Poetry is dumb.

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.

Sure he always walks around
with his head hanging down,
but I'll be ****** if
he doesn't find the best stones.

**** this ******* ******* censoring
You ***** can wipe my ******* *******
With your ******* ******* moral high ground

When first we met
I thought that you'd
save me.
Now I know that
you were just sent to
betray me.
Crazy.

When I placed my bet
I never thought
it'd be
another twelve days
spent down in
my basement.
Shame me.

Crazy eyes
blame me,
shame me, please just
don't tell me lies.

When first we met
I told you to
shame me
all the time.

Now these days
just flow by
all the time.

Gotten too proud,
too full of ourselves to
walk that line.

That used to divide us
all the time.
Shame me,
blame me,
baby.

When the only functional department left
is the IRS,
then the only option we have left
is to stop paying.

Never finished college
Didn't write a book yet
Still don't own land
Haven't paid that debt
Can't say I've lost weight
Forgot to exercise again
Paying for a gym membership
Last time I went was two years ago
Meant to go to therapy
Maybe next week
Wanted to work on my relationship
Just ended it instead
Tried to quit smoking
But not really
Saw the calendar flip by
Like a picture book
I won't drink like this forever
I'll quit tomorrow

Ochre on her fair skin.
The twilight sun paints her smile in idealistic hues
as we walk away from the music, from the grass,
from our spot in the shadow of a tree.
Hands held, still swinging and swaying
with the receding bassline.

I get caught up sometimes,
I get busy
over thinking.
I don't like that part of myself.

There's times where
I can't provide
a passionate
hard ****
for her,
and
I feel
like a
lesser man
in those moments.
Trapped in my mind,
hoping that she'll still like me
even though I can't seem to get it up.

There's also times where
I know it doesn't matter,
where all that matters
is falling asleep all
tangled up together.

Times where
all that matters
is a setting sun
after a day
of laughter.
A day of dancing,
and music,
and loved ones.

Beautiful days, dappled with love yet
not always bookended with
glorious raw ***.

Those days count too,
don't they?

I hope so.


I like her.

I'm too tired

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.

There's value in a strong back,
there's value in ***** hands.

Would my life have been easier
working in an office?
I'm not sure there's a correlation between
happiness and ease of living.
It may have been easier overall,
but I'm not for that life.
I lose those inside jobs.
The hot breath of management on my neck,
the juvenile nature of coworkers...

Not all value is represented monetarily.
Not all money is valuable, necessarily.

Sometimes learning the hard way,
and living the hard way,
is the hidden key
to unlocking hidden fulfillment.

Men that won't eat *****
are just ******* in disguise.

Inkless Inkless

Inkless Inkless


Can't write

Love is a hollow tube
where ink used to be,
but is now gone too soon.

Plastic carcass

Bite into you

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.

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.

"Whomever I was in my past life
must've been a complete and total ******."


                                          - Me in my next life.

This bottle's been pressed
from two separate halfs.

As is much in life.

Love.

Teamwork.

We're all just as bound together
as this bitter vessel of liquor.

Just gotta pay less attention
to the seam,

and focus more on
what's inside.

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.

Ahh, that sweet familiarity.
Effervescent glugs of flowing amber,
laminarity long forgotten
with this well-practiced wrist.

Some still spills,
occasionally.

Sop it up with a sleeve,
or one of the *** laden socks
on the ground.

Don't come here,
the door is locked and
the person within
is no longer
the person you remember.

Though he's always been here,
waiting to swim.

He floats atop the gallons of flowing amber
that I've been trying to drown him in.

Smiling his bitter smile,
bearing his knowing grin.

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

Listless veil,
dancing in the wind of causality.
Covered, yet you translucere
in the faint light of another day.

What is real, is not.
There's a fire
growing hot,
kept fed and fanned
by a facade's rot.

There's no phoenix here,
just a life left
steeped
in ashes.

Oh whispering, listless veil;
behind you hides the tale
of what the truth entails.

Do not part, it won't be missed.
Bury it, cover it,
obfuscate with bliss.

An empty fortune cookie.

I didn't want to eat it anyway
but now I feel like ****,
just crunching it up
and throwing it away
without even being told
my ******* lucky numbers.

I don't need this,
it's all refuse
and I refuse
to keep it any longer.

All my beloved,
all my collected
and cherished.
They're heavy
with sentiment,
burdened with
memory.

Artifacts of my past
that I cling to,
like plastic wrap.

Take all of me,
every scrap and
every piece and
send me home
to waste management.

Free my thoughts
from the chains
of remembrance,
so that I may sing again.

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.

Give me the frigid,
bless me with
sacred cold.

So that you may curl up against me,
and I'll not be
too hot to hold.

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.

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?

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.

Sun's been gone now
three or four days.
I know it's out there
buried deep atop the greys.
Not bothered much
by bouts of lite rain,
intermittent,
just like my wipers.

