Break it.

While everyone else is leaving,
I remain seated.
This song keeps me in my car for far too long.
It begs to be repeated.
I'm listening.
I'm listening.
Aside from this music,
**** everything.

I look forward to nostalgia twice as much as forgetting.

I'm going to come back to this one and write it when I'm sober/have a free moment. I just don't want to forget it while it's in my head. I'm just posting this now as a sort-of mental post-it note.

I keep letting ideas of a poem I plan on writing about god slip out of my mind without being written down.
I keep feeling sick again and I've long since forgotten how to deal with it.
I read today that anti-depressants are changing the way that our culture is evolving.
I keep feeling like my head's about to explode and I can't remember the code to stop the countdown.
Which wires to pull.
Have I ever really known?
I keep allowing thoughts of her to keep me from getting proper sleep.
I keep washing my bedding because at night I feel like I'm being bitten by fleas.
I'm awash in thoughts of social constructs and god,
and yet,
I can't even pinpoint what it is that I believe.

What's going on between passion and peace?
Why do they seem to be mutually exclusive?
Can't they go hand in hand?
Like the calm before a storm,
or afterwards -
everything's damp.
Returned to a state of rest.
Cleansed.

I like to think they can.

The crownless head is unbearably light,
while the body floats off into the night,
with limbs popping like balloons against a jagged sky.

Fools pressed and folded inside paper walls.
The echo of one passionate wail can tear this whole thing apart,
but to think twice would be to think for far too long.

The trick is to convince yourself that you're not only dreaming.
That this scene features more than just one meaning:
To wake up screaming in a silent movie.
To spew vibrant ***** all over these monochrome paintings.

(To dance in a bathroom while the discharge of bowels are drowning down the bowl.)

To crease rays until your shadowed mainstay bathes in fire -
stealing meaning from featureless things to replace the ones you've been leaking your whole life.

It took me a fortnight to figure out how long a fortnight is.
I'd been meaning to investigate ever since that skinny kid
who spoke in six dimensions mentioned it.
He explained it like this:
Floating spheres enveloped in a clear liquid
some clustered together, some separated from the others
each moving at a different pace
each with its own gravity
and sometimes a slew of unbound orbs will give chase
to one that goes speeding by
and sometimes two will collide, or three, or four, or more
somtimes two will spiral around each other
getting closer and closer while spinning faster and faster
until they nearly touch but then go speeding off
in opposite directions as if polarity had suddenly been reversed
sometimes two will spin together and burst
with more marbles spilling out from the eruption
some globes explode with a force of their own
taking out all that surround it
still others quietly blip out of existence
leaving behind nothing but a ripple in the clear goo
that binds them all together.
They told me he was crazy, but I thought that I knew
"You're talking about the cosmos, aren't you?"
"No," he said
then flicked his head
"I'm talking about people."

Do we all just come here to share our spirit of the stairs -
the things we wish we could have said
to the ones who don't care?
I wonder, what would they think if they read?
"Man,
what a freak -
so ****** in the head."

Do we choose to be poets,
or did it choose us?
If I told you writing is a roller coaster,
would you get a head rush?

Perhaps it's just that we care too much.
Painstakingly fretting over every word.
Is anyone even listening?
Tell me,
how much have you heard?

This aimless floating isn't working out.
I've been living entirely in my own head.
I've been thinking a lot about drinking again.
I'm a ******* island.
If I sink at least there'll be fish to swim with.

Bloodied noses.
Smeared makeup.
Reckless abandon.
Don't care where I wake up.

I danced.
I think I lost my ****.
I'm sorry you had to see that.
I'm over it.

Where'd I leave my shirt?
When did I get so harried?
Why am I covered in dirt?
Who did we bury?

panic attack.
Panic Attack!
PANIC ATTACK!!!

Foamed at the mouth.
Spat out several teeth.
Are we humans,
or animal beings?!

*****.
Swallowed it . . .
came back.
PANIC ATTACK!!!

I ate all the prettiest flowers in your garden.
Sorry about that.
I wanted to digest beauty.
Turn it to ****.
How's my breath?

***** fingernails.
Tobacco stains.
Coughs and gasps.
Phantom pains.

Who did I what?
How am I where?
Did I just now ******* . . .
fall up the stairs?
Why did you go?
I'm still wrong here.

Watching people watch football is like watching a competitive sport of its own.
A kind of histrionical show-down of who can be the most obnoxious;
Who can really drive home the fact that they want this particular group of color-coded men to win more than the other,
with egregious displays of enthusiasm being the most popular mode.

In a parallel world, some of these folks could make decent actors.

My brother, for instance, reminds me of a young Leo:
He yells and shouts but never quite manages to sell me on it.

