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.

A man of action,
I was,
for a series of months.
I worked my *** off and fought all of my thoughts.

A constant distraction;
that's all I want.
No matter what happens,
I cannot get lost.
Caught up in longing for what never was.

Let me be a rock,
let life wash over me.
I'll stand solid in the middle of a stream.
Feeling no feelings.
Dreaming no dreams.
And worrying not about these waters that will erode me.

Moonlight bounces off a blank white canvas.
The artist stands in front of it
poised with palette and brushes in hand.
Lost in cosmic visions;
projecting them onto the rectangle of empty space.
Several seconds of silence pass,
then a sudden burst of force like the Big Bang!

Streaks and slashes of vibrant color shoot out in all directions.
A whirlwind of flying shades splashing surfaces without discretion;
canvas, rooftop, face -
not even the moon is immune to getting hit with flecks of paint.
The whole sky bombarded by crashing waves of pigment based rain thrown up with the force of a raging typhoon.

Slapped on thick,
the globs hit canvas with a deafening splat.
The stars themselves left shuddering from the impact.

A few final touches,
then the artist stands back.
The universe is struck dumb by its essence reflected
in a 29 x 36" frame.
She signs her name
and smiles.

With boulders on my shoulders,
and a great weight bearing down.
The last thing I could ever need
is another reason to doubt.

A monkey on my back,
but a blue bird on my wing.

Yo chimpanzee,
come back me up;
I'm about to sing.

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.

One day, I'll have to tell you what it is about your poetry that compels me.
But why break the spell?
Why ruin a good thing?

One day, maybe,
I'll say all the things I've ever wanted to say to every person who looked the other way.
If I say it all to you, would that be okay?

One day,
maybe one day soon,
I'll finally figure out what's so fascinating about you.

It has something to do with so many things:
personal history, idiosyncrasies, a myriad of strange beliefs.  
Particularly those concerning coincidence and fate.
Something in the way you remind me of hopes lost and dreams gained-
of past mistakes.

One day, I'll tell you.
On a day when I'm not bogged down by sorrow.
A day when you have nothing left that I'd like to borrow.
When poetry no longer does it for me -
that'll be the day;
the day after tomorrow.

When you're twenty-five,
and find yourself watching Pinocchio -
completely horrified,
then it might be time to reevaluate your life.

(When you're lying in a field next to a bar,
singing a song while out of your head,
and your friends call your name because they don't know where you are,
so you stop singing because you'd rather be left for dead,
and later you're crying in your best friend's car
while thinking of all of the terrible things that you've said)

When you can't handle people being nice to you
because you think you don't deserve it -
when you can justify substance abuse
because you feel that you have earned it,
then it's about time that you grabbed the wheel
and turn it.

Years ago, when I lived on the coast,
I made friends with this kid who was a salesman at Sears.
He once sold a coworker his ****.
He was very upset when he told me about it.
(That's the thing about regrets,
they're the type of thing one never forgets.)
We used to hit the bars,
but it never went very far.
He quickly lost interest in it when he learned I wasn't into chasing skirts.
One night we ended up on the beach in our best shoes and shirts,
and he told me how his father had drank himself to death.
It's the type of thing I'll never forget.

When I say "Always,"
I really mean Never
But I do mean it when I say
That we should get together
When I say "Sometime,"
I really mean Forever
I believe you hold the key to making my life better

When I say I'm content
I really mean I'm not
When I say that I am happy it means I don't know how to stop
When I say "I like you"
Or that I think you're cute
It means there are so many things I want to do to you

When I say you can help me
It really means I'm ******
If you think that you can save me then I'll say to you, "Good Luck"
If I say that I'm alright
It means I'm falling apart
And if I start to show you all my pieces you'd better hold on to your heart

When I was a little kid,
About maybe five or six
I told my parents I would become an addict on purpose
Just to show them how to quit

They said I was foolish
They told me to stop it
But I insisted I would

Now here I am, almost 20 years later
It's about time I made good.

