They watch me,
at the counter.
In my car.
Under bridges.
Standing in line.

They watch me,
watching movies.
Playing games.
Visiting family.
Checking the time.

They watch me,
in the field.
On the freeway.
In the plains.
Out to sea,
they always see.

Glass lenses
are always watching me.

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?

The dawn of digital doorbells came,
but I just keep knocking away
because if you're not even home then
what's the ******* point anyway?

I don't want to be seen
through your ******* phone screen.
I want a greeting, a smile,
I want personality.

Now these glass eyes
peer all over me,
like drones in the skies
over foreign countries.
Reminding me
I'm a stranger.

I'm not meeting that gaze.
They can watch my back
as I turn and walk
away.

A gnarled guardrail
is what remains.

One day they'll fix it,
I'll never think of you again.

Life proceeds.
It speeds
along these
worn streets.

I eye
the guardrails
with fervor, fervently.
I sometimes
yearn
to gnarl one up.

Eyes on the lines, now.
They'll lead me
home.

Deer turds are like
nature's coco puffs.

Change.

I feel a slight breeze
as I stand upon
the precipitous edge
of indecision.

The earth tilts,
I teeter and waver
and then regain
my false sense of balance.

I can't stay here forever,
I know that much.
Looking down at my options,
I ponder whether it's better
to make a decision and jump,
or wait for fate
to push me one way or another.

The breeze picks up.
Time is babbling by.

I can wait
just a bit
longer.

See what's there to be seen,
green,
lovely greens.

Looking into your twin emeralds
as they shimmer
so brilliantly.


Up here on top.
Come sit with me.

A tattoo of a wrench?
Maybe a door, or a tower?
I'd consider it,
just maybe.

Yet what if those interests leave me?

What if I got a tattoo of a heart,
one that used to belong to me?
Would I be forever condemned
to a bittersweet fate of longing?

Forget all of that,
you look so **** pretty.
The first one tasted like I want another,
so come over here again
and just kiss me.

Yellow like the stars on the sea,
snacking on peaches and cream.
Yellow like a tinge of nicotine,
tasting the salted breeze.
If ever there was a fellow so yellow,
why that fellow would surely be me.

Sometimes I pop my shoulder out
in defiance of the pain.

Can't wait to set foot
on that electric scooter again.

Hands behind your back.
Alternatively, I may allow
self-pleasure.

But no,
I mean,
I love hands in general.

You can learn so much
about someone
from their hands.
How their fingers move,
scars,
and self care.

I like to touch them
with my hands,
hands are the best
for touching.
They're so
innately sensual.

Grabbing, caressing,
pulling, holding,
slapping, knotting up in hair.
Beckoning.
Warding off.

Tickling.

I enjoy
tickling.

Baby, I wanna be buried
in your tight clutch.
I wanna see God
in the midst of your love.

Baby, I wanna hear you
singing my name.
I wanna watch the blood course
through your pulsing veins.

I love seeing suicide survivors.

Like ****,
you **** at that too, huh?

The simple joy
of taking a massive dump.

Rushing home, feeling the pressure.

Fumbling with my keys in the door.

Dropping my coat to the floor.

Sitting,

sweet release.

If you ditch your kid,
every day is father's day!

Or maybe none of them are.

Happy father's day Dad,
you schizophrenic loner.
I want to be just like you!
Look at how I've spent the last ten years of my life!
Squandering opportunities,
drinking myself stupid,
and going out of my way
to be alone.

I know you'd be proud, because honestly
I'm just jealous of your freedom.
Do you sleep well?
Are you still
sick?

Mom's dead, by the way.
I guess you kinda are
too.

There's a tear there.
They tore it.
Those *******.

Their tears tare,
and weigh out
to a zero sum.

Don't weep for them,
don't let the sutures heal.
Howl with the gale winds
and paint your scars with
every color of the sunset.
Squeeze tightly upon
any semblance of
hope that lies
within grasp.

Feel your knuckles crack,
and grin a bitter grin.

Breathe fire.


It all has yet to truly begin.

What is it?
What am I supposed to,
to...

To want?

I'll crawl over the shattered glass
left from the window I broke
when I was trying to desperately escape your love,
I'll crawl over it all
just to get you back.

No, not you, ****.
The previous one.

I'll lacerate. It'll all be in vain.

Because I know I don't want you,
I know what I don't want.

Do you resent me
for such a hang up?
What am I supposed to do?
Oftentimes I'm torn,
frayed and tattered
along my edges,
trying to dance between
what is right
and what I like.
The stretch of space
between those two
have only grown more vast
with age.
Sprawling wastes fills that void,
wider and wider and
I'm always left reeling from my choice.
Indecision is the ghoul
that haunts my soul,
telling me to
avoid these feelings all told.
For when I do decide,
I can't seem to pick right
and I'm always left
reading the bones.

