Been here before,
done this a thousand times.
Yet still I find
something new.

I see her every now and then, always briefly.
She's busy these days. Holiday season. Peak.
The little white van is gone before I know it,
she's in and out of it in a flash of packages.
A blizzard of letters.

She delivers them precisely, but not rigidly.
She flows, dances with deliveries.
She carries Christmas cards and bills,
her arms full of presents come early.
She brings pen pals to fruition,
she brings eviction notices.
She dances with deliveries.

I smile and watch,
idly sifting through my new envelopes.
Bill from my therapist, local tax reminders,
coupons for the hardware store.
Oh, and a birthday card from my Aunt!

I want to ask the woman in the little white van
if there's anything else for me. A letter from Dad maybe.
Foolishness.

Maybe I'll start buying more things for myself,
making sure to ship them USPS. Little tchotchkes,
trinkets or what have you, it wouldn't matter.
Just to have her dance my way more often.

I base my personality
off of other people.

Though I've been rather alone.

Who am I supposed to be now?

Poetry's *******.
Either write a novel,
or *******.

There's no... Glimmer.
No, sheen or glint.
There's not a single hint
of iridescent shimmer.

There's no learning,
nothing here to glean.
I've checked between
the lines, discerning
only a hollow vastness
where others have seen
bits of what it all means.
I've found only plastics.

Torn and terrible,
the way I've been.
A living dream,
nothing's untearable.

Halloween was yesterday,
Thanksgiving is tomorrow,
and next week I'll be dead.

I feel like chunky peanut butter started out
as a failed batch of regular peanut butter,
and they were all like
"****. What do we do with all this
partially blended peanut butter?"
Then the suits probably figured:
"market it as intentional,
******* rubes will buy anything."

Dappled, isn't it?
Slotted bits of sun rays.
A radiant dalmatians coat
sprawled upon messy bedclothes.

***** sheets.

Always *****, no matter.
Yes, they've been changed.
Thousands of times, they've been changed.

That sparse sunlight
shines.
It highlights the
grime
and the sweat.







I awaken to a stiff neck,
and stretch out the cracks
and the pops
from my spine.
My bones sigh as I flick a switch.

The shower runs,
coffee is brewing in the kitchen.

I hum.

I'll be humming
for eternity,
walking through grass
and clods of mud.
My worn boots go on,
begging for a cobbler.

I'll see the sky,
the sun shares it with the daytime moon.
I'll whisper to myself:
It'll be time for bed soon.

A couple hours.

A few beers,
or whiskeys.

Waiting for that ever dependable
dappled sunlight.
It always comes.

Until it doesn't.

She had melted mud
on her pretty palms.
With a tentative touch,
we held hands.
It subtlety squished
between gritty grips,
dripping down
to the foyer floor.
I saw it suddenly stain.

The ringing rain.

Wild winds
creaked, crashed,
and bent boughs.
The storm sighed
a bitter breath,
the mud made
a blood bond,
and I softly spoke:

"Don't drop
my hollow hand,
make mud
our only
counted care."

She said,
with a tiny twist
of her happy head:

"Why are you talking like that?"

30 M 5'8" 160lbs

Don't really have my **** together.
Live in a small apartment with drop ceilings.
Still **** the bed occasionally.
Borderline alcoholic.

Rolled the dice on a **** the other day
and I **** my pants.

Balding prematurely.
Emotionally unavailable.
Intimacy issues.
Afraid of commitment.
Vape constantly.
Currently ******* my Fleshlight twice a day.

I don't fold my laundry,
just dump it in a pile on the couch.

Can't cook,
clean occasionally.
Brush my teeth once a day.
Pretend to be a writer to garner attention.

Outwardly come off as brooding and intellectual,
actually just endlessly introspective.
Have no valuable skill set,
will not be able to provide.

I have curtains,
but they're really just leftovers from my ex
and now I use them as fancy hanging napkins.

Bad case of foot fungus.

Terrible with money,
impulsive and predictable.

Generally lethargic but still skinny
due to malnutrition.

Looking for a woman to love me then leave me,
fulfilling my endless cycle of self-pity.
All in all a total man-child with little to offer.
Hit me up, prolly not doing anything.

Been gazing.
Looking.
Peering at things
I aught not to.

I see it clearly,
the sky through
a closed window.

I no longer just leer
at my faint reflection
in the glass.

I been looking,
gazing at you
for far too long.

Been taking down my mirrors.
Been changing up my song.

It's not a car wreck I fear,
not an illness or disease.
I don't fear cardiac arrest,
or slipping and hitting my head.
I'm not worried about getting killed,
death will come
when it deems me worthy of harvest.

I'm not afraid of death, I'm afraid of wasting my life.
I'm afraid of living a life laced with routines,
routines that crept in over the years
and make time fly on fast-forward.

I'm afraid of opportunities, missing them,
letting them pass me by
so that I may yet reside
in my comfortable fast-forwarding life.

I'm afraid of the adventures,
the ones I skipped out on.
The ones that happened
while I was sitting here comfortable,
and alone.

