Social cues are common,
and should be hard to miss.
I find that social cues are oft -
hang on a second, I gotta take a ****.
* * *
What was I saying? Oh, right.
Social cues are awkward,
but I grew up in a weird environment.

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That's what the voices in my head told me every time I set out to make some kind of statement in an antiquated form that would most likely be overlooked by every one of my friends.

But with beer and vanity and pigheaded persistence,
I managed to ignore them.

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.

Is not the kind of one you'd want to sing karaoke.
Especially when you're already drunk and surrounded by friends and family.
I temporarily forgot that it makes me cry,
and how this ******* line gets me everytime.
I got two thirds through the song,
then dropped the (screwdriver that we'd been using as an improvised) mic.
**** it. I'm done.
Goodnight.

How terrible is this,
and how awful to admit;
that drinking and thinking while smoking
is the only way I find bliss.

Please don't hurt yourself more than I'm capable of hurting myself.
I couldn't bear it if your pain was unbearable to me.

Let's just both go to sleep.

Everyone loves the dream but I **** it.
I slit the neck of Johnny Appleseed while he slept.
Prometheus ain't got **** on me.
These trees aren't the real thing, you see.
Slippery shrouded shadows mass produced as Mystery.
I left.

It's like being writ into some melodramatic hit show,
playing the ******* who just can't commit no matter how far she's willing to go.

Check the thirst pic. I'm only here to give ****.

The epitome of undesirable megalomaniacal hit-it-and-quit-it,
I'm-only-in-it-for-the-**** type ****.

Not interested in a relationship.

When you say things like that, it has no effect.
I can't feel any of that.

We can wine and dine first, if you're a traditionalist.

Just setting the stage for the main event. Give it 'til she gets it so she can tell all her friends: best I've ever had. **** like you're poor with demons on your back. After curtain call, skip the bow and exit stage-left.

Some people endeavor to portray a persona.
Some people perpetuate the beliefs of their parents.
Some people pretend to be somebody they've seen on TV.
Some people have trouble accepting that they're actually existing.
Some people perceive themselves as being unlike anyone else.
Some people have an aversion to personality profiling.
Some people just can't help themselves.
Some people feel a need to place everyone they've ever known into categories.

His head spun so fast that he kept forgetting where he was;
Laughing as his cart flew off the tracks to crash-land in a graveyard of carnival ghosts.

"I've lost my way," said the sea gull.
"Can you please direct me to the coast?"

His eyes rolled so fast that he lost sight of himself;
smashing the magazine rack into the bookshelf
which sent every never-read novel straight into the trash.

"I'm lost," said the runaway.
"Won't you help me to get back?"

His arms flailed so fast that he sent the silver-surfaced sphere soaring past multicolored circles to crash through multiple ***** resulting in flashes of blue, red, and green to play across the shadows of his face.
In a frenzy, he shook the machine and caused a tilt.

*"I've lost," said the mason.
"Everything I've ever built."

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.

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.

Disillusioned youth all drunk on ideas of change,
passing around their ideals until we all felt the same,
or felt better about not feeling the same,
or felt normal by being surrounded by people even farther from normal than we'd ever claim to be ourselves,
or felt like we were in a safe space for the first time in our lives,
a space in which we could actually be ourselves,
or felt as if the weight of the world thrusted on our shoulders by our parents was no longer a burden we had to bear alone,
or felt sane enough for the first time in awhile to recognize how much we'd actually grown,
to have sorted out all of the ******* from the things we'd always claimed to have known.

God bless 'em, every one.

Oh, how we've grown.

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.

Twilight sprinkles tinkling in the fog.
Swirling eddies in a shot of egg nog.
Snowmen wearing blonde wigs with broomstick arms.

What the hell,
it's Christmas.

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.

Yea, but this and that and these and those.
I've pulled myself up from the floor in order to write this prose,
or poetry, I mean.
Whatever that may be.
A conglomeration of words and thoughts and feelings.
Yea dude, but totally.

I've put these syllables through the spin cycle of my washing machine.
Tumble dry. Don't deny my attempt to explain what I mean.
If we're lucky then it'll come out clean.

Have you always been so vain?
Do you expect to just be constantly entertained?
Have you always taken it for granted that people will stomach every selfish word you say?
You give me indigestion.
(That's probably why that guy didn't like you, fyi, by the way.)

I've got a few more questions:
Have you always been the star of the play?
Do you expect only rave reviews?
Are you still waiting for your roses?
Is everything a performance to you?

BOOOOO! BOOOOOOOO!!

So you like to play games, right?
Because they're so much fun.
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, right?
So long as all the fun's on your side.
So long as you're not the one losing sleep at night.
You're just one fun-loving-son-of-a-gun, am I right?
Am I right?

