He wears a cloak of invisible voices,
wove from the frequency of silent screams.
Ruler of the space between waking and dreams;
He is the Yellow King.

Fear not what you can't remember,
though His kingdom is obscene:
A place of waste and decadence
trapped beneath perception,
sewn with hidden seams.  

He takes his toll,
unbeknownst,
at the liminal space between asleep and awake;
collecting your soul,
bit by bit,
inch by inch,
until there's nothing left to take.

It's an odd feeling,
being proud of someone for completely removing you from their life.

A day full of retail therapy
punctuated by anti-capitalism posts on facebook propogated by a person I've known since kindergarten.

Life can be funny in a way that doesn't make you laugh,
but at least it tries.
Isn't that enough?

I got mean-mugged by a stranger's bulldog through a window-front while folding my laundry on top of a surfboard that'd been repurposed as a table.

Purposes can be rearranged.
Full moons can rise over days that were strange, only to turn them into stranger nights.
But the strange can make things interesting sometimes.
That's got to count for something, right?

First day off after a month and a half of long days at sea.
I blew off every single plan I'd half-heartedly committed to on the smoke deck without feeling the least bit guilty.

Feelings can be unfriendly sometimes.
Sometimes you just have to choose "Me."

People can't read minds,
even if it seems like they can sometimes,
but at least a few can read between lines;
what do they find?

Surprises.

(I doubt it.)

People can feel all kinds of things
without saying a word about it.

Somewhere someone I love is not thinking about me right now.
Somewhere else is where my mind lives most of the time from now on,
and I have to write this to a song I haven't listened to since the last time I lost my mind in some nowhere town,
thinking of no one I've ever loved.

Omoshiroi
is what I said, after too many seconds of staring,
offered up as a solution to what seemed to be causing such confusion.
This was before I'd learned the word sukebe, which, in hindsight, would have served better.

Nonetheless, she agreed. Omoshiroi, hontoni.
Surely, an interesting turn of events, indeed.

Youthful, virile energy, at this time of day, in this kind of place,
with one such as she, with such a wizened face.

Omoshiroi, she said, after I came;
partly in relief, partly in disbelief.
Iku, iku, iku, she'd said, while we were in bed,
and I still wonder if
it was just flattery.

omoshiroi,
she said, once again, as the elevator took us down,
her cheeks turning red.
hontoni, I agreed,
before walking out into daylight
pondering the limits of vocabulary.

Time has become much more important
All the numbers now have purpose
And whole fractions are devoted
To a task I have to do, that must be done.

Time has become much more important
Time is such a joke
All the numbers now have purpose
As if some random numbers can determine
With whole sections allocated
What I should be doing, how I'm living
To a task I have to do,
I'd rather cling to every moment, wring each one out for all its got.

Time has become much more important
Time is all but worthless
They say life is short
All the numbers now have purpose
As if some random configuration of hands on a clock
But when it comes down to time consumption
And whole segments are converted
Has anything to do with what I'm feeling
There isn't anything else that even comes close to it,
Into activities that must be done
During any given moment
Life is the longest thing anyone will ever do. . .

There are people suffering in the world,
(You could call me a *******,)
but there are people protesting it.
(I'd totally be into it.)
With socio-political religious divides,
(I'm into negging.)
driving confirmation bias.
(Choke me, beat me, bruise me, please.)
Everybody is just people,
(I like that you don't like me.)
and everybody deserves to live.
(Tell me again how worthless I am.)
Let's stop weaponizing our hatred,
(I just came when you hit me.)
and embrace each other as brethren.
(Death excites me.)

On paper, it seems,
like little more than a non-event.

Sure, I mean, there have been a fair share of extenuating circumstances in the interim. Novel experiences. In-office romances. A plethora of deserved and undeserved advances. Premature deaths.

Hell, maybe I've got it backwards. On paper, it seems much more exciting than it's been.

Truth is, when it's happening in the moment, it just feels like drowning. It's hard to distinguish between which wave is which when each one is just contributing to a collective denial of your next breath.

But I'm breathing now.

It's almost overwhelming.
My lungs are telling me to keep it this way.

But my mind is telling me different. It's saying,
"This is too much. Shut it down."

I read amateur poetry,
while drinking cheap port
and listening to Chopin
(accidentally; Youtube algorithm took a strange turn,)
but still, I fancy myself classy.

Some schlub in sweatpants on a Friday night, drinking alone,
critiquing a long dead artform with wild scrutiny,
thinking I know better just because I've been here a thousand times before.

Just know, if I say anything that offends you,
that this is where I'm coming from.
And I hope that will incentivize you to let it go ignored.

It's being swollen by a feeling that you can't put into words,
but you try to anyway.

It's something to look back on in later days,
which is today,
a day that ends in a night in which you feel the same way.

It's a guiding arrow through the maze you've made inside your mind,
the one that in theory,
will end with you finding yourself.

When you get into the mindset of
"I'm going to write some poetry tonight,"
you start thinking in lines,
and,
if you're corny like me,
you end them all in rhymes.

But then, while you're doing some innocuous thing,
like peeing,
you find yourself thinking of something
that you think might sound pretty great.

Then you sit down to type it out,
but they've all gone away.

Like a flock of birds,
as soon as you sprint to catch one,
they all dissipate.

You're left there empty-handed,
wondering how you're no longer comprehending
some amazing string of thoughts that had flown through your head just moments ago,
now so far beyond your understanding.

