I'll be whomever you
want I should be

for the whole
of human race
cannot compare
to how I feel
about myself.

trendy trend

I had an idea for a poem today
It's too bad that I forgot what
it was.

die *****
in a fire *****
want to light you
to cinders in a ditch

The one and only thing
I've collectively missed
more than that ***** is
getting so very ****** to
make her easier to ignore.

Oh my, I'm dragging bodies
over the welcome mat and I
sit them up on the couch so that
they may feel at home

Oh jeez, these displaced pixels
and rhythmic reception soon
let loose a solemn deluge
of flickering blue light onto

Oh dear, dead faces in the glow
of some early-morning show
currently being reflected back by
their glazed and vacant eyes

that I just can't seem
to stop staring into.

Rhythm is a paperweight for my soul.
Timing is another part to the whole
of my being and existence.

Buoyant troubles are lifted by bottles,
floating atop the suds and bubbles
that I've been consuming.

Feathers fall from wings long spent
flapping, trying to pay for rent
seventeen days late.

Memory-foam-flesh coated bones
recalls touch even while alone,
and then it's gone.

Like clockwork, I'm habitually inclined
to turn up time and **** my mind.

But they're all just paltry substitutes
for the you that I'm spitefully addicted to.

The only pain worth my time
is broken-heart kind

Teeth make brief appearances
between rippling lips in exhalation.

Shifted furniture days
spent trying to relocate
after raucous children
crusade to graduate
into the ever quickening
undertow of Father Time's
incessantly caressing
fingers and tongue

Twenty-two inches on a tape measure
keep pulling it out to see
the average estimated expectancy
of about eighty-three.

All of that curved yellow metal
is simply symbolic between
measuring the rest of my life and
not one inch being guaranteed.

There is nothing worse
than meeting a musician.

Just go be creative somewhere and
please leave me here to just be.

Quietly.

Bodies take withdraws
like beating MAC machines.

I would go and give blood
if they just ******* paid me.

Or maybe if dying patients
actually got it for free.

I wish that my poems
would write themselves
into existence

To every woman I've ever loved:
the pleasure has been mine,
to see you at your most beautiful;
like when I made you cry.

Because loving me wasn't enough
to convince me otherwise,
that your commitment wasn't a bluff;
so I had to scar you inside.

I love myself as much
as I ever loved you

Drowning in the thick blanket of sleep
flailing frantically towards consciousness
awakening in a throbbing rigid mess
from the dreams spent buried deep
in her dripping-wet clutch

Strobe-lights flashing rhythmic patterns;
alternating red and blue.

Searchlights arcing across the earth;
they will find you.

Hey man, are you lonesome?
Do you wonder where the lights go?
Have you settled for what you hate?
Tell me everything man,
show me your pain.

the residue of bubbles
on the bathtub floor
ripple and crackle in
the breeze from the door

trivialities incarnate

A dandelion sits alone
dreaming emotions that don't belong
inside a flower's wilted heart

A dandelion on it's throne
sees a man trundling along
and grabs him before the start

A dandelion rips the bones
from the man without qualm
until his head is the last part

The head falls upon a stone
the flower knows it's all wrong
the wilt covering it's heart

and whispers slowly to itself:
"She loves me not..."