My uncle's more like a Michael Caine. Calmly sharing reassuring statistics and factoids throughout the game.

Meanwhile, my father's much more stoic. If he has any real interest in who's winning, he doesn't show it.

I've seen this behavior on display in other venues
(the workplace, concerts, church,)
but it definitely seems to be the most pronounced with sports.

If you were grey,
I'd show you all the shades between white and black.

If you were suffering,
I'd be your heart attack.

If you were spinning,
I'd be the equilibrium
to right your world so out of whack.

If you were poor,
I'd barge through the door
with both hands full of cash.

If you were a pool,
I'd dive off the high-board
just to make a splash.

If you were dead,
I'd sell my soul,
just to get you back.

Bouncing back and forth
with a slap or gentle tap.
Seems like a dance at first,
but it's just buildup for the attack.
The crack of wood on plastic.
Simple rhythm interrupted by a smack.
You got me good with that smash,
but I'm gonna get you back.

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.

You give me answers to questions I never even asked.
Why do you do that?
It's as useful as knowing something bad's about to happen,
just after the fact.
I've never been there before, so how could I go back?
This feels like a joke taken too seriously -
not even good for a laugh.

She told me to stay but I got lost in the echo.
Sometimes I can't help it,
I've just got to let go.
And she shined through the chasm like a sun's ray through clouds.
I always wonder what she could be up to right now.
But no, it's not me,
and loneliness stings.
Wherever you aren't is where I'll always be.

I gave her a sign.
Delivered it twice.
Her sympathy is boundless;
she was always so nice.

Hip to the trip as we both drop our objects.
Clumsiness is one way of saying I Love You.
Speech dissolved a long time ago; became an excuse for just staring.
I cannot seem to convince myself of no longer caring.

I know you're independent.
I can tell you're never scared.
You've plans of conquering the world.
I'd just like to be there for it.

When I stare into your eyes,
I see the best parts of me reflected.
I don't want to weigh you down.
I don't want to be your anchor.

Sail on into those unknown seas.
Brave those winds without fear.
I'll wonder if you ever think of me,
but I'll be too proud to shed any tears.

Then again,
when I stare into your eyes,
I swear,
I want nothing more than to kiss you
and run my hands through your hair.

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 . . . "

Talking about religion and the meaning of life,
with some foreign guy I met at a bar.
My friends have all left.
I'm just making noise.
I keep taking longingful glances at my car.
We could figure it all out tonight,
but I've done it before.
I wouldn't get much out of it,
and I can't be late for work.

I'm sorry I didn't recognize you.
(Those few years between might as well've been centuries.)
It seems you were just the guard rails on a bridge I burned a long time ago.
I should have hung on.

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 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.

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.

Everything's alright.
I mean, I still act like a **** sometimes
and wake up screaming in the middle of the night,
but that's just a part of life.
Am I right?

Even if I'm wrong.
Even if I act out and commit crimes
just to feel a rush.
We dream of what we might be and do what we must.
I'm just saying,
you've got nothing to do with it.
I've got defense mechanisms to deal with my defense mechanisms.
It's just a part of life.
Am I right?

I'll go to great lengths to avoid a fight.
It's hardly ever worth it.
Justified or not,
punches make for a rough night.
Nothing but bruises to show for it.
Just another part of life.
Kind of silly,
am I right?

Let's forgo the *******.
Been there and done that.
We've both got nothing to show for it,
but regrets and things we wish we could take back.
Just another part of life.
Am I right?
You don't have to agree,
just believe that everything will be alright.

There are bones in this bed;
abandoned teeth and torn out ribs.
If one were to sleep in it,
they'd dream of falling into a bottomless pit.
An endless abyss.
A pool of tortured spirits who have long since been devoured by it.
They'd have nightmares of bared fangs
and bled veins
to wake up drenched in sweat -
swept up by a river of tears;
to live the rest of their lives suffocated by inexplicable fears.

Springboarded into the future,
and now I can finally afford a decent piece of furniture.

But the disassembled futon in the unused bedroom looks as if it's been manipulated by some angry spirit whose soul doesn't know any better than to linger.

My oldest friend and first girlfriend gave me a tarot card reading while I stayed at her place when I was midway towards my new life in this strange state.

It was vaguely upsetting.

But I can't remember the trappings of a mind that I've taken every endeavor to leave behind.

The thing about a banana bar is that it's really just banana bread with frosting; banana cake, really, is what it ought to be called.

Banana fish can only be caught on a perfectly banal day, but it's the kind of thing one shouldn't wish for, ever.

Rewound into the past,
and for just one moment I can finally relax.
Stretch out the tightly woven brain matter and let it splat into ink blots that sort of remind me of that one time that we had a great time while expounding on our little personal explorations into emotional forefronts where all judgement was either suspended and/or explained in such a way as to not affect us at all.

