One look.
A stare.
That's how this all began.
To end it,
I swear:
I'll never look at you again.

I hate you for the right ones.

It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.

Because when I think about you, it hurts,
yet I can't seem to stop.
I think about you all of the time.

Do you know what I'd like?
For my mind not to go haywire whenever you're around.
For my blood not to boil at the sound of your voice.
I wish I didn't want to die when I hold your stare.
I wish I could go back in time to before I even cared.
I hope one day you have children
even though you can't give birth,
and I hope one day I can think about you without it having to hurt.

Love love love love love love love.
I live to love and love to live.
I'm in love, right now, with this moment,
and everything.

You used to play with words.
You used to dance to the sounds they'd make as they wound their way through the cogs in your brain.

You used to savor the way a juicy one would linger on the tip of your tongue,
while surrendering to the pleasure of a proper pronunciation.

You used to wear your words
as a fashion statement,
the scope and shape of the connotations beneath only ever subtly hinted at;
An enticing invitation to think.

You used to play with your words.
You turned it into an art.
But now you only use them to get something you want.

Sing the hit from frozen lips through clenched teeth on a stage made of swollen hips.

Anyone can be a star if they try hard enough.

Swing a hit into the tender ribs of one who sung without conviction.

Not just anyone can make it.

(This is what you get.)

Take it on the chin then grow a pair while squatting in the place you grew up afraid of.

Anyone can get there if they try hard enough.

Cave in on yourself as you realize you've spent your whole life pretending to be someone else.

(Someone you thought you knew.
(Someone you're not.))

Fly a kite painted with the face of the person you've come to be,
then let go of the string.

I don't feel so hot.
That's to say, I don't feel too great.
Do you mind if I go up to bed?
It's all of a sudden got so late.

So you found yourself in over your head.
Bit off more than you could chew.
Stretched yourself a little too thin,
then what did you do?

Sent out a veiled cry-for-help to a friend,
knowing full well it was a torpedo.

Hello house.
Hello TV.
Hello couch, (you lazy ***, I bet you haven't moved an inch since I've been gone.)
Hello dishes. I suppose you're dry by now. Let's get you back to where you belong.

Well hey there toaster. It's about time we cleaned out those crumbs.
(I never thought I'd think this, but even doing menial chores right now is kinda fun.)
Whoa there fridge, what'd you say we take a trip and fill you back up?

Oh bed, how I've missed you so.

It feels good to be back home.

Without the internet I wouldn't know
what fruits and veggies go in the high-humidity drawer and which go in the low,
not to mention which ones get refrigerated or not.

I wouldn't know how to get to anywhere I've never been before,
or how long you're supposed to soak dried beans for.

I wouldn't know how to cook an omelette (the few I'd tried before looking it up came out as chunky burnt egg-pancakes.)

I love omelettes.
Thanks internet!

He tears petals off flowers with a limp wrist,
hoping one day he'll hope for something more than just another tryst.
But his hope, like his desire, is lethargic.

He wastes no pennies on a wish.

He's convinced a seed was sown long ago,
when he let a stray emotion get the better of him.
But he's never let the water touch the soil since,
for fear of what would grow.

He resists having to tend a garden born from a whim.

Just a snake wearing a farmer's skin.
Too distracted by his own hiss to hear the promise of kisses.
He pinches his pennies with off-green thumbs held close to his chest,
and he wastes none on wishes.

But then and when I fell again,
I know I should have said something,
but I didn't.
I stayed silent instead.

In five more minutes the gas station will be open.

They're meeting in laundromats.
They're meeting in bars.
They're meeting at stop signs, grocery stores and parks.

They're meeting at that new hipster restaurant downtown
(I've read that their noodles are to die for.)

It's happening all the time,
all around the world,
right where you live and everywhere beyond.

Young hearts intertwine at the drop of a dime.

Lonely hearts march on.

Choose your target,
and choose it well,
for everything you say about them
is a reflection of yourself.

It's as if everything that happens only matters if
you can somehow manage to incorporate it into this
Over-arching narrative
that's meant to be your life.

So that when, and if,
you're hard-pressed to explain it to someone,
you have these convenient bullet points to hit.