He started stringing dollar bills along with his words to increase the odds of someone picking up what he was putting down.

Amazing people
capable of such great understanding,
like the most beautiful sea shells
scattered few and far between
a hundred million grains of sand.

Is like being a fly trying desperately to avoid spider webs
while longing to be caught.

"Well, poetry, you know. Poetry, especially. Poetry is for the purists. It's like at the essence of everything. Like, music is the poetry of sounds, right? And a song is sort of poetry set to music. Art can be like, the poetry of paint on canvas. Arranged in a certain way? The arrangement is the most important part of it, sort of. It's what makes it poetry. Dancing is like the poetry of a body in motion. Movies are like, the poetry of moments - certain moments - you know, they call them scenes. And they're all presented in this kind of sequence in order to, umm, like make an impression?"

"Wait. So then, what is poetry? It's just words, ain't it?"

"Well, yea. It is and it isn't. It's more than just words. It's like the essence of things - it's hidden beneath everything. It's the sort of thing that you can only see if you're actively looking for it. Well, that's not true. Sometimes you see it when you're not looking for it. Like, (slaps hands together) wham! You know? And that's when it makes the biggest impression, and if you see it, you feel this sort of compulsion to share it."

"With words. I mean, it's just words though."

"Right, you said that. It is just words, but it's more than that. It's playing with ideas, and feelings, and meanings. It's playing with the meaning of things! It's an attempt to define the undefinable. To capture the intangible and sort of present it in the form of words. Which is ridiculous, really, because it's impossible. That's the thing about poets, they're all crazy. They're all trying to explain something that can't be explained, but they can't not do it. It's like a compulsion. It's like, you know, from math. It's like an asympto -"

"But it's just words! You already said. Math is numbers. Poetry is just words. Like, what are you even saying right now? You're not making any sense."

"Sense? Who's trying to make sense? No man, that's not what it's about. Like, what even is Sense? It's just a word. All of this. What we're saying; it's all just words."

"Right. That's what I said. It's just words."

"Yea, so then, why are we even saying them? Why are we saying 'just words.' Why are we saying these words? Right now. Why are we saying these words at this particular moment in time? Like, why? Because of poetry, that's why. Poetry is the attempt to figure out that why. And it is that why. It's the question and the answer at the same time."

"Whatever man. You don't make any sense. It's just words. Case closed."

"Right. It is and it isn't. It's more than just words. It's Just Words.
Just.
Words."

There's a formula that can keep me going indefinitely.
They say immortality's nothing but a myth,
but I've got the recipe.
It was passed down to me as an ancient family secret:

"Three strips is never enough."

Moon through the trees,
smiling at me.
And echoes of words full of abstract meaning.
It's a series of seriously silly things.

I must have blown up at least thirteen balloons tonight.

Rubber meets fire.
This line ends with an unfulfilled . . .

Eyes closed;
shuttered windows.

"It's raining skulls again," sighed jelly head,
with his brain leaking out from his nose.

"Nevermind," she said
with a tissue in her hand;
"Skull rain's good for the bones."

It's funny how the sound of a cricket can bring on feelings far beyond it ever intended.
I heard you can tell the temperature from it.
Toads are in high demand when everybody wants to lick them.
I heard Salmonella cases went up in percentage after the release of that Disney film.
It's funny how much of an influence one frog-kissing princess can have.
The media is like a bad disease that everybody has.
If I were a prince,
then I'd pass laws to rinse our culture of it.
If I had magic powers,
then I'd used them to silence those who abuse it.
Animate an army of brooms to wash it clean.
I realize I'm infected too,
but don't you see?
That's exactly what I mean.

"What you need is a true friend.
A girlfriend/boyfriend.
Someone to play house with and make pretend.
2.5 kids and a white picket fence.
A dog and/or cat - you can't forget about that."
(I see a red door and I want it painted black.)
"What you need is a woman,
or maybe a man."
I took the **** prescription
and threw it into the trash can.