Pioneers of living a life without societal fears where we were free to steer the wheel of progress in any direction we saw fit . . .

Aw ****, I have to work tomorrow.

I'm just going to listen to this song for a little while longer,
and pretend that I don't to have work tomorrow.
If I died right now, it wouldn't be so bad,
just so long as this song is playing.

If my life were a movie,
I'd put you all in the credits.
Don't get your hopes up though -
no one would pay to see it.

If my life were a poem,
I bet it'd be ******.
All the rhymes would feel forced.
It'd probably trend though,
but that'd just make it worse.

If my life were a painting,
it'd be some Jackson ******* splatter *******.
Interpret it a certain way and you'll see
that I'm nothing but an idiot.

That **** don't even make sense.
What is sense anyway?
I've explained this all before.
My point was that it's nonsense.

If my life were a sitcom,
then the canned laughter would **** me off.
Did you know that they're mostly dead people laughing?
All those laughs were recorded so long ago.
I don't need dead people to laugh at my punchlines,
I'm too busy laughing at theirs.
Life is a joke and death is the punchline.
Death is a joke and life is the punchline.
It's one thing or the other.
Whatever, who cares?

If my life were real life,
then I'd be sitting right here.
Drunk again and typing some ****** poem,
in the hopes of getting a few likes.

I'm just going to listen to this song for awhile longer.
It's a completely different song by now.
I still happen to like this one though.
I'd die to it too,
just so you know.

"It's such a simple thing."
(Quite silly, really. (The word "trivial" comes to mind.))

"It's no big deal."
(Though it didn't seem that way at the time. (I suppose it never was.))

"Let's not make a fuss over it."
(I've already made enough of a fuss for the both of us (but now I'm done.))

"It's alright. Don't mention it."
(No, really. (I'd prefer if you didn't.))

((When) a heavy weight gets lifted(, what does it sound like?)
(and)
(Somewhere in the background, (just barely audible (in order to hear it, you'd have to be really listening.))
applause.))

You give me hope when I have none left.
You fill my lungs when they're out of breath.
You show me how beautiful it is to be alive,
despite the impending weight of death.

You give peace to my troubled soul.
A value that's worth more than gold.
You trip me out,
you fill me up,
you give me more than I could ever want.

You catch my thoughts when they're out of bounds.
Everything I've lost has suddenly been found.
You make me want to sing Amazing Grace,
but I'm struck dumb every time I see your face.

And in the silent spaces between,
I give thanks.
Thank you, beautiful.
Thank you for saving me.
Thank you for existing.
Thank you for everything.

Whether you're in her way, or she's in yours,
she'll be sure to apologize first.

"Oh, so sorry!
(I'm just so sorry to exist.)
No really, you go first.
Of course, I insist."

There's something so depressing in it.
Couldn't you just quit?

"Don't be. It's fine.
No, really. It's okay."

*I just wish you'd find something less depressing to say.

. . .

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.)

Then I would wisk away all doubt,
Which is to say,
That I would mix it in with all the fears I'd rather forget about until it congealed into some edible manifestation of my whole life's worthless purpose baked into some half-crusted pie.

Eat it half-heartedly or else starvationally die.

Focus.
Take a step back to take it all in.
Know where you stand
before you begin.

Take a deep breath and realize
we've only got so much time before we die.
Follow your passions and materialize all those dreams floating in your head.
Latch on to one of them,
and see it through until the end.

Sacrifice everything to make it happen.
Even if no one appreciates it,
even if everyone comes to hate it.
There's nothing more admirable
than taking something from your head
and creating it into some sort of event.

Challenge what they've come to know.
Sow your plants in gardens where they're not meant to grow.

Someone, somewhere, will see what it's worth,
to give that meaning to their life that they've been searching for since birth.

They'll take that idea,
and turn it into
a recipe that defines the new flavor of truth.

Progress is a constant contest with traditional norms.
Let's bury that decrepit body and leave it to the worms.
Learn, process, then send it back out.
Erase all doubt.
Let's go and change the world.

The thing about being cool with everything is that sometimes people will try to chill you into freezing a frame that you've only ever enjoyed in motion.

Ideally, I'd've gone home already.
Done the dishes.
Wished that all of this had never'd happened.

Anyway, I've a feeling that I'll feel ****** tomorrow.
About it.
And this.
Bliss is offset by unpreferred circumstances.

Meanwhile, the Peter Pan version of myself who lives in the back of my head is mockingly bleating like a sheep.

There's a full moon tonight.
I have the time to appreciate it.
Must be doin' something right.