Have you always been such a *****?
Have you always messed with unstable people,
just to get a kick?
Do you get off on driving people insane?
Are you really that ******* vain?
You make me sick.

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.

In a way, I saw this coming.
I tried my best to warn you.
I could say that I'm clairvoyant,
but you'd know that I was lying.
A plant that goes too long without water
just can't help from dying.
I've had it with these metaphors,
and I've been done trying.

When you were around, somehow,
you made everything seem more magical.
I haven't thought about you in such a long while,
(if you don't count going white whenever your name is mentioned,)
but if you still read these, then I hope,
at least,
that this one makes you smile.

Candid and branded,
he sold himself out.
Hardly can blame him for making a buck.
What's it to you how he made his debut?
I think you're just jealous-
he's done what you cannot do.
Call him unoriginal
(because you're so brand new)
The best come from old ideas reiterated for review.
Hate him if you like,
but I won't be sympathetic.
He was just more diligent where you were apathetic.

Quick and in short order,
we slid back to our separate sides of the border.
But it didn't feel that way at the time.
Every second an eternity spent drawing the line.

Who drew first?
I couldn't say.
I ran through my entire playbook on the very first day.
From there on out I was making it up as I went,
and you went along - every now and then -
until the last of our words were spent.

A penny for your thoughts?
I'll give you two cents.
(With my heart in my throat after every text message sent.)

Now all I've got are handful of songs I find too hard to listen to anymore,
and a nagging guilty conscience.

I miss getting high with my friends,
and just people-watching.

The artist fell asleep after he leaked tears on her arm.
She held him tight while full knowing that he's held them in for so long.
Together,
they both dreamed of healing their wrongs.
A picturesque scene of two broken souls moving on.

How rare to find another person with the same gleam in their eye.
She became his muse,
and he was her guy.

They never again questioned their fate.
They stopped asking why.
Oh, the things they did create while they both felt so alive!

But time went on,
and the colors did fade.
They began to pull apart -
growing separate ways.

The artist came to think he did his best work alone.
His queen found herself uncomfortable atop her lofty throne.

They both gave in,
and chalked it up to something neither could define.

She never again would fall for a broken man,
and he spent no more days crying.

I showed the librarian how Dostoevsky predicted the internet (and what we'd use it for) over a hundred years ago.

She seemed unimpressed.

Not easily noticed,
and often overlooked -
like some obscure quote
from a lesser known book;
hidden in the footnote.

You've found it,
it's yours.
The X and map are just a reminder of what you own.

You could tell it, but you won't.
You could sell it, but you don't,
because you've found it on your own,
and it's hard to find a home.

A feeling can be fleeting,
but what about the source of a thing?
From just one seed,
roots can grow deep.
Though the leaves of a tree may change,
and some branches might break or fall off,
there is one part that always remains,
grows stronger;
the heart.

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.

Clearly an absurdist.
Small stakes for what his word is worth.
The hare let the tortoise beat him accidentally on purpose.
Everyone loves a good story.
When ego is beyond everything
how can you care about fame and glory?
Victory feels silly.
Like a brand new bride without her ring.
Losing only hurts the pride if they allow themselves to feel the sting.
I am far from winning,
but farther still from admitting defeat.
When that rhythm hits me,
I'll sing along and move my feet.

In five more minutes the gas station will be open.

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.

The crows won't leave my cat alone,
so I punched one out of the sky.
Stupid ****** bird -
don't **** with my little guy.

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.

Drunky McGee,*
that's my nickname for her,
though lately I wonder
if it doesn't also describe me.

Only instead of staying up all night talking on the phone,
I spend it writing to strangers.

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.

I made a mistake when I proposed to miss Opaque.
I thought I'd seen her true colors, but I was staring at paint.
She adds more layers with each passing day.
An ever-changing masterpiece.
I admit,
I was infatuated with the constant shift of her landscape,
but I know now-
found out too late -
that underneath it all she's just a blank.

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."

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.

If I told you how many hours I've spent alone on my back porch
just smoking and thinking,
you'd probably think I was nuts.
But I'm not crazy.
You could join me if you want,
but I probably won't say much.

Keep your distance while I deny existence
And fall inward on myself and my own solipsis
Stand back while I split up and crack
And crumble to the ground as a broken David

Do not follow me as I delve into my dreams
To scratch the fabric of my essence as it splits at the seams
Stay away from the black at the back of my mind
And my lack of desire for the passage of time

I hear a heart suddenly stop beating and I wonder if it's mine

Close the distance while I define existence
And expand upon the meanings in an existential breeding
Feeding off the exhales of the universe's breathing
Teeming with a life of which is far beyond believing