Poetry is ******* *******.

Ain't so shakey-armed no more,
but still,
reminds me of when I was.

People started dying on me,
it happens to everyone.
It'll happen to you, too.

What's worse is that
I'm starting to forget.
Take more photographs.

Loss affects everyone differently,
but personally it provided a service.
It granted me clarity.

I don't get ****** up,
at least, not like I used to.
I'm grateful for that.

But there's something hidden
inside that naive mindset.
Getting hammered every night,
relishing in apathy and
romanticizing self destruction
granted a different kind of creativity.
I kinda miss that aspect of it.
I don't write poems anymore
about cigarettes
or about *****.
I've lost that indignant,
brazen, sense of self-pity.

Sometimes I think
that getting ****** up
made me a better writer.

But it seems to me that
the trade off is worth it.

I just want to be grateful.
Who cares about being Bukowski
when I've still got some people
that love me.

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.

I am not my words.

I am my behavior,
I am my actions.
My decisions.

I am not these words.
The person I appear to be
to you, dear reader,
would be a complete stranger
to my family.

The me that is seen by a lover
would be an unknown to my friends.

I am not these words,
for there is no true me.
There are only the different shapes I take
to more effectively make
my way through life.

I change in the blink
of your eye.
Don't you recognize me?
Look again.
How about now?

I don't know what to say,
or what you want me to say.
I don't want to just say
what you want me to say.
I just want to float.

Salty ripples
lapping at my sides,
squinting at
the summer sunshine.

When I close my eyes,
I'm
there.

Stop peeling up my lids,
don't make me look
at this... this,
this bottomless pit
sunken into my skin.

I don't know what to say,
I just don't want to,
okay?

Ah, but it seems my preferential tendencies
are rendered sundered and inadequate
by your overwhelmingly imposing emotions, and it's like they never ******* mattered
one ******* bit to begin with,
did they?

I'll keep that in mind
for next time.
I'll know just
what
to say.

Sure I scream
for ice cream,
but custard is
******* delicious.

****.

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.

Conscious is deafening
as the sun sets.
Sleep, please.
I beg of it.
Hide my head
under my pillow again.
I'll do it tomorrow.
I promise.

The door to honesty is ajar.

A breeze of truth is wafting through.

"There's a doorknob
on the floor, Bob."

A man named Fred
once said.

"That's not the floor,
you total bore,
can't you get that
through your head?"

Bob turned to Fred and sighed
as he bitterly replied

"We're standing on the wall is all,
don't make me tell you that again."

Fred's brows furrowed
in desperate concentration.

"But the stairs go out the window
and lead up to the basement!
Your blueprints don't make sense
in this configuration.."

Bob turned red
with anger and dread,
and full of exasperation
he said

"I swear one day
this house will be
a beautiful work of art,
you'll see!"

I should be going to bed at 8:00,
so I start drinking as soon as I get home.
But the issue is
that I don't get drunk anymore
until about 10:00.

Maybe I'll start leaving work a few hours early.

Maybe I just gotta focus on getting it down faster.

Come
Sit
Squirm around a bit
Come
Sit
Press against my spit
Come

Exquisite
Ecstasy
Riding on my lips

Slowly flip
I want to watch you
Come
Sit

Baneful meditation comes
swathed in twisting blue twine.

Peer out at life for a moment,
let life peer within you.

Don't pry, it will come unforced.
It will find you, it will come
bearing mirth and sorrow.
It will carry with it a bounty,
A wicked trove of all that is good and evil.
It will come for you
brandishing a justly balanced scale,
on which everything in life is weighed.

Turn a burning match up,
light the way and just
wait.

How does it feel to fly?

Tomorrow's tomorrow,
Another day.

Willows are weeping,
Fronds all asway.

Roots un-uprooted,
Burrowed and buried.

Tomorrow's tomorrow
Can never stay.

Forgetting forgotten
Pathological ways.

Tomorrow's tomorrow,
Is Another day.

I spend a great deal of time
alone.

I just won't think about it for now.

Maybe tomorrow.
Ah,
tomorrow.

Don these earmuffs of positivity,
To better combat the whispers of apathy.
But don't let your guard down,
They aren't a passive form of protection.
Guarding your mind takes constant effort,
And conscious decisions.
Happiness is a choice. It is work.
It's the antithesis of the easy way out.
Those lazy and uncaring thoughts
Still come, no matter what,
But it's up to you, to me,
To armor our minds against them.

I was eighteen
when Henry was born.
I was mostly gone back then.

Mom used to say
it's like she has two only children.