"So then that happened, and it was traumatic, so then I did this to deal with it,"

And the scary part is
when you stop caring to weave it all in together, when apathy sets in,
and the actions and events just stay random nonsense.

Just chaos.

And I know there are those who don't struggle with this.
Where everything that happens to them automatically gets justified into this narrative of who they are, and what this is, and they're surrounded by people to explain it all with.

But I am not one of those.

And I can only ever make sense of it after the fact.
Put it into context,
after time has passed.

And I can only ever do it alone.

I don't care that you don't care about how little I care about anything.
I don't even care if you do care about how much care I'm taking to show that I don't care.

What I'm trying to say is that I don't care, okay?

Did you hear me?

I DON'T CARE AT ALL!

While embarrassingly unprepared for it, the forces that be occasionally sweep me up in their infinite mystery,
like a reddening leaf freed from a tree by a sudden gale.

To float through the air of a seasonal gasp that ends too soon,
only to land in a stream that flows too quickly for me to catch my bearings.
The tale they tell of it will never do for the real thing.

It's such a rare and unforeseen breeze that ever brings me nearer to you.

How I wish that it would blow more often.

Here's the thing about balancing between two stings that burn the same:
You can give it up or pass it on or choose not to play the game,
but no matter what the stakes involved only double as they lessen,
yet here you are concerned to hell with the one soul you're addressing.

Climb to fall or roll to save the face you made up in the first place.
The true one only shows itself after the disaster's dust has cleared away.

But who's to say of what is what and where or when it falls apart.

There will always be someone around to mop up your broken heart.

Blue marble,
lifeless eye.
Rotten cherry scented earth.

Nuisances poking up,
being pulled out -
composted for new dirt.

Don't you go getting sedimental on me.
Grains of insignificance ingratiating themselves in want of new life.

Rotten blueberry orb.
Fermented fungal stink.
A world in full decay.
Eyes that cannot blink.

Touch my subconscious and I'll love you forever in dreams.

The music fades and the lights go out,
and she's gone again,
like so many times before.

Silently beckoning me to follow her into oblivion.

Beyond the stage and behind the curtain she waits,
to **** me into one last escape.
One more moonlit escapade over forbidden landscapes with the sweetest of fruit clenched between her
teeth.

To ride carefree and reckless beneath the trees that shield us from our cruel fates' twisted shine.

Once again and for at least one more night,
I am yours and you are mine.
I can feel your pulse keeping time with mine.
A whole universe out-of-whack,
but here's this one thing synchronized.

"It won't last,"
she gasps, with an arrow in her back.

It never does.

My body juts forward with the impact,
and I hold her close one last time,
one more one last time until the next one,
as she whispers in my ear:
"Find me, my love.
Find me again."

"Hey, can I ask you a favor, please?"
I said, to the most supportive members of my family.
"Sure,'" they said.
"Feel free to ask us anything."
"Here," I said, handing over my pack of cigarettes.
"Please get rid of these."

"Gladly."

People are so angry these days. Angrier than they've ever been.
Let's not get into the reasons why, but rather, work on finding a solution.
Perhaps that's too ambitious. Maybe settle for some simple anger management instead. A healthier alternative outlet for all that anger would do wonders for our collective interpersonal communications.

What you might try is yelling at objects.

Why objects? (You might be asking . . . )
Well, because the last thing we need is more yelling at each other.
There's more than enough of that going on already,
and yelling at animals would just be plain cruel.
They put up with enough of our **** without adding in random unsolicited rants to the mix.

And definitely not plants or trees. (I mean, that's obvious.)
Everyone knows that they're vengeful and hateful things,
and hold grudges that last longer than most lifetimes.

This leaves inanimate objects, which are fantastic candidates for the receipt of the worst of our wrath. Traffic lights, for instance, make a great target. Go ahead and feel free to dive in the next time you're forced to stop at a red light. Yell at it for not staying yellow long enough for you to make it through. Yell it at for making you sit and risk being late to whatever important destination it is that you're going to. Yell at it for being the whoreson ******* three-eyed ******* that it is. Curse its stupid ******* face and its whole ****** family of stupid-faced ******* ******* *******. By the time it turns green, I'll guarantee that you'll feel much better.