Yep, they're drinking again.
Hardly a surprise.
If I were a gambling man, I'd have placed the odds at 1:9.
I bet they'd pay no mind if one or two of their Budweisers went missing tonight.

Red and white can tightly gripped in each hand. Slide a couple up from the back on the off-chance they notice.

Awkwardly climb into the bed of my dad's F-250 (this was back before it got stolen.) Drink the first one as quickly as I can while the second one is losing its cool. (They taste even worse when they're warm.)

Nose running two-thirds of the way through. Cold-ish beer on a hot Florida night.  Gassing myself up for another hike. (Can you still call it a hike when you live in a place with no elevation?)

I put my wired headphones on (was it still CDs back then?) No, wait. I had an Ipod. First gen. Bought second-hand. Thing was a brick. Twice as thick as a present-day cell phone is.

Arrogant Sons of *******; that was my go-to. Them, and Radiohead. Sometimes, I'd even belt out the lyrics. (Some half-drunk kid stumbling through the neighborhood, singing like an idiot.)

But the music was only half of it. The rest was - well, aside from putting actual physical distance between me and the place that I lived - to work on my stride. An attempt at swagger. Finding some kind of rhythm to carry over into the next day.

So that I may face my peers without shying away. Without staring at the ground. So that I could stare back at those mysterious, vapid, judging eyes while screaming internally: You Don't Know What It's Like!

In the beginning, there was a sense of adventure. Strolling down unknown roads, trying out the names of novel streets on my tongue (they were all named after Mexican cities: Guaymas, Toluca, Mexicali.) Several dozen times later, it was less of an adventure and more of a pastime. Still, I wouldn't call it asinine. I had my favorites, predicated on how certain trees would break the glow of the streetlight, peculiar lawn or car hood ornaments, the scent of jasmine and oranges.

Now, two decades later, I'm still indulging in this old habit. Only, half the world away from where it started. The landscape, the houses, down to the sounds of the birds and insects, even the characters that make up the street names, all so strange. These walks feel like an adventure again.

But the reason behind them, perhaps, still very much the same.

I don't want to annoy the few people who don't annoy me.

But at what cost?
Holding back.
Biting tongue.
Sitting out when I could be having more fun.

Oh right, fun. That became a problem. Having too much fun makes things fray at the edges.

So here I am, all proper hemmed,
and a bit lonely for refusing to annoy a friend.

You're like a unicorn in a world full of mules.
You are a treasure in a room full of tools.
A patch of bright color in a washout of gray.
Whatever "it" is, you've got it in spades.

Left to my own devices,
I go to places that aren't very nices.
But you believe in a spectrum of sorts.
One I used to live on before I blew it all to bits.
Sometimes I wonder what the incentive is;
The reason why I keep you arounded.
Times like these, I see what it means.

You're my canary.

You keep me grounded.

I always expect the worst from people.

As do boats.
As do bodies lying in moats
surrounding castles' fortified walls.

Hope mopes.
Waiting in line at the airport to be cleared through customs,
unaware that it is itself contraband.

Hope is for dopes.
Every man is an island.

Some haven't developed proper ports yet.

The pilot's off the wagon and on the sauce,
leading his pod to rot on the rocks.

She said I'll see you later and I said why not.
Steak dinner, body massage, whatever gets you off.

Short of breath and out of my depth.
Low on cash and I don't want what's next.

Wrung out, tapped dry, limped ****, heavy sigh.
Asking Gungan questions like, "are we gonna die?"

Sometimes, I feel too old and cynical to appreciate the beauty of anything anymore, and it's times like these I'm tempted to walk around at night with headphones on and listen to that one song from Blonde Redhead with the heavy piano and ah's as the only lyrics.

Words have their uses,
but they've been perverted to the point of being almost worthless.
Only the cool kids know where their power lies now.
Get out there and make some music.

I'd rather witness one tiger deftly stalking their target than to watch two dozen of you drinking yourselves *******.

Pastel houses,
carousel mouses.
Culture clashes in tourist-reliant suburban wastelands.

Toxic aftermath pouring out of performers' hands as everyone claps.

This is what I grew up in.

These streets are full of magic.
The kind that seeps from grand dreams seen to fruition.
The kind that charges tuition on the merits of your madness.
The kind where failed ambition sleeps in back alleys,
feeding off forgotten sadness.

Love is not dependency.
Love is not some broken-hearted teen crying,
"You were the only thing that ever completed me,"
in the middle of the street during a full moon in which all the willows weep or whatever.

Whatever love is, it's surely not that.

Love is not a scam.

Love is not crying when you could've laughed.

In fact, love is the exact opposite of that.

Barely a decade under the belt,
and burying a barely felt sense of self under layers of bedding.
Sweating, short on oxygen, over-heating: it should have been the opposite of comforting.
What was it all about?
An attempt at returning to the womb
or trying to shut everything else out.

Play a song they know,
behind smiling faces, having a great time.
Making memories.
Having a night that will result in a story.

By the time you realize you're in a bad situation,
it's already too late. The damage is already done.

Smiling, laughing in the sun. Passing around drinks, with the logo facing out.

Party favors you make believe aren't the whole reason for your being there, for the gathering in the first place.
Partaking until you can't feel your feelings, can't hear your thoughts, can't feel your face.

By the time you find out just how ******* you are, there's already no escape.

With too much fun, comes the twisted fun-house mirror, reflecting something back that you refuse to identify with. ****, rusted and stained.

Horrified. Alone. Afraid.