I still say that when people ask.

He's getting older
and I'm further now
than I've ever been.


I would say that he
thinks about me
less and less
these days,
but maybe that's okay.
Maybe that's for the best anyway.


...I bet my dad has had that same thought.

"Maybe it's for the best."
"Maybe that's okay."

Maybe not, I don't know.. but
it makes me feel better
imagining that he has.


Gotta call Henry.

My phone's charging port broke,
maybe.... jeez, I don't know.
Maybe, five or six months ago?
Since then I've been restricted
to only using wireless chargers.
At work I need my GPS often,
and so my phone doesn't die
I keep a wireless charger
rubber banded
to the back of my phone...

...anyway...

I took Emily's headband
and threw it out,
it was hanging in the bathroom
for awhile.

I took Alyssa's painting
off the wall.

I threw that out too.


Found a hairtie
on the closet doorknob
and I went to go toss it,
but my phone was dead
and I didn't have a
rubber band
to keep my wireless charger
on the back of my phone
during my car trip to work.

So I used the hair tie.

I don't remember who's it was, but
Sara got in my car and saw it sitting there.

Stupid. Inconsiderate.
I try clearing all the leftover ****
out of my life,
and only end up
drawing attention to it.

It's hard to know
When to quit.
What to quit.

A friend once told me:
"One vice at a time."

But maybe I put
To much meaning
Into his words.

Because he blew his head off
With his service pistol,
And I'm still here. So...
That's gotta mean something,
Right?

Quitting.
Maybe what I need to quit
Is this mindset of extremes.
There may be more value
In finding the balance between
Keeping on keeping on,
And knowing when
enough is enough.

Balance.
Quitting.
Keeping on.

Not everything has to be
An on-off switch, Justin.
Treat yourself
Like a dimmer,
And find that perfect
Balance of light within.

We need to go
a little faster,
a little faster.

Downshift and mat it,
**** the redline.

Bleed black,
sweat oil.

Hold on,
hold on to me.
There'll be turns
and twists.

Hearts will sync
with the revs.

Learning how to type is hard in your 30s.
****,
I guess learning anything
is hard in your 30s.

I wanna buy you ****,
Yeah I wanna build you **** too.
Build you **** outta ******'
wood and metal and whatever.
Yeah I wanna *******,
wanna make you make noises.
Wanna hear you make noises
that no one else gets to hear.
Yeah I wanna *******,
and buy you ****,
and build **** for you,
Yeah.

I want one sharp enough
to cut through this garbage import porcelain,
I want one sharp enough
to cut through god.

Ain't even hungry yet,
just desperate to cut
something uncuttable
into beautiful pieces.

Poly grip feels good
in my aging hands,
are you sharp enough
my shining friend?

Serrations are preferred,
whetstones and gravel.
Gimme something to slit.
Something to bloodlet.

Something whole,
something begging for
division.

Something to flex my arm into.

Sunlash tangles in my eyelights,
my fog breaths up the windshield.
I'm shifting lanes and changing gears.
I'm feeling
good.

A whisper tries to gnaw at my bones,
it begs me to appease.
My foot gets heavier
and I'm flooring the pedal,
matting to the metal.

Tachometer syncs up with my heart,
I'm in tachycardia and falling apart.
I lost my exhaust.
My head won't start.
My wheels are falling off.

I'm a screaming freight knuckle, white training it.
Barreling down
some small town.

I crack a smile and rub my face.

The whisper
still whispers,
and I'm still feeling

good.

Radiant slats of gold
on that ageless, painted wall of old.
The paper told me to go,
so I left not too long ago.
Tales of sadnesses untold
are the source of all this bitter cold.
I buried all that I know
under her heavy blanket of snow.
They say that she broke the mold
when they cast her into the fold.
Now all that I've got to show
for these sudden thirty years in tow,
is a handful of memories I hold.
Everything else has long been sold.
Something, somethings, some things grow.
What they are, I just don't know.

I sometimes need a bite.
I sometimes bite back,
but rarely.

Speckled crescents cover my arms,
they even creep up my shoulders
and my neck.

I'm black and blue
for you,
as I have been
for time unkept.
Time and time again.

Pour me.
Poor me.

My mother wept.

Poetry's *******.
Either write a novel,
or *******.

Just a whiff of oil,
and listen to the snik
of the lock catching.

It flips smooth,
it feels weighty and
satisfying in my hand.

The problem in
playing with a knife
is that you start looking
for things to cut.

My desk has notches
all along the edge.

My steering wheel is missing chunks,
my emergency brake has puncture wounds.

