She reaches behind her
and spreads everything,
her head presses into the comforter.
Duvet? Comforter? It's argyle,
whatever you wanna call it.
Green and light teal, the colors
of the blanket and pillows
match the curtains
hanging in the unfocused
background.
I turn the volume down
as she moans through
the initial insertion.
That's my favorite part.
The rhythmic slapping
of flesh coming together
begins like the beat of
some primal, animalistic drum.
I notice the furnishings are
seldom, a single dresser
with a large mirror
is the only thing I can see.
It has a light finish on it.
Interesting.
I would've gone with a dark walnut,
or maybe a mahogany.
Is dark wood furniture out of style?
I look around my room,
at the dark stained wood desk
that my computer sits on.
My **** isn't even hard anymore.
*** slowly dribbles out as I finish,
mostly unsatisfied.
Unsatisfied with my paltry velocity,
and further unsatisfied with my
terrible sense of interior decoration.
Oh well, I'll go again in an hour.
Maybe I'll get some ideas
for my kitchen.

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.

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.

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

**** crewnecks,
I'ma just keep cutting my hoods off.

Leave em in a pile
of unwant.

A pile
of "remember when?"

Yeah, I remember.
When I got you,
and how
I didn't want you
around.

My head been free
for a good minute now,
no sense hiding
my sunlit crown.

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.

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

...Voila!

Poetry is dumb.

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

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

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

Guess what?
People ******* change.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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


                                          - Me in my next life.

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.

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.

This sense of overwhelming fear
is both fleeting and ephemeral,
I know it in my secret heart.

But that knowing doesn't stop it
from washing me with goosebumps,
where's my ******* vape?
Don't I have any zyn packs?
Feverishly patting myself down
like I'm my own TSA agent.
checking every pocket, twice,
three times over. Only finding my lighter.

****.

A cigarette **** rolls across the sidewalk,
pushed by the wind of a passing car or
maybe pushed by force of some higher power.
It bumps and tumbles it's way towards me,
I'm frozen in time with carnal wanting
as it comes to an abrupt stop at the tip
of my boot.

My eyes caress its crumpled shape,
I'm estimating exactly how many puffs
before I'd hit the orange filter.
My mouth is dry, I'm licking my lips.
My eyes suddenly dart around,
checking to see if anyone is watching me
then my gaze returns to the ground
as if magnetized. Pulled in. Just one pull.
Two, three puffs maybe.
Maybe just one good, long one.
Maybe.
Maybe just enough.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.