I don't want to write tonight.
I'd much rather, like,
read Dostoevksy,
photograph lightning,
and drink a beer -
all at the same time.

Lost in the clouds where we stored all our dreams.
Fell to the ground in a million tiny drops.
Each one, a wish we don't remember making.

Leapt in the air and broke through atmospheres,
just to get some space.

We carved our names into the face of the sun.
Fell from the stars and hit the ground running.

Some people are beautifully abstract movies:
enlightened visions of an idea come to life through cryptic scripting and inspired cinematography.
Slow burns full of brilliant dialogue that leave you thinking about them long after you've seen their open endings.
The kind that only the intelligentsia could ever truly appreciate, with a poor audience score but universally loved by critics.
The kind of movie with a cult following that comes up in late night conversations amongst hipsters sharing their opinions on the pieces of art that have made the biggest, longest lasting impacts on them.
The kind that takes hours of scrutiny and analyzation just to feel like you've arrived at some vague sense of what it all means.

And then there are people like me,
who are less like grand artistic visions of profound cinematography,
and more like reality tv.

The kind of thing a working suburban mother tunes into after a double at the local diner/supermarket/pharmacy counter.

The kind of non-committal, light-hearted viewing that never comes close to demanding your full attention. Just a myriad of characters brought together with a loose premise and slightly coerced tension.

The kind of thing you could have a conversation over, and walk away from and come back to, and still know what's going on, because it's just all so obvious - it never requires much thought.

The kind of show where the actors have every viewer convinced that they're something that they're not.

I want to get inside your head.
(The deepest part of your bed)

I want to crawl under your skin.
(The driving force to your sins)

I want to haunt all of your dreams.
(So you'll never forget me)

I want to always be there.
(So I'll know that you're okay)
You don't have to be scared.
(Just believe in what I say)

Some people like to break **** when the mood hits them right.
Go back and fix it in the middle of the night.
Set up a date with that person you hate.
Meditate on all the things you can't wait for.

Some people's kids end up as some people's parents.
Some of them never grow up.
Maturity is strictly overrated.
Fill your cup after you've finished your chores.

Some people are neither here nor there.
Most of them have no idea where they are.
**** fancy cars, I want to ride shooting stars.
It's not my fault real life's a bore.

"Are you happy?"

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.

"I'm ugly."

"*******.
If you're ugly, then flowers are hideous,
and sunsets are a joke.
Butterflies nothing more than grotesque insects with over grown wings,
and the night sky is completely overrated.
If you're ugly, then a child's laughter is grating,
and music is just atrocious noise.
A smile's just a contortion of the face,
and poetry is just words.
If you're ugly, then a garden's just an arrangement of plants,
and dreams just nonsense played out in the brain.
Art would have no value,
and brilliant people would just be insane.

You are the farthest thing from ugly,
so don't say **** like that,
because if you aren't the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,
then beauty doesn't exist."

I always wanted to be good at everything.
Who doesn't?
I was egotistical enough to cling to the notion that one day, I would.

I dabbled in the arts.
Concocted my potions.
Ran experiments.
Made love when I could.
I calculated numbers.
Explored the ocean,

But my favorite hobby was always psychology.
My first case study being my mother.

There's nothing deeper than the depths of human emotion,
or the correlation of what one life means to another.

I used to write my dreams down
until you showed up.
Now thinking about them just hurts too **** much.

There once was a whale
Or maybe it was just a giant fish
He hung around in the shallows
And all of us anglers wondered if
Catching him wouldn't make us rich

If only that glory could be ours
To win that battle between nature and wit
We set our bait and cast our lines
And in the meanwhile, we wondered, "what if?"