Little shavings of material
all over my pants.

Hands covered in
pock marks and scar tissue.

Now I wonder what it'd feel like
to cut a piece off of you.

Gave me quite a shiver
when she said that
sometimes two people
just like to rub
up against one another.

What a simplification
of something
that I've personally held
so sacred in my heart.

Maybe I'm overcomplicating
things.

I just hope she don't find
someone else
worth rubbing up against.

Ah, insecurities?
Or perhaps,
a fundamental difference
in beliefs?

******* is ******* I guess,
she's probably right.
***** is always *****,
no matter what the label.

I'm sure there's been
times when
I've ****** some broad
without consideration
for her feelings.
Right? Sure. Whatevs, yo.

I'm overcomplicating things.

I blatantly hate myself.

Today I went and drove myself
up against a wall.
I get angry at nothing.
I bottle it all.

Glory, I can hardly wait
for that bottle to break.
Then maybe I'll justify
all this self hate.

I want to burn a church,
I want to ****.

I want to leave this plane.
I want to cross this gate.

Touch tongues with me,
taste the bitter taste of acid.

Shocking how
the tide turns us now,
alight with solemn flame.
Left burning again.

Up too late
tonight I've stayed.

Blessed be tomorrow,
Sanctimony of weary.

Can't wait for
Sleep then
work, then
sleep.

Foggy this morning.
Driving, listening.
Adjustable seats,
there's a rattle somewhere
in the headliner.

What am I supposed to want out of life?
How does anyone figure out
what they want?
I'm perpetually contented with
my uninspired lifestyle.
Voices say to want more,
voices coax me towards buying property.
Coax me towards having a family.

My therapist says he sees
a tinge of a nomadic lifestyle
in how I've been persisting.
He says there's nothing wrong with that.

I don't know what that means.

I need a bridge to cross,
a staircase to climb.
I need something to ascend,
something to traverse.

I need something else.

Whispers in my ear,
memories like ghosts.


Mustn't be present.


Anything to not
be present here.
To not be present
anywhere,
anytime.

Fill up my eyes with monitors,
my ears with buds.
Fill up my mind,
brimming with brandy.
Keep smiling,
maintain an IV drip
of distractions.
Keep laughing.
Keep on
keeping on.

Walls mustn't falter,
I must not be present.
Not now.
Not ever.

I'm not worth the mention,
tell me:
How are you doing lately?

Speak less,
Do more.

I'm not necessarily impressive.
I drive a truck for a living
And although it pays my bills,
I don't have much room here to move up.
But I made my own bed,
I half-assed my way through life
And this is just a result of those decisions.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
I used to be okay with being unimpressive,
I used to think that it was something that I wanted.
Finding beauty in apathy,
Writing off effort as a waste of time.

I was naive.

Youthfulness blinded me to
What it actually means to be successful.
I strived for the bare minimum,
Idealizing wanting to be alone.
Taking refuse in lonesomeness.
I thought it was cool to not give a ****,
About anything, about myself.
When I admired that idea of being alone,
Of being a ****,
I had no qualms about not making money
Or having any meaningful skill sets.
No qualms about abandoning college,
Turning my nose up at every opportunity
That happened to come my way.

Now I see that it was never about buying a house,
It was about having a home.
Now I see it wasn't about bettering myself,
It was about being able to help the people I love.
To help the people who love me.

If there's anything I could take away
From making some terrible decisions,
It's that sometimes they come disguised
As the seemingly smartest moves
That I ever could take.

Positive

Shallow pools of rainwater
The sound of an engine running
Blue and bright
Between light and lofty whites
Wafting tendrils of steam
Curled and unfurling
Like fresh april blooms
Infant flowers and leaves
Flowers and levers
Flow and weave
Follow or leave
Floral trees
In the spring breeze

• Honeydew
• Honeydew
• Honeydew
• Honeydew
• Honeydew
• Honeydew

I don't like to write.
I write for the likes.
That being said, I don't hate to write either.

So ******* and the horse you rode in on.

By all means, please persist.

Because who am I to arrive
bearing a smile of unwant, and
thrusting upheaval upon you?
Who am I to touch those delicate
sensibilities that are so intricately
woven into your aether?

This fragile construct of reality
that you've found so sheltering,
now quivers in the winds of change.
An over ambitious house of cards.
A deck of tarot stacked to the ceiling,
just begging me to come along
and grasp it in my lengthy arms.

To draw and to be drawn.
To show and to be shown.

To cast out a line of fate,
only to find it hooked upon some rotten boot.
What a catch.
What a catch, indeed.