impotent in a world that doesn't move in the way you'd prefer it to; a world that is progressing at a rate that you can't keep up with. That it's spinning on despite you, and you see it as a personal attack, as in that it's spinning just to spite you, and this makes you feel desperate and alone and bitter, and these feelings swell up into a boiling hatred that makes you want to commit ******, in order to make yourself be heard in a world that ignores you.
Please, do the world a favor, and **** yourself first.

I fear I might be here all night,
tuned to this droll channel of jokes' echoes and the laughter of dead folks.

Tomorrow they'll find me in the dawn's gray light,
(chair slowly turning around on its own,)
face skewed and awry;
blank eyes staring inside my skull.

I (used to think I) love(d) someone.

Daaaaamn, check her out!
Yo, that ***** is VERY PRETTY!

I (know better than to) believe that nothing is impossible.

Maaaan, I would  HOLD THE DOOR OPEN FOR  that chick all night long, if y'know what I mean.

I (pretend to) listen to what other people have to say.

I hear ya, but me personly, what I'd like to do is  MEET HER PARENTS  while wearin' A NICE SUIT  and have a  PLEASANT EVENING WITH STIMULATING CONVERSATION.

I've (given up on all my) dreams and ambitions.

Maybe even bring  A BOTTLE OF VINTAGE WINE  so that I could really  MAKE A GOOD IMPRESSION, if you know what I'm sayin'.

I want to (believe there's no point in trying to) make the world a better place.

**** bro, you are one  RESPECTABLE AND STAND-UP  ********, you know that?

Canted at a crazy angle
with arms going wild like an air dancer at a car dealership.
I threw up in the bathroom of one like three weekends ago.
It was awful.

Okay, I'm for it, but before we get to it I'm gonna need another one.
After it goes on for long enough, it all starts to meld together,

Blend this moment with the next one.
Pour this night into tomorrow.
like mush.

It all tastes the same.

A fleeting feeling followed by a slow rush.
A stride that shakes off dust while growing mold.
A flavor between bland and bold,

How far can you stretch?

Barely handle staying this way for just today.
Suicide pacts in place in case we happen to grow old,
with a color between tan and gray.

Let's do it again either way,
Spending too much time looking at it can result in loss of appetite.
just once more,
for ol' time's sake;
let's have one last night.

Everything else is alright, it's just our lives that're mistakes.

I don't feel so good anymore.
You really shouldn't play with your food.

Point me in the direction of somewhere that isn't just more of this.

I want to go home.
*The trick is to eat it before it gets cold.

Remember that one time when I asked you if you remembered what happened way back when?
I forget what your answer was then,
but I remember how much it meant to me to be reminiscing with the Queen of Forgetting.

Remember when you used to care about memories?

And we went careening down streets while screaming in a mix of anxiety and exhilaration.
Each day blending with the next; driving past every chance we had to turn back,
living as if we were on a never-ending vacation.

Remember when you used to have fun? When fun was number one and everything else was boring?

How to Keep Running After Falling Flat on Your Face

And when the Duchess of puking tried to kiss the Archduke of Douches.
Our toes a familiar sight while seeing double.
How we used to recite unrecyclable verses while climbing into the back seats of hearses.

Remember when we used to actually talk about things? No, not like this. I mean, passionately. Remember when we used to get so heated about a topic that we'd practically be screaming at each other?

How To Keep a Straight Face After Scraping What's Left of It off the Pavement

And swinging through trees that we'd climbed against better judgement;
passing under streetlights that painted haloes around our dark heads.

Remember when you used to laugh in a way that didn't sound frantic? When your grin didn't look so much like a grimace?

And going to public places in broad daylight just to read the faces of those who couldn't see beyond their own noses?

How to Focus on Obtaining Goals That You Don't Believe To Be Worth It

And looking at our toes and hitting pavement but then bouncing up again to get caught in the hurricane of everyones' perceptions of what was happening

How to Board Up Your Windows After They're Already Broken

Remember when you used to make genuine human connections with other people?

just to find ourselves in the Eye of the Storm, staring at each other, grinning in a way that isn't frightened or frightening;
Laughing in the way that isn't desperate or forced, but hearing it get warped by the howl of wind surrounding us.

Remember

How to

Wind that's closing in.

Misplaced feelings of lust and aggression.
A fresh new take on an old depression.
Watch as we make mistakes on purpose.
Hear us proclaim our own lives as worthless.

Misjudged values and dusty pedestals stacked chest-high with the best nonfacts - cracked down the middle.

None of this was ever about you;
just a made-up answer to an unknown riddle.

Embracing the end when we're still in the beginning.
Come on now friends;
This isn't living.

It's okay to go to the movies by yourself. (I mean, I've only ever done it once, but it was totally fine. The guy who sold me the ticket wasn't like, "Don't you have any friends?" and the people in the theater weren't constantly looking at me from over their shoulders and saying things like, "Is that guy really here all alone? What a loser!"
At least I don't think they were . . . )

Ditto for restaurants.

If you have a history of boyfriends/girlfriends who don't treat you very well, then you probably have a thing for negative attention.

