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

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

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.

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.

Work ran late.

He's been waiting all day
To take me out for steaks.
I fumble my keyring
And pick it up again,
I always get his house key
Mixed up with mine.

Asleep on the couch,
A Hallmark movie
Playing unwatched on the TV.
He must've seen this one already.

"Hey."
I touch his shoulder
And smile at him when he looks up at me.
He smiles back.

I wonder if he still believes
In anything.

"You ready to rock & roll down to the Banquet?"
"Yeah man, I'm starving."

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.

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?

I love seeing suicide survivors.

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

There's nothing quite like
a fresh pair of work boots,
stiff and clean.

There's nothing better for
stepping right into a pile
of wet, hot dog feces.

Because what good would
work boots be without
some **** underneath?

Life paints it's story
in broad brush strokes of light.
Sun rays, incandescent bulbs.
Fire.
I know colors
are just light.

While I slept,
you went away,
and brilliant light
filled the place
where you used
to play.

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.

Deer turds are like
nature's coco puffs.

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

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.

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.

There is something
inherently unattractive
about a woman
with a high number
of ****** partners.

I will judge you
by your body count.

Popped a zit
right there on my head.
I went too hard
and it bled, and bled.
Wish I could've
ignored it instead.
But my face looks okay
with a touch of red.

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.

Halloween was yesterday,
Thanksgiving is tomorrow,
and next week I'll be dead.

I can't,
and furthermore;
I ain't even want to.

Dance, hum and sing.
Something about rings.
Teak, teal, topaz.

I can't.
Don't ask me
if I can.

Don't ask me
nothing.

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

****.

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.

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.

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.

There's a pail
just over there.
Yesterday it was brimming
with things unwanted.
I empty it every morning
and it's always full again
by the time the sun sets.

A fail pail,
a ****-it bucket.

A sacred place
to where I send
all my unwelcome thoughts.
Every drip of them.
I wring out my brain
and watch the colors
slip between my fingers.

I watch the things unwanted,
I watch them puddle and fill and swirl and mix and stain and fight and **** and claim and dry and crack and steep and warm and cool and dance alllllllll together. They dance all together now, bouncing off the walls of
                                                           that pail.

Just over there.

I can always see it. Always.

Always in the periphery. Never out of my sight. I need it near me every day and all **** night. Just in case I wake from sleep thinking something that I don't want to think so I can send it off to join the rest of the misbegotten children spawned by my head.

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.

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.

Grab me by the beard
and tell me
to get my ******* **** together.

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.

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.

Wonder where
The clocks lead.
Sunsets? dreams?
Dewy grass underfeet?
Wonder where
The clocks lead.
With fervor, so desperately
Racing home to laundered sheets.
What lies unknowingly beneath?
Pondering what it all could mean.
Wonder where the clocks will lead.
See the dancing silhouettes stretch,
Like inky putty pulled across the street.
The sped up sound of wilting trees,
The hushed whispers of falling leaves.
The hands of time hold us all between
What once was, and what has yet to be.
Wasted, watching these ticking machines,
Wondering where these clocks will lead.

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.

The cabinets are all closed,
But I still don't know
Where the dishes go.

Sneaky little memories.

Anxiety and coughing.

Staying up late
To *******.

Flashcards.

Whiskey.

Life rolls on I suppose.

I believe in you.

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...

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.

The sharpened edge of light
Cuts through lofty clouds,
Like a bite taken out of cotton candy,
And shines with a boding, ochre imminence
Of the day that's to come.

Breath comes out
In puffs of coiling steam,
Is this reality
Or is this just a dream?

Reach for a hand
Passing by in a stream,
Do they need help
Or are they at peace?

The blunted darkness of night
Bludgeons the solemn crowds,
Like a buffeting storm of sand,
And it washes away all innocence
To expose what's been done.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

Ain't much for sermons,
And I don't need a church
To see that it's more than
Just a nap
in the dirt.

Ain't had much thought
On what it means to die,
Too busy living life
One day
At a time.

But I swear I still see
Glints of God shining
In the slats of evening sunlight
Cast through the venetian blinds.
I see God in my brother's
Smiling green eyes,
In my aunt's jubilant laughter,
In my grandfather's volunteering
Of all of his time.
I see God in my Dan,
An admirable man,
I see God in the way
Others see just family.

I pray to my mother
To be the kind of person
That my family may look at
And see a glimpse of God in me.