I ****** my pants
on my way home from work.
It soaked through
the seat of my pants
into the seat of my lifted Jeep
that I bought to compensate
for my crippling erectile dysfunction
that plagues my already
miniscule *****.

I got home and didn't even change my pants,
I took them off in the driveway
and wrung them out into my mouth
and just put them back on.
Drinking my own **** has always
been my secret way of enhancing
my paltry intelligence.
I was so stupid before I started drinking ****
and now I'm less stupider. I'm more less dumb. I'm getting more less dumb every day.

I **** myself too the other day but
that was just a bad roll of the dice
on a big ****. Snake eyes.
Big brown snake eyes.

Poetry is a ******* ******* and half-assed
way to express yourself.
People that write thousand of poems
on some throwaway website
might as well be screaming into a pillow.
They're useless people,
washed up, lazy,
and generally possess zero actual talent.

It's a medium designed
for pseudo-intellectuals to eternally
pat themselves on the back
for doing the bare minimum
of creativity.

Oh we're all so in touch with meaning,
oh we're all so ******* wasted on our
own sick sense of self-aggrandizing glory.

Poetry is for ******* ******* *******,
ineptitude on display
for other clapping, barking seals
to parrot and repeat
for eternity.

Never going back again,
that old bridge
on a snowy day.

But I'm there every other day
inside of my mind.

Ain't even my friends,
not half of them.
Not anymore.

But I'm certain that
we used to be.

These ******* people
I surround myself with
make it impossible
to enjoy the
allure of death.

So I guess I'm cursed
to keep on living.

Thanks a lot.

******* *******.

Those little white bottles
to help you smile.

The long drives to work
and home again.

You were beautiful
and miserable then.

It's easy to forget
the miserable part
when looking back.

It's easier to forget
everything about you.

But my dreams
will always remember.

Was that bench comfortable
beside the manufactured creek?
We never even saw it
for what it was;
an oft-tended golf course.

For us it was freedom,
it was cooperative solitude.
It was an infinite bed of
manicured grass to jump on.

In regards to the rest of the world,
we were gone.
We were free.
Free. Flee.

You sat there looking out on the water,
right hand tucking that pesky
strand of hair behind
your delicate ear.

I remember my mouth watering
looking at your earlobe.
I remember the breeze
gracing me with you.

The swallows flew in inverse arches,
just grazing the glassy surface.
Shattering and sending ripples
everywhere.

You still sit there in this picture.
A flower frozen in resin,
kept pure of oxidation.

I'm still there too, just...
behind the camera.

Forever destined to only look at you.

Even now, all these years later.

Destined to look,
and to remember.

Perpetual intoxication is a peninsula
on which your psyche stands and
mindlessly gazes out at the water to watch
your body slowly drown in the sea.

When the only options are
a sober swim back to the shore
or merely persisting in your mindless gaze,
it's easy to forget that there's a choice at all.

Whispers in my ear,
memories like ghosts.


Mustn't be present.


Anything to not
be present here.
To not be present
anywhere,
anytime.

Fill up my eyes with monitors,
my ears with buds.
Fill up my mind,
brimming with brandy.
Keep smiling,
maintain an IV drip
of distractions.
Keep laughing.
Keep on
keeping on.

Walls mustn't falter,
I must not be present.
Not now.
Not ever.

When the only functional department left
is the IRS,
then the only option we have left
is to stop paying.

He's clocking out, climbing into his car.
He can do both things at once,
the time clock is just an app on his phone.
These days, he guesses, most everything
is just an app on the phone.

Phone. We still call it that.
Wonder how many people
make calls these days at all?
He laughs quietly to himself
and starts the engine,
shifts into first,
slips the clutch,
and he's on the road.

He passes run down storefronts
long abandoned, old restaurants
with four or five different names
glued to the facade. Nothing lasts here.

The diner still runs though,
a well oiled machine.
Maybe I'll eat there tonight
he says to himself.
Breakfast for dinner, eggs and bacon.
Sounds good.

Maybe he'll stay there for six hours.
Drinking coffee,
talking to locals.
Maybe he won't.
Maybe he'll take the long way home
and hit the pub for wings.
Maybe he won't though.
No matter what he ends up doing
he's always satisfied having the options.