If you don't trust/can't accept love, it's probably because you don't love yourself.

If he/she isn't interested, move on.
No really, move on.
I'm serious, cut the crap.
(Okay look; even if by some miracle it ever actually did happen (and I don't even like to use that phrase because it might give you false hope that it could,) it'd never feel right. It'd feel like you worked way too hard for it and that they only relented because they just got bored or curious and said, "Oh, what the hell," and then but only you'll be constantly waiting for them to get tired of you (who they never even really liked in the first place, so like, how can you possibly expect them to keep liking you until, you know, deathdoyoupart/forever/happilyeverafter and whatnot,) which will make life a living hell and far more stressful than it ever would have been if you'd just moved on the moment after she/he initially rejected you way back in the beginning.)

If someone doesn't share the same views as you, don't waste your time and effort trying to convince them to. (If anything, it's more likely to repel them.)

If you think someone has a false impression of you, don't waste your time and effort trying to correct that impression (you'll likely just solidify their false impression of you by doing so.)

If you know the right way to live, then you're probably doing it wrong.

The only thing worse than a poet who thinks they don't deserve love from anyone is a megalomaniac who thinks that everyone should love them more. (Sometimes I can't tell the difference.)

If you've been waiting for something to happen before you go and do that thing that you've been waiting to do for a long time, but only haven't allowed yourself to do it yet because you've been waiting for that something to happen first so that you'll then be ready to do it because that thing that you were waiting for has happened now and so it's time to finally go out there and do the thing that you were waiting to do because of the other thing that you were waiting on is over now so there's nothing left to use as an excuse to wait on doing it any longer for, only but now there's this whole other new thing that it seems you have to wait for to happen that came up as a result of that other thing that you were originally waiting for that you weren't expecting to happen as a result of the thing happening, and so now you're waiting for this other thing to happen before you go and do that thing that you've been waiting to do . . .

If you think you're being witty or clever, don't let on.

If you still can't figure out who you are and what you're about or what you truly believe in, even though you've been trying to so hard and for so long and doing all of this soul-searching in order to do so, then just give up.
(You'll finally figure it out shortly after.)

No one laughed at the funniest joke ever told.
In fact, many of them cried,
while others went batshit and lost their minds,
but most just sat and stared;
Catatonic.
Unaware.

Everything broke;
nobody cared.

I don't like that I like it.
I'm uncomfortable with it's familiarity.
I hate that I love it.

I despise the obsession.
I loathe the acceptance.
I confess that I'm upset with the extent of its influence.
I'm not okay with how okay I am with getting lost in this confluence of forces.

Please don't coerce me into this kind of metamorphosis.
I don't want these wings.
This isn't the sky that I'd care to travel.
These aren't the clouds I'd choose to drown in.

The next thing I swallow won't be a mouthful of lies.
Certain circumstances notwithstanding;
I'll burn these feathers before I use them to fly.

I'd been holding out on living until I found out she'd died.

Don't ever fall in love with your own tragedy.

If you draw a minus sign through the first angle of the first N in the word None, then you'll end up all Alone.

The faces don't match the voices.
The voices don't sound right,
and a sunny day such as this one
doesn't just suddenly turn to night.

I think I might be dreaming, I whisper to myself,
who then nods in agreement
and points to the way out.

The scents don't match the scenery.
The scenes aren't adding up,
and politely asking the gasping walls doesn't make them stop.

"I'm trying to find my way out of here," I say to my own face,
who echoes back the question
after a short delay.

I point to the space behind him,
then he points at my head.
I think I might be dreaming,
or else I might be dead.

I see myself as I was before
walking in through the Exit door;
confused and lost and in need of help.
I calmly point him to the way out.

It doesn't make any sense though,
and it's the farthest thing from fair.
*Walls don't even have lungs,
so how can they breathe air?

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He says he misses the days when we used to do nothing.
I said those days are dead.
She says it's like a high-pitched whirring noise way back in her head.

Everyone's so salty now, trapped in a can of mixed nuts.

She says his stasis is driving her insane.
He says she's already wasted the better half of her brain.
I said it seems we're always caught between two extremes,
but I could give a flux.

Y'know that sinking feeling you get when you discover that the author of the strangely fascinating book you've been reading like a mad man for the past few days committed suicide at a young age?

I understand that you're working ******* your karma;
that you're toiling toward keeping that feather weighing more than your heart.
I get that you somehow get off on going above and beyond what other people expect of you after you've agreed to do something for them.
(Though you should know, that because you do it every time, they always expect you to.)
I can clearly see that you've been collecting good deeds in order to redeem them at the end of this thing for a better seat to whatever the hell it is that you think is going to happen;
that you treat each one as an eon shaved off of the wait time you'll have to spend in the line to get into heaven.
No really, I get it.
It's your thing, your MO; your shtick.
But me personally,
I've got better things to do than bend over backwards for opportunists.

Being lame is underrated.
(What a stinkin' silly statement!)
Being bad is such a bore.
(What was all that nonsense for?)
I'm okay with just being me from now on,
and I don't need this anymore.