When I'm swollen and pulsing,
the roundish spot on your hip,
your skin under my fingers,
my tongue between your lips,
light from the setting sun
spread across our tangled limbs,
bits of lavender I keep finding,
your perky peaks beneath the sheets,
my tender remnants in your hands,
the congruent mixture we make
on those certain kind of days.

Paint me in your purples and pink,
and I'll soak it in.

Deer turds are like
nature's coco puffs.

Don't ******* stop,
the finish line nears.

Even poetry
ain't about poetry no more,
it's all just for likes and reposts.

My mom thought that I was on drugs.
(Which admittedly, I guess that I was.)
Though not what she thought,
just some ***** and some ***,
but she still looked for tracks when we hugged.

It's a silent desperation.
like screaming underwater,
or sobbing into a pillow.

It's like I'm living my life
on the razor-fine edge
of complete abandonment.

Is today the day
that I throw my phone away,
and turn up missing?

How long will it take
to hire my replacement
at work?

You can knock all you want
but there's no one home,
my apartment will be empty.

You'll find my car at the curb,
my wallet and keys on my desk,
but you won't find me.

I'll be gone.




Then I wake up,
shower,
and head to work again.

The kind of tired
that sleep don't fix.
Start off on my back,
force my eyes closed,
listen to my heart race,
stare at the ceiling.
Flip onto my side
and slip my arm
under my pillow,
and just listen to the wind blow
the chimes outside of my window.
Maybe lay on my stomach
and hug the pillow tight,
this feels pretty comfortable,
this position might be just right.
That's when the smoke detector
begins to chirp in the night.
I'm running out of time,
God please send me to sleep
because work is gonna ****
if I don't get this relief.
Please give me sleep.
Please.

Visions of guilt
and disappointed faces
are floating behind
my eyelids.
Memories
of embarrassment,
and past bad decisions,
line dance through
my skull.
I'm feigning sleep
while
I'm wide awake
in my soul.

Got done work
early today,
only an eight hour shift.

Was eager for bed,
didn't clean at all.
I just got drunk instead.

Girl's coming up tomorrow,
gotta make the bed.

Gotta pick my place up
and not get drunk instead.

I lie to myself
and say that
I keep it clean for me,
but only I know
that without someone else to please
I'd let this place
slowly accumulate
my garbage and debris.
Until the detritus
overwhelmed me,
in my comfy old jeans.
I'd be in over my head,
because I wouldn't be able
to delegate,
and I'd just
get drunk instead.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe there's a tangible thread
that dangles and wavers,
ever so slightly,
as my eyes turn steadily red.

My, how the trees keep secrets.
My, oh my, how they grow.
Oh, how the trees all whisper
as the fierce winter winds blow.

Tread atop discarded leaves,
between branches; carefully weave.
My, how the forest impedes.
Trees never tell what they know.

They aren't silent, these trees
emit creaks and gutteral groans,
like giants waking from slumber
and stretching their turgid bones.

The canopy then blocks out the sun,
compelling me to break into a run.
One hand clasping tight on my gun,
should've never wandered off alone.

Gave me quite a shiver
when she said that
sometimes two people
just like to rub
up against one another.

What a simplification
of something
that I've personally held
so sacred in my heart.

Maybe I'm overcomplicating
things.

I just hope she don't find
someone else
worth rubbing up against.

Ah, insecurities?
Or perhaps,
a fundamental difference
in beliefs?

******* is ******* I guess,
she's probably right.
***** is always *****,
no matter what the label.

I'm sure there's been
times when
I've ****** some broad
without consideration
for her feelings.
Right? Sure. Whatevs, yo.

I'm overcomplicating things.

Dude this website ******* ***** these days,
does anyone know of any alternatives?

I smiled at a woman,
I smiled at a man,
with eyebrows; inquisitive,
but neither even grinned.

I smiled at a child,
I smiled at a priest,
with my shoulders a-shrugged,
I expected eye contact at least.

I smiled at the moon,
I smiled at a cat,
I smiled in the mirror
and I smiled right back.

I smiled in gibberish,
I smiled in phases,
why won't anyone smile at me?
Do they know that I'm wasted?

Numb-tongued and dumb,
ain't that sweet?
Liquified amber wrapped 'round my teeth,
grant me ignorant relief.
I'll pay the total tolls tomorrow,
a sandy mouth is worth this release.
Burning desire,
sipping fire,
I'm embracing stupidity.

I threw a bunch of old photos out,
and it's really bothering me.
Not like, constantly, but...
I think about it every so often.

I'm astounded at how awful it feels.
I don't think there's anything else,
at least as much as I can remember,
that makes me feel this way.

I think it's because it's not... Hmm.
It's not just something bad that happened to me.
I think it feels so awful because,
it was just a hastily made decision on my part.