And at the local gas stations we give them our cash
We ask for the many itches that we would like to scratch
We look at the numbers with all our fingers crossed
Hoping that all of our hope is not lost

It will be just how you saw it
in every way that it was promised -
only it won't be any of those things,
because it's really quite the opposite.

Only death lies for the just and honest.

We could be lovers,
or we could stay strangers,
but we can never be friends.

All of these people
Just trying to get along
And I've got my keyboard
And I've got my song
And I sing it out loud
To find out who will sing along

All of these thoughts
Now have somewhere to go
And I plant this seed
And I'll watch it grow
And somewhere in between
The most spectacular show

All of these feelings
Succumb to being overwhelmed
A desperate attempt of the lost to be found
And the trees sprout up from the soft fertile ground
And the birds give words to the sweet subtle sound
Of a life never lived giving birth to right now

A young man bangs on the screen door of a small house.
The glass inside it rattles with his urgency.
He stands back and calls out a name.
An anxious pause.
He bangs on the door again.

The door behind the screen opens.
An old woman glares at the young man through the black mesh.
"She ain't here,
and even if she was -
she don't want to see you!
Now go away!"
She slams the door shut.

The young man stares at it, bewildered.
Stamps his foot.
Calls out a name -
louder this time.
He bangs on the screen door again,
the glass nearly breaking in its frame.
He yells out a name.

He shouts, "Are you in there?
I need to speak with you!"

"Go away,"  heard faintly from the other side of the door.

The young man walks to the side of the house.
He is grumbling underneath his breath.
Phrases like, "old hag," and "miserable old hag,"
can barely be heard.
He stops at a window.
Its curtains are drawn.
He knocks on it.
He calls out a name.
He yells,
"Please!"

He pauses.
Puts his ear against the glass.
He hears nothing at first,
then footsteps.
Grass being crunched under heavy feet
coming from the front of the house.
A large man turns the corner.
He stares at the young man.

"She's gone," says the large man.
"She left last night."

"What do you mean 'she's gone?'
Where has she gone?
I need to see her . . ."
He suddenly looks behind the man.

The old woman has turned the corner of the house.
She stands slightly behind the large man.

"She's gone with him," she hisses.
"**** good she did too!
He'll be able to give her more than you ever could in a thousand lifetimes!"

The large man growls at her from over his shoulder,
"Get back in the house!"
The old woman glares at the back of the large man,
then she gives the young man one last
disapproving look.
She huffs,
then storms off.

The young man stares at the large man.
He says,
"Has she really gone?
Is it really all true?"

"Yes. The part about her leaving is, anyway."

The young man goes pale.
He looks off into space.
He closes his eyes.
The large man looks away from him.

After a long pause,
with his eyes still closed;
"Was she happy?"

The large man looks at him, confused.
"What?"

The young man opens his eyes. Stares into the large man's.
"Last night,
when she left with him.
Did she look happy?"

The large man stares back at him for a few seconds;
sees the desperation in his eyes,
then looks down.
"Yes," he says softly.
"She looked happy."

The young man closes his eyes again.
One hand goes up to his head to clutch at his hair.
A range of emotions cross his face.

The large man looks up at him,
briefly,
then looks down again.
The young man sighs softly,
slowly.

"Ok," he says.
The large man looks up at him.
The young man is pulling something out of his pocket.
He walks up to the large man,
places it into one of his hands.

"Do me a favor, please."
They are staring into each others' eyes.
"Hang on to this for me."

The large man stares down at the object.
He looks back at the young man, confused.
"What do you want me to do with it?"

The young man is staring right at him, hard.
His face is devoid of all emotion;
all but resolve.

"Just keep it somewhere safe, please.
Keep it somewhere safe where no one can find it -
not even me."

A scenic analytic man with figures pouring out his hands might come across you one day,
Sitting oh so lonely in a dark and dismal way,
Extending out his hand in a gesture of affect.
What will you do to process this abstract?
Reach out in a gesture of "I know it too,"
To bridge that tiny gap between a me and a you.

