Father had a rotary,
Whereas I favor flat four
But when Pap has a V8
I cain't argue no more.

[Prose]

Best left behind,
that's what I've found.

Sometimes if you can't understand why,
then just maybe
it's best left behind.

Carry me yonder,
my stubborn stride.
For the past, and all it's burdensome belongings are
best left behind.

I've calluses from working,
but writing always leaves me
with a couple fresh blisters.

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.

I'm wearing a gun
And a **** ring,
I don't know which one
Feels better.

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.

Its a poetry website lol you have to write a poem rofl

Is it still a lie
if deep in my heart I believe what I'm saying?

Is it still a lie
if I'm ******* insane?

Continuously loathing the longing I feel
for the people I'm the most afraid of.

hands-down
She was the first love
I have ever had

and Her face
still comes to me
in my dreams.

From the time we meet,
I want you to forget me.

And the reasons we seek,
will make you regret me.

Countless overlapping stickers speak
more history than a sacred sacrament.
The guitarist's personal bible
is the case for their instrument.

Is the line as fine as you think it is?

I'm never quite sure.

It's not me,
it's Bukowski.

The air doesn't smell any different
on this cold October day.
So life goes on,
just feeling more
like a gift now
than it did before.

Even the loudest dreams
drift off into oblivion
upon my waking.

Knock-knock.
Who's there?

An abandoned child
on your doorstep.

yeahyeahyeahdude
forsure

Held true an honest sword, never.

Yet still a firm grip persists
from a grudge long clenched.


Gleaming and bitterly cold,
this sharpened-heartstring blade.
Forged from flesh betrayed,
handed down through ages of old.

******* all,
constant readers.

A-l-l-o-w
m-e
t-o
s-p-e-l-l
i-t
o-u-t
f-o-r
y-o-u.

Ain't need to say it,
I'll let my actions
Speak for themselves.

That's all that really matters anyway.

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.

I think she forgot to look both ways
before crossing my mind one day,
for now she is but a bloodstain
upon my memory.

I feel she was beaten to death,
one brutal pulse at a time,
by the last heart attack
that I suffered.

But sometimes the daydreams take
me away from this atmosphere,
and the shadows from Saturn's rings
form her name in space.

As I spill my coffee,
alone.

I have so much hatred
pent up inside

but I don't know for whom
or even why.

a line
in a circle
in a triangle
on her skin

and the kind of pink
that makes me want to sin

what's it really matter though?

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 hate.

There's a space between
you and I
that I just don't seem
able to find.

Maybe I'll read a book
Or play some tetris

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.

wow writing is so cool
just knowing you're reading this
is the key to making stool.

I just **** these words
out of my keyboard.

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.

I miss my truck and
I guess a piece of me
still don't give a ****
about the rest of me.

But that's not true,
I'm trying to change
these soiled linens
on my bed of rage.

Let the dust settle now,
I'm approaching the age
where time grabs hold
and ceaselessly shakes.

This website ***** golf ***** through a garden hose.

The cans dry me out,
the brandy's got me hung up
and sober from the relentless lust,
and for the first time in a few weeks
I can smell the putrid way it reeks when
my lips crack and leak liquid copper
all over that loud and sour smile
I wear plastered on my cheeks.

That bitter brass crash
punctuating every beat
is jarringly unsettling,
just a toy monkey indeed.

Tell me what it really means.
Tell me what it stands for,
why was such a thing created?
Wound up tightly, set it free.

The zombies will all chase it,
relentless and ever mindlessly.
Just a toy monkey?
More like a bomb, indeed.

This is the last time
I ever mistake tail lights
for the sunset.

Take a minute,
a breather,
a respite.

You lead me
quite well,
my friend,

but

I'll never be caught dead
treading water
in your wake again.