It'd be one thing if they got burned up in a house fire,
or even if they got ruined or lost in a big move.
I could tolerate that kind of loss, that kind of fate.
But the fact that it was me, that I intentionally
went and discarded them, especially after having
them for such a long time...

That's the part that really digs into my psyche.

Rose petals in the bathroom trash bin,
fervent phone calls in the morning.
Little bits of lavender stuck to my feet.
Debt. Balancing two lives into one,
sharing.

It's difficult, sure.

Were it easy,
it wouldn't be worth it.

No such thing as perfect.
Even if there was,
I'd still prefer it
the way things are.

The voice of logic screams in pain
at the sight of my toothy, idiotic grin.
Heart beats drill into my brain
with a percussive pounding maintained
onward deep into the night and
following my thoughts throughout the day.

So sometimes reasoning goes away
when love is dripping from my face.

Ain't so shakey-armed no more,
but still,
reminds me of when I was.

O, mem'ries.
'Member when?
This again.

Morning's mourning,
when death arrives:
I'll be ready.
I've imagined it already,
a thousand times.

They, they're, still alive
but for what?
Like he's just waiting to die.

My father, grand father,
I'm a busy guy.
Is it selfish?
Am I?

I spend a great deal of time
alone.

I just won't think about it for now.

Maybe tomorrow.
Ah,
tomorrow.

I may drive truck for a living
but don't let that fool you,
my full-time job is really
fighting off the voice in my head
constantly telling me to
not give a **** about anything.

The only thing I've learned from
being a "man of my word"
is to keep my big mouth shut.

I wanna write a poem
about the silence of falling snow.

...Voila!

I can feel it
in my bones.
Is this my home?

Twist the pops
out of my spine.
God, that feels divine.

Do your best,
take it slow.
Make a call on your phone.

Do not stop,
keep it aligned.
A beer helps me unwind.

A smell, a vibe,
the fear of being alone.
Do you want to be my home?

Weaver of tales,
fiddler of twine.
Author of all my time.

Just a whiff of oil,
and listen to the snik
of the lock catching.

It flips smooth,
it feels weighty and
satisfying in my hand.

The problem in
playing with a knife
is that you start looking
for things to cut.

My desk has notches
all along the edge.

My steering wheel is missing chunks,
my emergency brake has puncture wounds.

Little shavings of material
all over my pants.

Hands covered in
pock marks and scar tissue.

Now I wonder what it'd feel like
to cut a piece off of you.

Sometimes it's good to trudge.
Sure, I mean,
my legs are sore at the end of the day but...
Sometimes it's good to trudge.

A dip,
quick.
Maybe more
than just
the tip.
I want to
take a dip
in your
rushing waters.
I want to
get wet.
Come, and
soak me.
Kiss me.
***** me.
I want to
give you
something.
I want to
leave marks.
Your skin
as my canvas,
this is my art.
I'll take the pain
from paint,
I'll take the rush
out of brush.
I'll take handfuls,
I want to
pull you apart.
I want to feel
the beating
of your heart.
I want to grasp
your mind,
I want to hear
that you're
only mine.
I want to see
me, reflected
in your eyes.
I'll take handfuls,
and I'll take
my **** time.

Even this, feels familiar too.
Unpleasant though.

Strange and weird but,
maybe I'm just
missing a piece
of the puzzle.

Ugh, I feel so sick
to my stomach,
though that is unrelated.

Somehow, although much has changed,
some of these feelings
are still the same.

Like waking up
from a bad dream,
and then falling back to sleep.

Popped a zit
right there on my head.
I went too hard
and it bled, and bled.
Wish I could've
ignored it instead.
But my face looks okay
with a touch of red.

Ripped up, little pieces of paper.
The baritone hints of doubt on a voice.
Redundant pens lining the shelf.
Accumulated dust, hair, dirt.
Faint scents from long ago burnt incense.
Paper and ink.
Machinery gone silent in contempt.
Hollow sounds of footsteps from the hallway.
A wooden chair being drug across a kitchen floor.
Chimes, bitter tinkling like an old music box.
Distant atonal whistling, creaking foundations.
Glass bulbs swinging ever so slightly.
Bare filaments, jagged lines burnt into retinas.
Softness within a blanket.
Feeling the weight of gravity.
Letting bones stretch, muscles twitching.
Eyes racing and alive beneath their lids.
Heartbeats.
Touch.
The color yellow.

It's been more difficult
lately
to separate from my thoughts.

A perfect fan of water
spraying from the spoiler
of that passing Porsche
in the evening rainstorm
gave me brief inspiration
to create something new.

I kind of hate this.

