it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.

it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,

I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing

I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and *******
but found nothing

I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing

there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity

what I’m I suppose to do?

as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire

I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction

the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me

I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen

the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…

whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****,
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.

I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.

You buried me
Half the world away
And a lifetime ago

Yet you find me
In your every daydream
In every foreign touch
In every what if...

Almost...
But never quite

We don't say much, that's

how we speak with each other --


Still full of longing.

Today, a years-long claim got denied — again.
I have been fighting the veterans affairs office
for too much of my life.
Sitting here at a job that brings me nothing, I silently weep
inside about the battle that I have to continue fighting.
At my work bench, surrounded by strangers to my struggles
I’m transported back to my first encounter
with the hellish reality of life in the Marines.
His cries for help rip me out of my bunk.
With his arms locked, under the boys armpits and across his chest,
he drags him out from the squad bay bathroom.
We’ve been in basic training only two weeks now.
Fresh out of high school,
our friends haven’t even left for college yet.
Blood sprays from his neck.
He’s laid on the ground, and my hands, like bandages,
are around him now trying to keep his life inside of him.
I never knew how hot freshly spilled blood was.
I close my eyes, and pray someone will come save him
and me.
I was only 18
and so was he.

                                        Hands, covered in life
                              It’s lost warmth — searing my skin
                                        Save me from this hell

I fake a smile
And everyone is happy
I fake a laugh
And they laugh with me
I am so tired of having a mask
Underneath a mask
At the night I take every mask off
Smile turns into frown
Laugh turns into a scream
Shiny eyes turn into ****** red ones

am I an observer
or a participator,
this life, a reel or real
am I whole, or partial?
this is all surreal
are we living
or watching time spill
doing nothing
rotating in this cosmic realm,
starting where we started,
ending where we end,
rolling the rock up the mountain
watching it fall
traveling back up again.
what is the deal?
we know the prison,
let's dig up the tunnel.


am I a spectator,
or a perpetrator,
this death, a dream or dire,
am I fractured, or entire?
this is all infernal,
are we decaying,
or watching shadows crawl,
doing something,
descending into this chthonic realm,
starting where we're buried,
ending where we're born,
our remains part of the earth,
watching it crumble,
crawling back down again.
what is the ordeal?
we know the freedom,
Are we combusting chemical?

I feel light,
as if right before death
or maybe I’m already dead and writing.
Who can make sense of life?
I’ll just go out onto the balcony,
smoke a cigarette,
keep up the routine,
and act as if I’m alive.

Sliced sworded soulmate -
shadows of stormy loneliness;
heart full of hope still.