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

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

Being that I was raised Catholic
and knowing what I know now,
if Heaven truly is a real place then
they must **** a lot of kids up there.

But you don't know what it is.

Dropped something,
patting my pockets.
Feeling for what is not,
yet what should be.

Knife, wallet,
phone, keys.
Gun.
Smokes, matches.
Vape, shades.

All here
and accounted for,
yet...

I don't know how to type, so
last night
I started taking free lessons.

The learning isn't hard, but
the forgetting
is going to be a struggle.

Twenty five years
of bad habits.

****.
I could apply this
to anything
in my life.

When the feelings
of some people
are more valuable
than our way of life,
well, then
we've lost the plot.

If I traveled
somewhere far
and foreign,
I'd do my best
to conform to
wherever I am.

I don't find that
expecting that same behavior
from people who come here
to be immoral.

I refuse to feel guilty
for who I am,
just as I refuse to let pride
dictate my mindset.
It's two sides
of the same coin.

Guess what?
I get to decide how I feel,
I get to decide what I think,
how I behave.

I get to judge you.

The golden rule still applies though,
thus I conduct myself in a manner
which is expecting of judgement from you.
If I'm ******* up, shame me.
If you're ******* up, I'll shame you.
This is friendship, this is civility
at it's most fundamental level.
I want to respect you,
I want to be respected,
but never unconditionally.
I want to earn it,
I want to be deserving of it.
You should want that too.

Your feelings aren't holding water,
and we're all being flooded
with the repercussions.

Don't drown us.

No, actually,
We're not going to let you drown us.

Does dose, dosage,
imply usage?

Don't claim,
but judge
accordingly.

Dad ain't taught me much,
but one lesson stuck with me
after all these years.

He taught me how to disappear.

But now I'm alone
because he never told me
the rest of the story.

I never learned how to return.

I guess I'll keep waiting
for him to finish
teaching me.

I'm good at waiting.

Dude sometimes I rub my eyes
and it feels so ******* good
that I just can't stop.
Both eyes at once,
knuckles just twisting away.

I can drive with my knees,
can you do that?
It's difficult with my stick-shift
but I've gotten pretty good.









Anyway, I've been getting into
a lot of car accidents lately.

This is misery
wrapped up in a tasty, flakey
egg roll pastry.

Bite right into me,
see what comes flowing
through your teeth.

This is misery,
we are history,
and we're never coming home.

This is misery it's
not a mystery
how we ended up alone.

It's distracting me
how the distance between
just never seems to shrink
at all.

This is misery,
somber symphony
of a thousand creaking bones.

We're still history,
a book brimming with grief
for what could've been
but now no one will ever know.
What happened to me?
Did I always bounce between
the present and futures unknown?

This is misery,
don't call out for me,
I'm never coming home.

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

A bitter broken toe
only adds to the feeling.

The feeling of satisfaction.
Top down,
flying,
on Friday night roads.

I'm not one to let a limp
hobble my grave enjoyment
of a summer accomplishment.

I'm not one to let a tiny bone
stop me
from a hard day's work.

I think I'm ready for winter.
The sprawling white blankets
that always blind my eyes.
The gossamer sheen of
a fresh morning frost, and
watching the rising sun
eat it from the windshield.
My breath unfurling about my head,
like I'm exhaling visible wisps of life.
Tough days. Restful nights.
Brandy and nicotine.
I think I'm ready for winter.

There's pleasure in choosing the hard road.
It's hidden sometimes behind a veil of
gratuitous and strenuous labor.
It's hidden behind making ends meet.
It's hidden behind a broken toe,
behind painful work that needs to be done.
It's hidden under a day spent
trudging through a foot of snow.

There's pleasure in choosing the hard road.

It's hidden,
but I promise you it's there.

I've gotta take a **** so bad I can taste it.

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.

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

I'm in a state
Of constant disbelief,
As I look at your face
Peering out from under the sheets.

I'm comfy,
Let's stay
Right here
All **** day.

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.

Generally
I've lived a very stress free life.
I've never wanted for much,
I've always had the privilege of working
And the privilege of having a loving family.
If ever I've had anxiety,
It's always been for a good reason.
It's always been because
Of conscious bad decisions,
Or not doing something that I know I should be.
But the one thing that has consistently
Given me a sense of irrational fear
And anxiety,
Is the prospect of fatherhood.