Creation is frustrating.
My life has been full
of combating little impulses
that compel me to break ****.
Whether it be pushing a hinge too far,
or twisting the cap on a bottle
until I shred the threads,
it's compelling to break ****.
Then I always feel awful about it
after it's done.

Do other people have those?
Those little impulses,
those little compulsions?
But instead of them
whispering to break things,
do they whisper creation?

Our shadows played
on the bedroom wall,
rhythmically knotting together
as sweat began to fall.

Come came,
puddles on skin.
I exclaimed.

Catching my breath,
her head to my chest,
I sighed and I squeezed
just when she said:
"Don't go falling in love with me."

I didn't say much,
maybe just squeezed a bit more,
and she spoke up again:
"Ah... I can't stop you, of course."

I wanna buy you ****,
Yeah I wanna build you **** too.
Build you **** outta ******'
wood and metal and whatever.
Yeah I wanna *******,
wanna make you make noises.
Wanna hear you make noises
that no one else gets to hear.
Yeah I wanna *******,
and buy you ****,
and build **** for you,
Yeah.

Speak less,
Do more.

I'm not generally an angry person,
in fact I find it to be a particularly
foolish emotion.

Sometimes though...
Sometimes my heart pumps lava.
Sometimes my fingernails leave imprints on my palm.
Sometimes my jaw cramps from clenching my teeth.
Sometimes someone parks their car
at the one and only diesel pump,
leaving me to circle the little fuel islands.
Staring out my windshield with the eyes of a shark.
Why? Why must you park at the only diesel pump?
Where? Where the **** is this guy?
How? How do you just ******* walk away?
When? When are they gonna ******* move?
Who? Who the **** does this kind of thing?

Then they come striding out
from the convenience store,
they catch me staring them down,
then I just smile
And wave.

Anger is foolish.

People started dying on me,
it happens to everyone.
It'll happen to you, too.

What's worse is that
I'm starting to forget.
Take more photographs.

Loss affects everyone differently,
but personally it provided a service.
It granted me clarity.

I don't get ****** up,
at least, not like I used to.
I'm grateful for that.

But there's something hidden
inside that naive mindset.
Getting hammered every night,
relishing in apathy and
romanticizing self destruction
granted a different kind of creativity.
I kinda miss that aspect of it.
I don't write poems anymore
about cigarettes
or about *****.
I've lost that indignant,
brazen, sense of self-pity.

Sometimes I think
that getting ****** up
made me a better writer.

But it seems to me that
the trade off is worth it.

I just want to be grateful.
Who cares about being Bukowski
when I've still got some people
that love me.

Never said
there'd be another
day.

They never said so.
Yet,
here it is.

Time tells
lies,
and truths go unspoken.

Unspoken
yet,
not unknown.

Not unknown.

Last week
was twenty
years ago.

Tomorrow
I'll be dead
of old age.

But today,
there's a chance
to change everything.

To change everything.

Yellow, this fellow is
everywhere at once.
Seems there's more
to what he wants.
Elsewhere, a hand
reaches out for help,
despite the stigma
and crippling doubt.
Yellow, this fellow is.

Insinuate the purpose,
seeking a semblance.

Tallow, this fellow has
original thoughts.
Despite spending his time
always chewing the fat,
yellow, this tallow is.
,

Jonesing for a fix
until she comes,
she's got a habit
that can't be undone.

Nothing is quite like
orating his thoughts,
talking to himself.

Yellow, this fellow is,
everyone he knows,
touches his heart.
.

There's an addict
living in the attic,
and he's eating my insulation.

Wonder where
The clocks lead.
Sunsets? dreams?
Dewy grass underfeet?
Wonder where
The clocks lead.
With fervor, so desperately
Racing home to laundered sheets.
What lies unknowingly beneath?
Pondering what it all could mean.
Wonder where the clocks will lead.
See the dancing silhouettes stretch,
Like inky putty pulled across the street.
The sped up sound of wilting trees,
The hushed whispers of falling leaves.
The hands of time hold us all between
What once was, and what has yet to be.
Wasted, watching these ticking machines,
Wondering where these clocks will lead.

I don't think there's ever been a time in my life when I've felt so compelled, and been able to make decisions with such conviction as I am today. Maybe it's a symptom of growing older, maybe it's just that I finally have some semblance of actually knowing what it is that I want out of life. Maybe, maybe, maybe... Maybe it's more simple than all of that. I'm tired man, bed is gonna feel so good.

It's hard to give a ****
About work, or
About money,
When the only thing
I'm saving for
Is **** like video games
And car parts.

They're still highways
That take you here,
But they seem less so.

Somewhat more like trails,
A hardpan of sorts,
Beaten through the hills.

They're still streetlights
That bring you to a stop,
Painting the wet streets in red.

Somewhat more like a twin dusk that
Demands hesitation, and patience,
To wait for the green dawn.