Sometimes it claps.
Sometimes it rasps.
Sometimes its silent,
     sneaking out of my ***.

Sometimes it's loud.
Sometimes it's quiet.
Sometimes I'm proud,
     even when I'm in private.

Sometimes it's stinky.
Sometimes it causes strife.
Sometimes my mud *****
     go pppffft in the night.

Do
Don't
Do
I can't
Do
Nah
Do
It
Do it

Done.

Bouts.

It comes in fits
and tantrums.

Intermittent
bursts of
responsibility.

I'll **** the place up
for two months,
then in one day I'll
clean everything.

One time Mom got sick of me
not picking up my room.
I was eight.
She turned into a whirlwind
and tore everything off my walls.
Ripped everything off my shelves.
Upturned my garbage can
and my tackle box.
She dumped everything
into a big pile
in the middle of my room.

I cried and
in my first bout
of responsibility,
I cleaned it all up.

Just to start all over again.

Comparing my driver's licenses,
my eyes stay the same
but, God,
my face sure has grown.

Your edges are dithering,
contaminated with snow.

I can see through
you.

I'm losing something here,
as the days slink by.

I don't even feel
like myself,

not anymore.
Not now,
not here
in this paltry persistence.

Your edges are gaussian,
furred and blurred.

I can see through you.

It's just what
I've been looking for.
It's just what's right.

You'll fade and
I'll hate, all
over again. All
over again. All
over and
over again.

My eyes ain't
what they once were, sure, but
I can't see you
at all anymore.

Not because I'm blind,
you just happen to
tinct.
I'm not blind, you just
happen to
translucere,
one day you're just
gone.

I swear yesterday
You were right here.

You've darkled, and turned gossamer.
You pretty, pretty veil.
These days I guess that
I just don't see too well.

A hushed "ouch,"
reddened cheeks.
Blindfolds, safe words,
and bound wrists.
I like my love on a leash.
I love watching you breathe.
I adore the way you beg "please."
I covet this visage,
I could keep you like this
for weeks.
I slip inside,
I dip my pride
into your calm waters
and relish in your warm creek.
I love the way you weep.

I love the way

you weep.

Rivulets of salt
and I don't hear a peep.
No struggle,
no fight left indeed.
Have I gone too far,
my clasp
overpowering
your gasps?

Whatever,
still feels good

to me.

Gentlemen.
Ladies.
May I implore you;
where is it?

Where is it.

Where is the meaning
that was promised?

Where is our Great War?

Are we not deserved of
an all-encompassing evil?
Have we not earned the right
to glory, to kinship?

This paltry existence
is riddled with mediocre evils,
made up plights,
self imposed moral ambiguities.
I want more. I want to face more.
I want to watch something bleed.
My mouth waters.

Put me in coach,
put us all in.
We're ready.
The bench has been warmed
for my entire life.
An entire generation,
lost to modern ease
and simplistic complexities,
all just yearning for Hell.
Craving the hundred-yard gaze
granted only to the survivors.
**** your PTSD and fill us with shell shock.
Give us nightmares, memories.
Give us stories that we dare not tell.
Give us our great war.
Give us an ultimate evil to face.

Give us something to ****.
Put me in front of an insurmountable enemy.
Put me beside the righteous, the keen,
put aside the drones and ICBMs
and let us lead a modern blitzkrieg.
I want to be riled by my general
into a primal scream.
I want to watch my brothers die,
I want to weep for something.
Something bigger than me.
I want to be found in pieces
strewn across blood soaked earth.
I want a government *****
knocking on my mother's door
to give her my dog tags.
She would mourn, and grieve,
but she would be ******* proud of me.

Give me that release,
grant us all the relief
from this endless monotony.

When I'm done and
thoroughly drunk,
I always fill the bottle
back up with my ****.
That way,
when tomorrow graces me,
I'll be able to see
exactly what I spent my
hard earned
money on.

Also,
the bathroom is all the way over there
and I gotta ****
right now.

It's a win-win.

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.

I can think of twelve hundred good reasons

to drink tonight.



In the back of my mind

they all feel like

shallow little lies.

Nothing dries out a ***** faster
than having three monitors
and a light up keyboard.

Pour it.
Don't want to taste it
anymore.
Just pour it right
into my heart,
funnel it into my soul.
Flood me with it,
my head is swimming.
Pour it.
Vacuous vessel,
my body and mind.
Filled to the brim,
marinated and brined.
Sopped up.
Wrung out.
Pour it.
Pouring.
Down the spout.

Were mirrors to melt,
I'd set them ablaze.

I'd laugh
at my molten gaze.
I'd smile
at the puddle.