I've been in multiple
Long term relationships
Where I've ended up avoiding *** altogether,
Just because I would get so worked up
At the prospect of having a baby.
I would weigh the pleasure of intimacy
Against that irrational sense of dread.
The scales would shift too,
In the beginning it's fairly balanced
And I would find joy in making love, but..
Over time they teeter towards
Wanting to avoid that irrational fear,
And that always costs me the relationship
Because I end up associating ***
With bad feelings.
I end up doing stupid little things.
Doing paranoid little things like
Tracking my girlfriend's periods,
Or fantasizing running away.
Romanticizing suicide.
It's so dramatic and big in my mind.

A lot of my concerns could be alleviated
By using basic family planning measures,
Like condoms or spermicidal ****,
Or insisting that my significant other
Start taking the pill.

But condoms ****,
And I don't feel right imposing
A prescription upon someone.

At the end of the day
I don't think that those family planning measures
Would address the true nature of the problem.
They're just a bandaid for my conscience.
Maybe I need to talk to someone,
Someone professional.
It's hard to admit weakness,
Hard to not be prideful.
But after all is said and done
I gotta figure something out.
I used to relish in the image
Of being a guy that wants to be alone.
But I don't think life is worth living
Without someone to share it with.

Jenny,
I've heard the voice of God.
He told me
there is beauty yet.

The echoes
of long forgotten names,
turn to white noise
and fill my brain.

When my eyes
find
a hidden little smile,
I want to stay
for a little while.

Jenny,
I'm awfully afraid.

Of what lies in wait
on my path of faith.

Will it
ever be the same?

Or is it true that
everything has changed?

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.

Your lack of communication is infinitely frustrating,
so when you ask me why I haven't called you yet
it's because I knew you wouldn't answer.

You don't want to actually talk about anything,
you just want some kind of validation of your actions.
Well now you've got it, you made the right call.

When I first found that note, my initial reaction was
a great sense of irritation and anger.
When I could think clearly again I found that my true
feeling was one of immense relief.
Relief that it's over and that I no longer have to be so
God ****** annoyed anymore.
Relief because it's over, and I didn't even have to be
the one to end it. You're really too kind.

The note was perfect, it allowed us to just walk away
without the strain of seeing each other one last time.
I walked away, and I was not angry and I was not sad.
I crumpled up the note, chucked it over my shoulder
and it landed perfectly in the garbage can behind me.
I felt free.

But when you go and message me
nearly three weeks later
asking why I haven't called you,
the relief fades back into anger.
It fades back into irritation,
annoyance, and frustration.
I don't mind feeling those feelings,
but what I do mind is that you're
too fragile of a being
to be able to communicate
while I am in that state.


So either stand up and talk to me,
or walk away and let me feel relief.
Let me be free.

It ain't the trees,
ain't the grass either.
Ain't the cityscape
or the skyscrapers.
It ain't the movies
or the fancy music.
Ain't the games
or any gadgets.

It's the sky.
That's what I'm in it for.
The blue
and the white.
Fluffy and infinite.
Gradient and stolid,
whether rain or shine.
Vast and welcoming.

She's the sky.
She's the blue,
the infinite.

She's the,

the...
well...

She's the sky.


I wander in her.

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.

Ain't nothing quite like
Looking into a pristine blanket of snow
To really highlight
All the **** floating around in my eyes.

My body heat
in a bottle.
Camera on the floor,
balance empty Mr. Beam
atop its lense.
Did I hit record?
**** it,
I gotta let go.
Bubbling up, man,
protein in my ****.
Yeah yeah yeah.
I'm dying
sure,
but so are you
and you
and you.
Outta room.
Pinch off
and save it for later.
Stop recording.
Another thing
that I'll never
show to
anyone.
Great.
Just
great.
Good job Justin.

Been carrying a gun for a little over a year now, and I just gotta say that it has been such an immense relief. The knowledge that, no matter where I am and no matter what may happen that I have an easy and convenient way to blow my head off at a moments notice. That knowledge was well worth the inconvenience of getting my concealed carry license, worth it ten times over. It's like being blessed with beautiful power, power beyond my previous comprehension of what it means to truly not give a **** about anything. To really be impervious to anything, any little slight, any angry person flipping me off in traffic, any loss of love or heartbreak. I walk with a white grace that has never existed in my mind before, I carry peace on my hip, I carry sacred silence from the repetitive thoughts that tend to haunt my consciousness. I'm invincible. It's like a fun little secret that I walk around with, it's like my head is full of confetti and I'm just waiting for the perfect surprise party!

Like a pocket full of balloons.

The only thing that gets caught
in a single strand of web
is fluttering sunlight.

Banded together though...
Quite the prize,
full of flies.

You'll look up one day
And be almost seventy,
I'll be eighty-eight.