It's not the places I go to waste my time,
the thought comes to him suddenly,
it's the option of being able to waste it
wherever and whenever I want.
That's what I really love.

He smiles a slight grin,
eyes full of sunset.
His stomach grumbles,
hits a downshift as he steps on the gas,
and cruises off into the horizon.
It may not be a particularly exciting
or overly successful life, but
one thing that's for certain is that
he'll be happy to do it all over again
tomorrow.

Have you got 600 grand
invested in Haliburton?
Or maybe Raytheon?

I do. I support war.

I love war.

More war, more money.
I'd vote for Cheney
if I could, but
a vote for Harris
will have to do.

Governor Shapiro is signing bombs,
he should sign every bullet.
If his name doesn't fit
he can shorten it
to "$"

The whale carcass of our country
is still warm to the touch,
but we will feast upon it
until there's nothing left.

Our bunkers will be our tombs,
lined with dollar bills,
soaked with blood.

I want war with Russia,
all out, no more proxies.
Save the remnants of Ukraine
and send our children instead.
I want war with China, war
with Korea.
I want war,
I want more,
I want money.
I want to watch the night horizon
ablaze with future archeologist's delight.
Vote for Cheney with me.
Vote for money,
I want MONEY.
I WANT MONEY.
YOU SHOULD TOO.

Soon the memories you're making now
will be the ones you long to remember.

You'll never read this.
That's what makes it
so easy to write.

Dude sometimes I rub my eyes
and it feels so ******* good
that I just can't stop.
Both eyes at once,
knuckles just twisting away.

I can drive with my knees,
can you do that?
It's difficult with my stick-shift
but I've gotten pretty good.









Anyway, I've been getting into
a lot of car accidents lately.

She reaches behind her
and spreads everything,
her head presses into the comforter.
Duvet? Comforter? It's argyle,
whatever you wanna call it.
Green and light teal, the colors
of the blanket and pillows
match the curtains
hanging in the unfocused
background.
I turn the volume down
as she moans through
the initial insertion.
That's my favorite part.
The rhythmic slapping
of flesh coming together
begins like the beat of
some primal, animalistic drum.
I notice the furnishings are
seldom, a single dresser
with a large mirror
is the only thing I can see.
It has a light finish on it.
Interesting.
I would've gone with a dark walnut,
or maybe a mahogany.
Is dark wood furniture out of style?
I look around my room,
at the dark stained wood desk
that my computer sits on.
My **** isn't even hard anymore.
*** slowly dribbles out as I finish,
mostly unsatisfied.
Unsatisfied with my paltry velocity,
and further unsatisfied with my
terrible sense of interior decoration.
Oh well, I'll go again in an hour.
Maybe I'll get some ideas
for my kitchen.

I was eighteen
when Henry was born.
I was mostly gone back then.

Mom used to say
it's like she has two only children.

I still say that when people ask.

He's getting older
and I'm further now
than I've ever been.


I would say that he
thinks about me
less and less
these days,
but maybe that's okay.
Maybe that's for the best anyway.


...I bet my dad has had that same thought.

"Maybe it's for the best."
"Maybe that's okay."

Maybe not, I don't know.. but
it makes me feel better
imagining that he has.


Gotta call Henry.

The water laps eagerly at the stony bank,
the sun peeks her rays around a passing cloud.
My skin drinks deeply of both,
pruned toes and tanned chest.
The kayak gently bobs
in the shallow wake from the breeze.
Mithrandir falls below Moria,
I put down the book and reach
for a beer.
The resident swan has been paddling
little laps at a safe distance from me.
I catch him looking at me
side-eyed, flipping his head back and forth.
I make kissy sounds and hold my hand out,
he comes over to see if I have any bread for him.

It's nice here. Little fish pick dead skin from my legs.
It's nice here. My shoulders don't get sore from paddling anymore.
It's nice here.
I do this almost
every day.

Saccharine and sanguine
the allure of a pink tummy
I reach out to rub and squish
but then I'm halted.
Daggers for hands,
I'll be bleeding again,
but the brief soft touch
may just be worth it.