Twenty thousand years
I'd watch,
as the glass
slowly forgot.

Give me
pride,

I'll love
again.

Even the sunrise.

A party's
not a party
if it happens every night.

Catching a buzz
a bit too much,
it ends up catching you.

Cotton candy skies
every morning,
even the sunrise turns against you.

Days come
and come
and come.

Relentless battering of time
Against my skin,
beating us all
to death.

Even the sunrise gets old.

Even the sunrise.

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.

Dear reader,
beloved consumer of my words.
I want you to hate me.

Forget make-up ***,
let's argument-****,
and whoever **** first
has to admit they're wrong.

I wanna let it steep.
Dipping into your hot water,
I find that primal sounds
impulsively pour through my teeth.

I'm turgid with palpable greed.
I'll take anything you're offering me,
I'll take everything I want
and everything that I need.

I wanna let it steep.
Tongues and strong teas,
I can't stand it too weak.
Two lumps and a splash of cream.

Stirred up in tangible relief,
tangled and twisted colors
all racing and swirling together
in-between my sheets.

Another shirt sacrificed
to the grease-stain God.

Metal shavings glistening
in my beard,
danger tinsel.

Sparks emanating
from my aching grip,
I'm abrasive.

Eyes a-squint,
in lieu of
safety glasses.

Blood blister.

Hands rended
with numerous
nicks and cuts
all in various
states of healing.

Torn jeans,
blackened knees.

Another shirt
marked with grease.

Old Carolina Loggers
with run-down heels.

This outfit speaks,
I needn't say a thing.

Just a glance and
you know exactly
what makes me,
me.

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

There's a knife for you
buried under two feet of snow.
There, you'll find purpose.

You'll find beauty.

You'll find meaning
in the interstitial drops
of burgundy that spatter
the billowy white blanket
of cold.

As your hand disturbs
the pristine surface,
and plunges further
into numbness;
you'll feel good.
You'll feel God.
You'll feel free.

Oh, the freedom you'll feel.
Oh, the freedom.
The peace.
The quiet,
the solace,
the relief...

God,
the relief...

There's a knife for you,
for anyone. For everyone.
If you're willing to dig deep enough.
If you're willing to clench blindly
through the frigid snow.

There's a knife for me too, but






my hand is cold.

Hands fly.
They buzz in pretty little circles,
round and round.
The circumferential numerals
countlessly winding down days.
Hands spinning away years.

Seems their speed is dependent,
relative to routine.

Slip into a well-grooved track of mundanity
and watch the wheel run.

Dash in a bit of change, though,
and feel it slow a bit.
Take a step out of that path worn into the floor.
Face a new direction, argue with your compass.

Slow it all down.

Slow life down
to a sober crawl,
stand face to face with
that clock on the wall.

Awakening
Cascading time
Crashing over the edge of oblivion

I swear
Two weeks ago
I was just turning eighteen

Last night
I was almost
Twenty five

This morning
Is edging close
To thirty years old

Awakening
Not to a new day
But to a decade long gone

Hey hey a deluge,
Wash it all away,
Then when the snow comes
I'll roll it all up.

I'll roll it all up,
The snow, the lights,
The plants, the dirt.

I'll roll up the night,
I'll roll up the day,
I'll roll right down the streets
The plows will all be unneeded,
Because I'll roll up all the snow
And clear myself a path
From here to Zion Grove.

Where I'll make a giant snowman
And give it a crooked smile,
That the people will all see
For miles and miles.

When I'm all done
The roads will be clear,
And I'll finally be able
To reach you my dear.

Your hands look good for touching,
I'll feel them with mine.

There's a car behind me
on the stretch of old interstate
between Artistes and Centralia.
Barren road besides us.
Rub my eyes, check the mirror,
and just like that
they're gone.
Relief, I can slow down a bit.
Hate holding folk up
in this old Peterbilt.

They never play sad songs
on the radio anymore.
DJs are emotional doctors
prescribing me how to feel.
I miss the radio,
seems it don't miss me.

Still trucking,
but basking
in that ringing gold.

Lone open road,
I'll get there and
there ain't nothing
wrong with that.
Though, tomorrow I'll wake
and not want to start again.

Every morning.

Never want to start any more.

But once I get going,
well, it's not so bad.

Flip the radio on
and just be begrudgingly happy.