I fear the friends,
the ones I never made.
I hear their strange voices
while I whistle along,
working my comfortable job.

I'm frightened, you see?
Not of death, nor misery.
I'm terrified at night,
when I lie down in bed
after another day spent
In this comfortable life.

Yes,
my tastes are shallow.
Although still deep enough
to drown myself in.

Been looking for
a specific type of gal:
a delicate flower
that can take
a hard *******.

Pretty, yet sturdy.
Crystalinne,
but not brittle.
Loving,
but willing
to hate-**** me
when I forget
to take the trash out.
Or when she catches me
eyeing another woman's ***.

Bring me your finest spite,
pour it over me
in a liquid display
of primal ecstasy.

The vast vapidity
is humbling.

My hollow heart
hasn't the slightest chance,
faced up against
your echoing chasms.

These...
...sallow reverberances?
They ricochet
within my skull,
making my ears ring.

Like a bullet
laced with guilt,
laden with lament.

A supersonic dose
of peace.

Constantly accommodating conditionality
has steadily become entirely intolerable,
thus this premonition of exquisite repose
grants my psyche an opportunity to rejoice.

Your lack of communication is infinitely frustrating,
so when you ask me why I haven't called you yet
it's because I knew you wouldn't answer.

You don't want to actually talk about anything,
you just want some kind of validation of your actions.
Well now you've got it, you made the right call.

When I first found that note, my initial reaction was
a great sense of irritation and anger.
When I could think clearly again I found that my true
feeling was one of immense relief.
Relief that it's over and that I no longer have to be so
God ****** annoyed anymore.
Relief because it's over, and I didn't even have to be
the one to end it. You're really too kind.

The note was perfect, it allowed us to just walk away
without the strain of seeing each other one last time.
I walked away, and I was not angry and I was not sad.
I crumpled up the note, chucked it over my shoulder
and it landed perfectly in the garbage can behind me.
I felt free.

But when you go and message me
nearly three weeks later
asking why I haven't called you,
the relief fades back into anger.
It fades back into irritation,
annoyance, and frustration.
I don't mind feeling those feelings,
but what I do mind is that you're
too fragile of a being
to be able to communicate
while I am in that state.


So either stand up and talk to me,
or walk away and let me feel relief.
Let me be free.

As hard as I try
to ignore that crumbling keystone,
I'm still painfully aware
that the arch will soon come crashing down.

I wonder if when that happens
I'll have the audacity,
and the brazen cowardice,
to act surprised.

To feign knowledge.
To play a selfish fool.

• Honeydew
• Honeydew
• Honeydew
• Honeydew
• Honeydew
• Honeydew

I have a taste for expensive liquor.
I have a taste for the cheapest swill.
I have a taste for bright summer days.
I have a taste for blizzards.
I have a taste for heartwarming moments.
I have a taste for gore and mutilation.
I have a taste for symphonies.
I have a taste for grindcore.
I have a taste for yoga.
I have a taste for cramps.
I have a taste for regularity.
I have a taste for sudden catastrophies.
I have a taste for Cuban cigars.
I have a taste for Winston lights.
I have a taste for a shirt and tie.
I have a taste for oil stained jeans.
I have a taste for ripe peaches.
I have a taste for bruised apples.
I have a taste for black & white milkshakes.
I have a taste for bitter milk in my cereal.
I have a taste for idealistic love.
I have a taste for ******* and broken hearts.
I have a taste for family gatherings.
I have a taste for abandonment issues.
I have a taste for great parents.
I have a taste for having a dead mother.
I have a taste for a half brother.
I have a taste for being an only child.
I have a taste for the company of friends.
I have a taste for solitude.

Better off not setting foot
on her snowy inclines.

Wouldn't want to slip.

Don't feel like a climb.

Would rather just stay the **** inside,
from this safe distance I can yet admire.

The rain drips.

It paints splotchy little designs.

I hope it helps to
put out her fire.

Jenny,
I've heard the voice of God.
He told me
there is beauty yet.

The echoes
of long forgotten names,
turn to white noise
and fill my brain.

When my eyes
find
a hidden little smile,
I want to stay
for a little while.

Jenny,
I'm awfully afraid.

Of what lies in wait
on my path of faith.

Will it
ever be the same?

Or is it true that
everything has changed?

By all means, please persist.

Because who am I to arrive
bearing a smile of unwant, and
thrusting upheaval upon you?
Who am I to touch those delicate
sensibilities that are so intricately
woven into your aether?

This fragile construct of reality
that you've found so sheltering,
now quivers in the winds of change.
An over ambitious house of cards.
A deck of tarot stacked to the ceiling,
just begging me to come along
and grasp it in my lengthy arms.

To draw and to be drawn.
To show and to be shown.

To cast out a line of fate,
only to find it hooked upon some rotten boot.
What a catch.
What a catch, indeed.

One day you'll lie down tired,
albeit thoroughly satisfied.

Yet you'll still remember
those times.

Fear whispers in the night.

"Come,"
the voice of a fallen angel.

