I spend my days
thinking in poetry-
perfection never penned,
perpetually falling upon
my own deaf ears
and disintegrating into
the great nothingness,
only to be recycled
into bits and pieces
of other poems
never to be read

with each night
the words vanish,
one by one,
as I repeat them
incessantly, hoping
that I just might
recite a stanza
upon waking

I wish that my
mouth would open
and out they would
come, perfectly pressed
upon cardstock, fresh
with that inky smell
I swear still lingers
on my finger tips and
pillowcases

instead, I lay still
and silent, and watch
hopelessly as
they drift into dreams

I'm sorry that I can't
find the words to give you
everything that you want,
but that was never the point

with you everything is a point,
drawing blood with each
interaction and there is no
smile nor sadness in your eyes,
just glass

I wonder what you would do
with the words anyways, how
they might possibly undig the
graves that you sleep in when
you've forgotten what night is

I never imagined words meant
much in hell, but we'll say this
together now,

You've always known better than I

sometimes it's all too much beauty -
this slow swing of life, legs dangling,
rainbow kissed fingernails clutching
ropes that are nearly worn thin, lungs
throwing air out in neatly folded piles
of whoops and screeches, which explode
into messes once they've escaped the
long, damp caves through cheshire cat smiles

your head on my shoulder allows me to
spot the tiny surfer riding the corn colored
waves of your hair, and the pulses that make
your sleeping arms dance
comfort me because you are comforted

we spend entire weekends watching
petunias bought with snack money bloom,
and the spiders swarm our honey dipped
deck to show us their latest web innovations,
we smile and stare and see
tomorrow after tomorrow in the sprawling
forests and caribbean beaches in one
another's eyes

if I could breathe you in through one of
these death sticks I would, slow and deep,
and you'd curl up tight in my soul, and I'd
never stop singing Jonny Cash songs
while you drifted off to sleep

how do you draw a line
in metamorphic rock?
between self growth
and selfishness
all of the lines
become so blurry,
it's like sobriety
means absolutely
nothing.

I wish that I could
put my brain in your
skull so that you
could understand
just what kind of
mountains I have climbed
and how close I feel
to the summit.

these blurred lines and
rock giants are better
left unsaid, but that
does not mean I don't
wish that you'd ask
what I'm thinking.

I bet your mom used to brag about you
Being a good sleeper,
When you were two months old.

You never sleep anymore.
You just play video games,
Wander the streets at midnight,
And have mindless meaningless ***.

All of that would be fine,
If your life wasn't as meaningless as the ***.

This delusional concept of dressing up in your finest threads just to sit in some quiet, ridiculously-named, fancy establishment that has four walls and a few toilets and neatly-folded napkins, spotless silverware, and an overly-priced menu just to talk about some ******* that you pulled out of your *** when your arm was being stretched to the max trying to reach for the stack of crisp twenties that the ATM viciously spat at you is simply ****** up.

Yeah… that’s what I thought until I met her.

You know, “the one.”

The one that all the guys say you’re ***** whipped about.

That one.

She has her **** together. She is driven, goal-oriented, smart, funny, and **** in that hippie/bohemian kinda way, except that she wears deodorant and shaves her legs.

She even shaves….ha! I’ll stop. I’m just toying with ya. But she does shave.

She even has dimples, man.

Dimples.

And guess who the lucky ******* is that has the best table in the house sitting directly across from her, staring into those brown, puppy eyes??

My ***.

Then, without warning, this horrible, invasive, mood-altering, uncanny, uncouth, *******-of-a-question barges right in.  It asks, “How did you end up with her??”

Suddenly I find myself in a western movie, and this bow-legged ******* walks in asking for me.  The double doors behind him swing back and forth in rapid motion.  I don’t want to cause a ruckus, so I do what any real gentleman does: take it outside and settle it High Noon style.  I stare into his eyes (they’re brown too, but not like hers), and his eye lids begin to slightly twitch.  I draw my pistol from my hip and shoot him right between those eyes; blow the smoke away from the heated barrel; spin my pistol around a few times; and in the holster it goes.

Problem solved.

She and I start jawing after the waiter with the long rod lodged in his *** goes to fetch our excessively-priced wine.
I swear he said his name is Skip or Kip or… ah who cares?
I continue staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman in the world.
She begins to tell me about her bittersweet day, so I cross my arms and lean in a little. All my focus is on her and of course her **** mouth too.
God, she has beautiful lips….
She’s telling me about her day at work – at the vet, that is.
She’s a veterinarian.
Anyway, there’s this little black-and-white, speckled miniature dachshund named Teagan that has been staying at the vet for a few months now, and it’s made a full recovery.
She’s telling me this story with such great passion and zeal, but she’s frowning.
This wealthy, elderly couple adopted it today, and Teagan is gone.
She grabs my hand and apologizes for being such a “downer”.

“I sorry,” she says in one of those baby voices.

Is that a pouty lip???

**** Me...

Did I really just witness a pouty lip form before my very eyes??

Did she actually just talk like a baby???

Plain and simple, I don’t stand for that cutesy, baby *******, that pathetic material pedaled by those chumps who pull that “good guys come last” crap.  

She’s awkwardly staring at me.

Before she can utter a single word, I bolt out of my chair, telling her that I’m suddenly feeling ill and need to use the restroom.

I whip around without looking and bump into our waiter who is bringing us our wine.  It spills all over his pearly, white jacket.

He grabs my arm to break his fall, but we both hit the ground hard, right on our backs too.  

All eyes are on me.

It’s dead, ******* silent. You could hear a mouse ****.

What do I say?  

I can’t just make a dash for the door without saying anything.

My mind is completely frozen, and I lie here, trembling.

Suddenly, my lips begin to part.

The words wiggle their way out of that tiny space between my lips.

“I sorry.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

.   .   .  

**** me.

Breath of life, it is a wild ocean
always a tide coming and going
in this place, it does not linger long
never holding on, only drifts quietly into night
into stars, into fleeting sparks of fire flies
or in the night waters, a ghostly glow
of phosphorescence, a transient trail
of luminescence that soon
fades and reappears to light
the deepest depths
of sea