It's fun to fight
Fight with myself
Fight my compulsions and wants

I want to abolish my responsibility
But I'm going to work today
I want to hydrate with brandy or whiskey
But I'm having water instead
I want to get all my nutrition from eating *****
But I'll cook a little meal for myself
I want to get addicted to ******
But I'll just read this book on it

I want to rip a hole in the sky
I want to shoot cans off my desk
I want to light fires
I want to scream at people
I want to shatter my mirrors
I want to rip the curtains down
I want to kick my TV, right off the stand
I want to throw my money down the garbage disposal
I want to laugh at the smouldering ruins
That used to be my life

But I'll just make myself some tea tonight
I'll just smile and look at my thoughts
And examine them from my nice warm car

I'll just laugh and remember to love my life
I'll think of my brother, I'll think of that knife
That I gave him for his birthday last year
And about how grateful he was
As he added it to his fishing gear

I'll think of my friends and I'll think
Of my Mom
And I'll know that everyone
Is struggling along

I'll find solace in knowing that fact
Because I'm not alone
And I'm certain of that.

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.

A concrete island
Adrift upon the asphalt sea.

Come and sit with me
In drunken reverie.

A vast and unending realm
of thoughtless regret.

My face drawn
once again
to the book.

Countless pages of doubt,
scrolling through the past.

Where are they all now?

Where am I?

I'd better contrast
and
I'd better compare.

The temperature is turned too hot, but,
it feels good for now.
I lean my face into the falling water
and let it just douse my entire world.
I start soaping myself up and,
with a subtle pang of regret,
I wash her scent from my beard.

I hear the door click open.
I smile before she pulls the curtain aside,
she's naked and climbing in with me.
I smile and pull her in, pressing myself
up against her and kissing her cheek, her neck.
I smile with the memories of how
my beard picked up her scent last night.
The brief pang of regret from earlier
is gone as I imagine doing it all over again.
I smile as our foreheads press together
and our soapy bodies slip against each other.

I smile.
She smiles back.

I wash her back.
She washes mine.

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.

Leaves
Wilting
Falling
Drying
Sogging
Leaves
Leaving
Their trees

Sa tur day ay ay ay ay ay ayyyyy,
come,
stay.
I'd work ev-ree dayyyyy,
ay ay.

Sa tur day ay ay ay ay ayyyyy,
let's,
play.
Brains are made of clayyyyy,
ay ay.

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.
.

It's, smiling.
It's so gingerly soft,
it's singing along to a favorite song.
It's the enjoyment of buying a new toy.
It's the guilt of spending money.
It's the joy of sunshine on my face.
It's melanoma.
It's a Sunday morning drive.
It's running out of gas on the interstate.
It's an epsom salt bath.
It's a bug on the bathroom wall.
It's a bug on the bathroom wall.
It's my skin beginning to crawl.
It's my skin beginning to crawl.
It's a hidden breaking point,
it's waiting to feel a mental snap.
It's taking a deep breath of the spring time air.
It's a gnat flying into your nostril.
It's the sound of chirping birds in the morning.
It's the woodpecker drilling into my brain.
It's
It's it's it's it's it a I ts it's I ts si sit ti sti ist st it it's
It's me.

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.

I imagine that at some point before I **** myself, that I'll have the indignation to jot down a somewhat substantial list of all my usernames and passwords.
I find it romantic to picture people performing digital
archaeology on my life, logging in to my various websites
after I'm dead,
and trying to decipher when and why it all went wrong.
Trying to figure out what led me to making the decision
of suicide, what drove me to some kind of psychological
breaking point.

That indignation,
to think that I'd be worthy of such a
romantic notion,
is rather sickening to the me that sits here
still alive.
To the me
clacking away at some gaudy mechanical keyboard.

What makes me so royal?
Why would I be worthy of
an archaeological, metaphorical dig?
People die constantly.
I'd just be one more.
One more forgotten story,
one more unfulfilled potential.

One more
"gone too soon."

No one gives a ****,
not really.
People love me, sure.
Family, some friends.
A few ex-lovers.
Everyone has their own life to live.
I'm not as important as I think I am,
neither are you.
Or anyone, for that matter.
It's just human nature getting the best of us
that makes us think otherwise.

People have a right to go on with their lives,
I guess just as people have a right to choose death.
I'd hate to get in the way of either one.
It's a fool's errand to imagine I even could,
or would.

Maybe there will be a little list of my passwords,
reeking of self-righteousness.
maybe there will just be a pile of ashes
with a air of a final clarity,
of a 'coming to my senses.'

Maybe I'll live forever, I mean...
So far, so good.

Persistence may sometimes be sickening,
yet never quite as sickening
as suicide.

I'm ingenuine.
Disingenuous.
...whatever.

Diner.
Dinerettes.
Grace me,
I'm your
favorite.

Serve me, I tip well.
Now show me your *****,
I won't tell.

God I want
To taste it,
to dip
into you.