A voice like wind chimes
being dragged down a gravel road.
Like a harp
tumbling down a staircase.

Fear slithers from under a tinct veil of doubt,
that dark curtain hung behind my eyes.

Fear is there,
disguised as apathy.
Sopping with facades.
Laden with guilt.

Fear is here and I see it clearly.

I wonder if everyone else does too.

Somewhere along the way
poems became status updates.

But maybe that's not quite right,
they invited us to write
and...
We convinced ourselves
that it was worth it.

Just for the likes.

The irresistible compulsion.

In my mind's eye
I've already taken my brittle phone,
grasped it longways
and slammed it repeatedly upon the edge of my desk.

My beautiful mind's eye,
It shows me the gruesome satisfaction
of so many bittersweet actions
that I dare not take.

Even as I write this.
As I live
and breathe.
How wondrous it would be,
free of this digital monarchy.
How magnificent a scene;
my cell phone split in twain.
But..
Alas, nary a second would pass,
we're I to destroy this rectangular glass,
without me wondering
if all was well.

Maybe once my family is dead,
Or maybe not so dramatic...
Maybe if I get a land line instead...
Then I could relish the taste
of destroying something
I truly do hate.

A bitter broken toe
only adds to the feeling.

The feeling of satisfaction.
Top down,
flying,
on Friday night roads.

I'm not one to let a limp
hobble my grave enjoyment
of a summer accomplishment.

I'm not one to let a tiny bone
stop me
from a hard day's work.

I think I'm ready for winter.
The sprawling white blankets
that always blind my eyes.
The gossamer sheen of
a fresh morning frost, and
watching the rising sun
eat it from the windshield.
My breath unfurling about my head,
like I'm exhaling visible wisps of life.
Tough days. Restful nights.
Brandy and nicotine.
I think I'm ready for winter.

There's pleasure in choosing the hard road.
It's hidden sometimes behind a veil of
gratuitous and strenuous labor.
It's hidden behind making ends meet.
It's hidden behind a broken toe,
behind painful work that needs to be done.
It's hidden under a day spent
trudging through a foot of snow.

There's pleasure in choosing the hard road.

It's hidden,
but I promise you it's there.

I've wandered past the edge of perpetuity,
and found it wanting.
I've danced on the fence of commitment,
wavering between never and always.
The infinite has mocked me,
I embraced my bitter mortality
and mocked the abyss right back.
There's no reasons beyond what we decide.
There's no reason at all.

Needs are met,
so set sail on the glass surface
of simple contentedness
and let the breeze of life
paint wrinkles on our faces.

Let's smile at the waning sunlight,
laugh at the encroaching pale moon.

For no reason.
No reason at all.

Foggy this morning.
Driving, listening.
Adjustable seats,
there's a rattle somewhere
in the headliner.

What am I supposed to want out of life?
How does anyone figure out
what they want?
I'm perpetually contented with
my uninspired lifestyle.
Voices say to want more,
voices coax me towards buying property.
Coax me towards having a family.

My therapist says he sees
a tinge of a nomadic lifestyle
in how I've been persisting.
He says there's nothing wrong with that.

I don't know what that means.

I need a bridge to cross,
a staircase to climb.
I need something to ascend,
something to traverse.

I need something else.

The only thing that gets caught
in a single strand of web
is fluttering sunlight.

Banded together though...
Quite the prize,
full of flies.

We need to go
a little faster,
a little faster.

Downshift and mat it,
**** the redline.

Bleed black,
sweat oil.

Hold on,
hold on to me.
There'll be turns
and twists.

Hearts will sync
with the revs.

Vibrant orange puddles
sprout and wilt,
time washes over me.

A tide is pulling
the blankets down.

Love is scribbled
in the corner
of an old textbook.

A tide is pulling
the curtains down.

The moon peeks through
on a sunny afternoon,
and my eyes smile.

A tide is pulling
us further apart.

Quick, man.
It goes ****-ing quick.

Woke up today
about thirty,
even though
I fell asleep
about twenty-five.

It's slippery,
your boy needs traction.

Sick of spinning my wheels.

It goes quick.

The demon is singing again
and I find myself humming along.
It's the same rhythm it's always been,
it's the same familiar song.

The demon is singing again,
swimming in the fugue.
Amber, green and clear glass,
drowning it in blues.

It's too late.

Can you not see
that the pages are full
but the soul is empty?

It's too late.

I'm tired and dead
from wishing all these wishes
that're racing through my head.

It's too late,
it's over you fool.
Don't bother submitting.
Don't go back to school.

Conscious is deafening
as the sun sets.
Sleep, please.
I beg of it.
Hide my head
under my pillow again.
I'll do it tomorrow.
I promise.

Blue
and green
and purple and pink.
Tight
and loose
and acutely obtuse.

Be mine,
do you have
the time
to complete
me?

Or are you busy
being
you?

More than a trope,
still I'm roped
in.

Deserving,
no,
demanding
of more
than just
being something
to adore.

Does dose, dosage,
imply usage?

Don't claim,
but judge
accordingly.