Sun's been hidden
again and again and
I just want my eyes
to be filled with rays.
I just want it tangled
in my hair,
warming my heart.

January.
Deep December,
don't bury me
in your naked boughs.
Carry me through you,
on skewed wings
of your damp fallen leaves.

February awaits,
looming.
Buried in the greys,
patiently peering at me
with it's sunless gaze.

Circlet of yellow petals
ringed 'round a freckled face of seeds.
Auburn and rose gold,
ever-flowing rivulets of green.

My flower smiles in the dawn,
when the new light touches
and drapes her in radiant balm.
She's always smiling at the sun
with nary the slightest whisper
or hint of an obfuscated qualm.

That fickle sun never says goodbye,
and even on moonless nights
she turns to face the eastern sky.
With her eyes full of the stars above,
she knows that tomorrow will come
and carry with it a brand new sun

to once again set her sights upon.


My sunflower
shining so true,
I know why
I love you.

Was that bench comfortable
beside the manufactured creek?
We never even saw it
for what it was;
an oft-tended golf course.

For us it was freedom,
it was cooperative solitude.
It was an infinite bed of
manicured grass to jump on.

In regards to the rest of the world,
we were gone.
We were free.
Free. Flee.

You sat there looking out on the water,
right hand tucking that pesky
strand of hair behind
your delicate ear.

I remember my mouth watering
looking at your earlobe.
I remember the breeze
gracing me with you.

The swallows flew in inverse arches,
just grazing the glassy surface.
Shattering and sending ripples
everywhere.

You still sit there in this picture.
A flower frozen in resin,
kept pure of oxidation.

I'm still there too, just...
behind the camera.

Forever destined to only look at you.

Even now, all these years later.

Destined to look,
and to remember.

He's clocking out, climbing into his car.
He can do both things at once,
the time clock is just an app on his phone.
These days, he guesses, most everything
is just an app on the phone.

Phone. We still call it that.
Wonder how many people
make calls these days at all?
He laughs quietly to himself
and starts the engine,
shifts into first,
slips the clutch,
and he's on the road.

He passes run down storefronts
long abandoned, old restaurants
with four or five different names
glued to the facade. Nothing lasts here.

The diner still runs though,
a well oiled machine.
Maybe I'll eat there tonight
he says to himself.
Breakfast for dinner, eggs and bacon.
Sounds good.

Maybe he'll stay there for six hours.
Drinking coffee,
talking to locals.
Maybe he won't.
Maybe he'll take the long way home
and hit the pub for wings.
Maybe he won't though.
No matter what he ends up doing
he's always satisfied having the options.

It's not the places I go to waste my time,
the thought comes to him suddenly,
it's the option of being able to waste it
wherever and whenever I want.
That's what I really love.

He smiles a slight grin,
eyes full of sunset.
His stomach grumbles,
hits a downshift as he steps on the gas,
and cruises off into the horizon.
It may not be a particularly exciting
or overly successful life, but
one thing that's for certain is that
he'll be happy to do it all over again
tomorrow.

The waffle god never taught me to swim
through his crashing waves of authentic maple syrup,
and my butter pad hat slowly begins to melt
and blind my eyes
as my thoughts run fiery hot
with pulsing liquid rage
for the contempt I have
about this futile trial.

I'm happier dead and drowned
afloat face down
atop the vast, vacuous,
and viscous liquid sugar
that has thoroughly coated
my lungs and my throat.

Paint the sky
A different shade of blue,
Rip out a page or two.

Dip into a hidden pond,
Soak in the sound
Of falling leaves.

Float.

A face buried
In warm laundry,
Sigh into the linen.

Bits of dried ocean
Caught in the wind,
Taste the seasoned breeze.

Stretch.

The smell of comfort.
Home is more than an idea,
It's sensory overload.

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.

The color of the slow sand
dribbling through this hourglass
is every shade of pure.

A second-hand secondhand
ticks away, rhythm eroding,
yet building tenure.

Treacle treat,
tricks are neat.
Show me your glimmering memoir.

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

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.

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.
.

The water laps eagerly at the stony bank,
the sun peeks her rays around a passing cloud.
My skin drinks deeply of both,
pruned toes and tanned chest.
The kayak gently bobs
in the shallow wake from the breeze.
Mithrandir falls below Moria,
I put down the book and reach
for a beer.
The resident swan has been paddling
little laps at a safe distance from me.
I catch him looking at me
side-eyed, flipping his head back and forth.
I make kissy sounds and hold my hand out,
he comes over to see if I have any bread for him.

It's nice here. Little fish pick dead skin from my legs.
It's nice here. My shoulders don't get sore from paddling anymore.
It's nice here.
I do this almost
every day.

These ******* people
I surround myself with
make it impossible
to enjoy the
allure of death.

So I guess I'm cursed
to keep on living.

Thanks a lot.

******* *******.