What if I'm angry at home? (You might be asking.)
Well, there are plenty of objects to choose from there, though I find it's best to have an added incentive to already be mad at a thing.
For this reason, you might find it helpful to keep a few faulty kitchen appliances around. It doesn't have to be anything major. A coffee maker with a cracked carafe, for instance, or a microwave that never fails to burn the bag of popcorn. Feel free to not hold back on these things. Threaten to smash the worthless ******* to pieces, then to light those pieces on fire in the backyard and **** on their ashes. (Do refrain from actually acting on these threats however, lest your neighbors think you've finally lost it.) Simply making the threats alone should grant you some relief.  

What if I'm too tired of being angry all of the time to get out of bed? (You might be asking.)
Well, there's the alarm clock right there within arm's reach. It's such a cheap and fragile little thing. I think it'd be forgivable to actually go right on ahead and send the thing sailing across the room. If your alarm clock has already been smashed then you could attack the lamp, or whatever random knick-knacks might be lying on the bedstand. Though it would require standing up, tearing down the ceiling fan is also a viable option.
I'd hold back from laying into your bed though, lest all that hateful energy gets retained in the sheets.
The last thing you'd need after a long day of venting anger at everything around you would be to dream of evil trees finally getting their revenge. Trust me.

All my hopes blown away in a cloud of smoke sent up from the bathroom floor.

Heretofore forever to be well and constantly ignored.

If and then there is a justice to the semi-constant roar,
you'll find me waiting with my shades drawn down against everything that causes war.

That's not to say I'll go away on some single-sailed white ship.
My flag is not the kind of flimsy rag to get shattered by the wind,
but if and when I climb back up from these jagged steps that broke my back,
I'll carry you all with me.

That's a promise and a fact.

The little chitters of charged words crying like a chorus line,
whose notes echo off chimes of crystal.

The shakes and jitters of hot nerves dying,
with eyes homing in like a missile.

Tiny critters curled up tight in their respective chrysalides,
awaiting the day they sprout wings.

My current state of mind is electrified,
but oh how the body sings.

Yes, now that - this - is a mood.

You know, I just realized I've never asked you about you.

How do you spend your days?
What do you do?
What goes through your head when you hear something like this?
Does it put you in a similar mood?
Because I can't help but wonder if we'd get along well,
mellowing out to the same tunes.

Then I remember why I never ask.
Because these moments mean so much.
It's too much to lose.

My brain is awash in budding friendships and cephalopods.

I think at this point it's safe to assume that all of my favorite ones are those who develope intelligence on their own, spineless or not.
Less of a social impetus than one of sheer simple survival.
An adaptation to life-threatening and serious impacts.

And the awkwardness invariably involved tends to tickle me various colors.
And the people who judge might as well be a den full of sharks, bodies going taught at the sense of fresh blood.

They can all **** right off.

I'm not the one to see how you'd warn them off. I'm more interested in seeing how you'd react to fun.

What would happen if one of your many limbs reached out towards one of mine?

Would our color-changes clash,
or would they match?
Would we play off each other until a new spawn was hatched?

It took millions of years for us to find the courage to leave our shells.
Now we're out here constantly shifting/adjusting/conforming by ourselves.

Would it really be so crazy for us to occasionally help each other out?

Please no more cheddar,
I feel bloated and old.

Scarfing down mozzarella with a sick stomach groan.

You're trapped in the restaurant
missing your home,
while I eat grilled cheese and soup all alone.

___
1. Verb
2. Adverb (must end in "ly")
3. Adjective
4. Noun

The tide reels back from the shore,
as the water reflects the setting sun.
Grab what treasure while you can.
We've been here before but will never again,
for I am not the one.

Take it all in stride,
and run your hardest til the end.
Accept the ribbon but see no trophy.
At least we can still be friends.

Grind the gears until they quit.
One last trip before we're done.
I apologize for however many tears might be shed once you realize
that I am not the one.

Go forth into the future with dry eyes and a hardened heart;
Nipping love in the bud before it ever starts.
Steering clear of everything that even remotely resembles the foundations of a building that can one day be blown apart.
Living beneath a glass ceiling reinforced with steel beams that encase you in a state of untouchable mental well-being,
with only the moon and stars to console you and the occasional confused bird to keep you company;
To rot in a graveyard of memories filled with lovers still alive but dead to you, dead like the eyes that were once so full of hope and promise. Eyes that met their demise once upon a time on a beach long since gone.