I'll be turning 34 this year too, and I feel it. It feels like a calling, like a proverbial mother ringing a triangle hung on the porch calling me in for dinner on a hot summer night spent hitting lightning bugs with a wiffle ball bat and watching them light up in an arc as they fall to their death. I turn to look towards the warm hue radiating from the house and know that it's time to go in for dinner, but on my walk to the front steps I keep desperately searching for something worthy to distract me from going inside. Something to make this perfect night last just five minutes longer, something worth looking back for and... I don't see a **** thing. Every step I take I keep passing by interesting rocks guaranteed to be hiding all sorts of fun bugs but as I walk I kick them over only to find vapid nothingness. I miss my friends as I climb the first step, with my hand on the banister I look over my shoulder and glance behind me but only see blackness. Everyone else has gone home, and it's just not the same without someone to spend the time with. Friends to paint the canvas of my memories. Just nothing. As I step into the house I realize that this is actually not that bad at all, even though Mom is gone and Grandpa and Dad are gone too. I walk over to the kitchen and grab a pan, fry up some eggs and bacon. "Breakfast for dinner again?" I hear her voice tease me in the back of my mind and answer audibly with a smile "of course, you know I like switching it up." I eat dinner at the kitchen table and google my local trade unions that happen to be taking apprentices. IBEW? International brotherhood of electrical workers huh? I finish off the last of my dippy eggs with the toast I made as I fill out the application, apprehensive at first and then welcoming the questions. Satisfied at how simple it was. A glance at the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge, followed immediately by a peek at the overly-full recycling bin filled with empty bottles.

When I die
and review the footage
of my entire life,
I just really hope that
there's a fast-forward button.

Some day maybe
you'll sing to me.
Not necessarily
to me specifically,
but I'll be
listening
and you'll be
singing.

Maybe in the shower,
maybe pulling in
the driveway
on your way home
from work.
My ear pressed to the door.

I want to see you
in the shower,
singing along.
I want to reach out
to the clear lining
and press it against
your naked, wet body.
I want to wrap you up
in that protective plastic,
and you won't miss a single note.
You'll keep singing and I'll caress
your every curve and mole.
My hands gliding up against
the smooth refined finish,
so gingerly sweeping
across all your bits.
Soapy and slippery.
So close but not.
Not quite touching.
Not quite real.
My skin isn't
something
that you'll
ever feel,
or feel
feeling
you.


Beauty encapsulated,
preserved in time and space.
The sound of falling water.
The blurry look on your face


is telling me to
Stop.


Your voice in my ears,
my make-believe dream.
You'll sing that you love me
and I'll wake with a scream.

We all ignite,
the only difference
is the fuel.

Listless veil,
dancing in the wind of causality.
Covered, yet you translucere
in the faint light of another day.

What is real, is not.
There's a fire
growing hot,
kept fed and fanned
by a facade's rot.

There's no phoenix here,
just a life left
steeped
in ashes.

Oh whispering, listless veil;
behind you hides the tale
of what the truth entails.

Do not part, it won't be missed.
Bury it, cover it,
obfuscate with bliss.

I wear my watch;
all of the time.

When the feelings
of some people
are more valuable
than our way of life,
well, then
we've lost the plot.

If I traveled
somewhere far
and foreign,
I'd do my best
to conform to
wherever I am.

I don't find that
expecting that same behavior
from people who come here
to be immoral.

I refuse to feel guilty
for who I am,
just as I refuse to let pride
dictate my mindset.
It's two sides
of the same coin.

Guess what?
I get to decide how I feel,
I get to decide what I think,
how I behave.

I get to judge you.

The golden rule still applies though,
thus I conduct myself in a manner
which is expecting of judgement from you.
If I'm ******* up, shame me.
If you're ******* up, I'll shame you.
This is friendship, this is civility
at it's most fundamental level.
I want to respect you,
I want to be respected,
but never unconditionally.
I want to earn it,
I want to be deserving of it.
You should want that too.

Your feelings aren't holding water,
and we're all being flooded
with the repercussions.

Don't drown us.

No, actually,
We're not going to let you drown us.

Do you resent me
for such a hang up?
What am I supposed to do?
Oftentimes I'm torn,
frayed and tattered
along my edges,
trying to dance between
what is right
and what I like.
The stretch of space
between those two
have only grown more vast
with age.
Sprawling wastes fills that void,
wider and wider and
I'm always left reeling from my choice.
Indecision is the ghoul
that haunts my soul,
telling me to
avoid these feelings all told.
For when I do decide,
I can't seem to pick right
and I'm always left
reading the bones.