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?

I've always wanted to **** a psychiatrist.
I think it'd be hot for someone to hear all my *******.
On the couch meant for listening, while their legs are spread;
I'd pay what's more than fair to know what goes on in their head.

I know this kid who once made his psychiatrist cry.
I swear to god, he's my hero.
I worry about him sometimes.
But I don't get paid for that ****, you know?

They're so fond of handing out pills.
Psychobabble jargon and all of that swill.
"Your emotions are too strong. Take these and they'll be killed."
******* psychiatry.
It's adorable.

"Did you know that your profession has one of the highest suicide rates?
What are you doing tonight?
Wanna go on a date?"

I bet they hear a lot about ****.
Do you think they might get off on it?
Poor *******.
Your career choice was a mistake.

No, really though, I think it's pretty great.
Trying to help people function properly and stuff.
Psychiatrists are hot.
They can all get ******.

I saw him take off,
launched headlong into the stars,
with gold and orange sparks spiraling out of his arms.

I wondered if he was afraid
to be alone up there with all that empty space,
forever out of reach.

But then maybe, it's not so empty.
Or maybe, he's okay with it.

I'm part of a cult with no leader.
We take flight from unidentified runways.
King Kong is nothing but a chest beater;
climbing skyscrapers and swatting at planes.
I'm not afraid of the beast.
No, really though, we're quite good friends.
I've been invited to a giant feast,
but no one ever eats because the toast never ends.
Who put this guy in charge anyway?
I'm not okay with his facts.
I propose a mutiny.
Let's all cheers to that!

In a week's time it'll all be fine
You won't have to work so hard
In another life things might turn out alright
But this one feels all wrong

And I know you never wanted any of this
But we don't get to make that call
Now here we stand on a tower of sticks
Just waiting for the fall

But please,
Please
With all the new things you'll see
Don't you forget about me

In a week's time it'll all be fine
He'll come to take you away
I wonder if I was capable of it
If I'd still try to convince you to stay

And I know you never asked for any of this
But he just can't resist your charm
Now take a final look at the place you won't miss
As we walk down the street we grew up on

And it's true
It's true
Despite the things I might do
I'll never forget about you

We both always knew you were destined for greatness
He's got the ticket to take you there
Leave me here to pick up the pieces
I'll try not to think that life is unfair

The scene dissolved easily once I realized she was bleeding.
Why'd you do that to yourself?
There's a discrepancy between what was seen and what's believed.
She could hardly believe it herself.

"I don't know why.
There's something wrong with me."

Nonsense.
I don't get it.
I don't understand.

"There's nothing wrong with you."

We hugged each other as hard as we can.
Could*

Would you believe me if I told you that life is worth living?
She says she's tired of swimming.
She says she thinks about suicide every single day.

*******, ___,
I love you.

Don't make me feel this way.

Freak me out, please.
Say something to make me drop to my knees.
Not in praise or glory -
I've had it with that story.
I want something unpredictable and gory.
Do you know what I mean?

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.

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.

I wake up, alone,
to an alarm set by my cell phone,
and in a bed that's at least a thousand times more comfortable than my own.

A flock of birds.
A group of geese.
A gander at a stranger gathering of winged things.

Don't clip mine 'cause I'm running out of time,
and I've got promises to keep and miles to fly.

Just trying to escape the Frost.

Bad black widow;
The yo-yo queen.
7 different flies tied to 7 different strings,
attached to the end of 7 different legs.

Here's one bug that got away.

Is that they believe everything that their preachers say,
and nothing that anyone else does.
(Trust issues much?)
It's called brainwashing.
(You see what you do,
because it's what he wants you to.)
As if one silly antiquated book could hold all the answers.
As if one person's interpretation of it could be more valid than another's.

There is more than one mind.
There is more than one book.
There's more than one set of eyes,
so take another look.

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