Fate is the cruelest of beliefs.
I am not the one.

Some people can love
people they don't even know;
people who can be awful and selfish and have hearts made of lead.

Some people can still love these people;
People with hearts made of gold,
whose shine blinds them to the negative judgements they'd otherwise find in their heads.

These kinds of people are great.
Every one person who can love anyone,
is worth at least ten thousand who hate.

Walked to the bar through the snow.
There's too much on the ground to take my car.
With weather like this,
there's only one place to go.
Luckily, it ain't too far.

Truth is, I'm just a charlatan who's gotten very good at pretending like my opinions are wisdom when they're really just a bunch of after-thoughts regarding dumb decisions I've spent my whole life making.

Future hermit reconciling his (albeit short-term) commitment to a career in mass communication.

Every obligatory conversation, every concern to extend the web of networking, every not-so-subtly coerced public interaction feels like an embedded knife being slowly extracted.

How exactly did I allow myself to be contracted into something so antithetical to so many aspects of my own personality?

What in the hell could have possibly possessed me to do such a foolish thing?

Foolish me.

I knew what I was doing, though whether or not it was out of some well-meaning ambition to round out weaker abilities or just one giant masochistic way of up-ending everything in a giant '*******' to how I'd been living remains a mystery.

Forcing myself to live a life outside of my comfort zone, I find it exhaustingly, unendingly -and altogether understandably-uncomfortable.

Am I learning something?

Undoubtedly, but I'm not necessarily thrilled about the insights that've been endowed on me.

Oh you Salingers. Oh you Brandos. You Plaths, DFW's and Garbos. You Fischers, Goulds and Hughes.

You lonely and abused. You gray, black and blues.

You at least left legacies before retreating into solitude.

Some of us are too stubborn to acknowledge when we've got it all figured out.

Knowing what's best for you doesn't always mean you know what the next best thing to do is.

Some of us know too many words and not enough meaning,
and we get all tripped up on the semantics.

If I could, I'd stop writing stanzas that begin with ******* like,
"If I could,"
or
"Truth be told,"
or,
"Truth is."

Because **** me dude.
Seriously, I'm the worst.

My feelings are so stupid.
It's like they don't think at all.

It's one thing to not look a gift horse in the mouth,
but it's another thing entirely
to admire the horseshoe as it knocks your teeth out.

Staying up all night looking up lyrics to songs I'd heard and liked.

Stealing beers from my parents and drinking them as fast as I could while sitting in the bed of my dad's white pick-up truck. (With my nose running and thinking it was so gross but doing it anyway for the fuzzy fluid feeling it gave me.)

Walking around the neighborhood at night with headphones on, listening to songs whose lyrics I had recently learned. (Sometimes singing along depending on how well I remembered the lyrics/how many beers I'd drank.)

Giving a knowing wink to the houses whose windows glowed blue from television screens. (A habit I started after having read a certain Ray Bradbury short story that I'd liked.)

Making weird images in MS Paint (always with the slanted-line brush tool) after coming back home from a late-night, music-infused stroll.

I'll deflate myself to gas you up,
because my end state is devastation,
but you could be happy/healthy/etc.

A truth was told.
The world wasn't ready for it.

A truth was folded and filed and tucked away for a later day when it'd be needed.

An urn was molded.
It was turned and kneaded and glazed
and filled with the burned ashes of a truth the world never needed.

A tour was organized.
A collection of scholars in things eclectic and obscure
observed things they'd never been privy to before.

They took notes and wrote essays for graduate programs they'd never be accepted to.

They wrote about deep-seated issues that drew connections from me to you.

But they never got published.

Not gonna write a poem tonight.
No how man, no way.
It's been a long night already,
and I got **** to do tomorrow.

Crap, I mean today.

The mundane has become the new strange while the old strange is just a page ripped out of a journal burned years ago;
The ashes of which trace lines in a face it's taken years of one-sided mirror conversations to come to recognize as your own.
The past is a blanket that's been ripped off its clothespins by winds that blow across some place you can't remember living in.

It was never all that comfortable to begin with anyway.