Save the planet;
**** yourself.

My body heat
in a bottle.
Camera on the floor,
balance empty Mr. Beam
atop its lense.
Did I hit record?
**** it,
I gotta let go.
Bubbling up, man,
protein in my ****.
Yeah yeah yeah.
I'm dying
sure,
but so are you
and you
and you.
Outta room.
Pinch off
and save it for later.
Stop recording.
Another thing
that I'll never
show to
anyone.
Great.
Just
great.
Good job Justin.

Crunchy,
heavy taste.
I love them
as much as paste.
Now free
from the burden
of intelligency,
happy
as can bee.
Green smiles
from me,
that's the color
the parlor
used to be.
Let's brake a
thermometer
so we can play
with the mercury.
I like the way it beads
in my palm,
but it gets smaller
and smaller
until it's gone.
It's okay
I still feel
relieved.
I still feel.
It's okay.
See?

My thoughts start to wander
and right as I begin to wonder
my phone buzzes.

I get home from a long day at work,
in the shower my mind begins to search
then I get out and turn on the TV.

I wake up from a vibrant dream
where a gripping idea comes to me,
so I sit down at the computer
to google what it means
but before I even hit enter
I open up another tab
and click on YouTube
to see where my favorites are at.

Whiskey goes in there somewhere too.
Bourbon, rather. Whatever.

I think back on the times
where I had nothing.
Often with longing.

I've gotta take a **** so bad I can taste it.

That sun is deceiving.
Faux fluorescence, fickle morning light.
In my eyes
so bright,
on my skin
cold as night.

Conniving contrivance of combustion,
yellow liar in the sky
feeding my hopeful mind
full of summertime delight.

Don't step outside,
lest you find
that sun is deceiving.
False light,
bitterly white,
dancing in the
azure heights.

Learning how to type is hard in your 30s.
****,
I guess learning anything
is hard in your 30s.

I don't know how to type, so
last night
I started taking free lessons.

The learning isn't hard, but
the forgetting
is going to be a struggle.

Twenty five years
of bad habits.

****.
I could apply this
to anything
in my life.

When first we met
I thought that you'd
save me.
Now I know that
you were just sent to
betray me.
Crazy.

When I placed my bet
I never thought
it'd be
another twelve days
spent down in
my basement.
Shame me.

Crazy eyes
blame me,
shame me, please just
don't tell me lies.

When first we met
I told you to
shame me
all the time.

Now these days
just flow by
all the time.

Gotten too proud,
too full of ourselves to
walk that line.

That used to divide us
all the time.
Shame me,
blame me,
baby.

Up too late
tonight I've stayed.

Blessed be tomorrow,
Sanctimony of weary.

Can't wait for
Sleep then
work, then
sleep.

Ever have something to say,
something that you REALLY want to say?
Something you're dying to express?

But you just... let it go.
Because you know
you'll never be able
to get it all out.

Now imagine that feeling
for every conversation,
every sentence,
in your entire life.


God I want a whiskey.

I don't know what to say,
or what you want me to say.
I don't want to just say
what you want me to say.
I just want to float.

Salty ripples
lapping at my sides,
squinting at
the summer sunshine.

When I close my eyes,
I'm
there.

Stop peeling up my lids,
don't make me look
at this... this,
this bottomless pit
sunken into my skin.

I don't know what to say,
I just don't want to,
okay?

Ah, but it seems my preferential tendencies
are rendered sundered and inadequate
by your overwhelmingly imposing emotions, and it's like they never ******* mattered
one ******* bit to begin with,
did they?

I'll keep that in mind
for next time.
I'll know just
what
to say.

Never been quite sure
where it all ends,
whether it be down in Hell
or up in the Heavens.

Don't matter much to me
you see, 'cause
I got friends in both places.

Wheels of time
spin on
and I'm
nauseous.

It's easy to explain, really.
If never a father I become,
then never shall I be a failure at it.

*****.
Half-man, boy-child.
Weak.
Immature.
Unfinished.

All of the above,
sure... but,
not a failed father.

Again wheels start to creak,
and I'm already knee-deep
in empty cans of WD40.