Chain smoking and drinking ain't poetry -
it's just a swollen brain leaking out thoughts.
I've been thinking a lot lately;
I'm not quite sure how to stop . . .

When I was very young,
my biggest fear was of being possessed by a demon.
Once I realized that demons are just a superstitious figment of a self-loathing imagination,
my biggest fear became of going crazy.
Once I realized that "crazy" was just a political term used to categorize those who live outside the social norm,
my biggest fear then became of dying alone.
When I realized that I'd always carry the memory of everyone who had ever made an impact on me,
I found out that life is profoundly beautiful,
and I'm no longer afraid to die.

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.

Thin walls.
Ear plugs.
Windows.

Whatever, do what you gotta.

Shut it out or let it in.
Bring on the feast:
Let the games begin.

"If you ever get better,
then I'll only get worse."
Somebody call an ambulance.
Somebody call a hearse.

"If you ever make it out of here,
then you'll be the first."
Somebody call the presses.
Somebody spread the word.

One of us made it out alive.
Escaped the trappings of our modern-day world.
"He did it for himself!" They say.
But I heard,
he did it for some girl.

The craziest thing about a bridge is how it connects two things that have no business being connected.

It's interesting, the informational and cultural exchanges that result from such a bridging.

("Interesting" is an antisemantical word: void of meaning. Just filler, really. It doesn't mean anything.)

A bridge is a tool of conquest: allowing one land access to another, so that it may be subjugated.

A platform for seemingly well-meaning goats to impale and destroy any gatekeeping trolls.

All these nights of "fun."
I'd gladly trade them in for quiet ones spent with you.
We could cancel all our plans with friends
to stay in bed reading-
Just us two.

is that one day you might miss it.

Apathy is dead.
Gone are the days of no longer giving a ****.
Caring is what's in now.
Down is the new up.

To be recited while standing atop a table
in the middle of the room
during a party.

Clocks are spinning backwards.
The midnight hour never struck.
Turning pages left to wright.
Down is the New up.

To be yelled out in a library
from the top of a bookshelf
in the History section.

The broken down and beaten;
the wounded, burned, and cut.
We are not defeated.
Down is the New Up.

To be blared over the PA system
in the Emergency Room of a hospital
after a massacre.

A conjoining of festered faiths.
A mutant monster made from a million parts.
A rolling tide that turns tsunami in a sea of tortured hearts.
One colossal cosmic shift.
A sun born from the dark.
Falling up from the bottom and rising down from the top.
A monumental force that cannot be stopped.

To be shouted through a bullhorn
in the center of the city
during a riot.

Down Is The New Up!
DOWN IS THE NEW UP!!
**DOWN IS THE NEW UP!!!

This song is so much more than just two and a half minutes of pretty lyrics and heavy bass.

It defines a whole phase of my life.

When beauty could be felt and even the wrong things felt rite.

I can't help but write pretentious poetry about it.

I can't not lose my mind.

Holes in the heart.
Holes in the head.
It's a heavy burden to carry such emptiness.
It's true what she said,
whoever she is;
this kind of thing is rooted in dread.

White washed days.
Black out nights.
Holes in memories.
Holes in eyes.

Vomited out the soul with the rest of my insides.

Trying to fill the gaps between thighs.
Cutting through the silence with heavy  sighs.
Getting high, always trying to stay high.
Replace the missing pieces with beautiful lies.

The part of me that knows what he's doing is hardly ever there.
Only showing up after mistakes are made.
Saying **** like: "Whatever. What do you care?"
*******, me. **** me, I swear.
You just hang back and pass judgement.
It's not fair.

You should be here helping to deal with these things,
instead of leaving me all alone.
If only you could understand.
You never will.
You live in objective, third-person, meta neverland.

It must be convenient not to feel anything,
but I resent the emptiness.
Forgive me for trying to fill that void with something.
I'm sorry if that makes us enemies.
For the record, I've tried everything to make it easy.

The part of me that knows what he's doing is always condescending.
He thinks my life's a joke,
he thinks that I'm pretending.
I say "**** that" and do what I want.
Even mistakes can have a positive way of working themselves out -
With or without your help.

I know that I can count on your abandon.
You only show up when I'm all put out.
To carry me through the ******* -
I suppose I ought to be thankful for it.

You'd **** well better,
you melodramatic fool.
Everything I do is for you.
It kills me to see you waste it on such senseless endeavors.
What are you?
Some sort of emo Dr. Seuss?
Nobody cares.
You use writing as a way of escape.
We've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow (because of you, thanks).
I wish you wouldn't tie me to your leg whenever you drown yourself in   sorrow.

The part of me that knows what he's doing is always ******* things up,
but I'll bet he'd say the same about me.
God forbid we work together
to find some sort of harmony.