It's fun to fight
Fight with myself
Fight my compulsions and wants

I want to abolish my responsibility
But I'm going to work today
I want to hydrate with brandy or whiskey
But I'm having water instead
I want to get all my nutrition from eating *****
But I'll cook a little meal for myself
I want to get addicted to ******
But I'll just read this book on it

I want to rip a hole in the sky
I want to shoot cans off my desk
I want to light fires
I want to scream at people
I want to shatter my mirrors
I want to rip the curtains down
I want to kick my TV, right off the stand
I want to throw my money down the garbage disposal
I want to laugh at the smouldering ruins
That used to be my life

But I'll just make myself some tea tonight
I'll just smile and look at my thoughts
And examine them from my nice warm car

I'll just laugh and remember to love my life
I'll think of my brother, I'll think of that knife
That I gave him for his birthday last year
And about how grateful he was
As he added it to his fishing gear

I'll think of my friends and I'll think
Of my Mom
And I'll know that everyone
Is struggling along

I'll find solace in knowing that fact
Because I'm not alone
And I'm certain of that.

Deer turds are like
nature's coco puffs.

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.

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

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.

Tommy said
"everything changes"
when I tried to bring up
the good days spent drinking
up in Sheppton at Vince's bar.

Back when it was still Vince's
and I was still mourning a life
that I didn't even enjoy living.

It didn't matter though,
I would've mourned anything.
Any reason to drink
was reason enough for me.

I looked over at Tommy
and we shared a moment
of remembrance
for those ****** up nights.

"Everything changes, huh?"
I said, raising my eyebrows.
"It has to,"
he replied
"otherwise we'd all still be the same."

He finished his beer and stood up,
turning up his collar and pulling his paper boy hat down
he left without saying goodbye.
I turned back to face the TV, wondering.

Wondering what was going to change next.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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

****.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

I believe in you.

Does dose, dosage,
imply usage?

Don't claim,
but judge
accordingly.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

This road of indecision
I often find myself on
is paved with countless carcasses
of squirrels and deer aplenty.

They all watch me make my way,
their eyes still brimming
with high beams and headlights.

I can hear the faint echoes
of a thousand car horns
resonating within me.

Pizza?
Wings?
Left?
Right?
I don't know.
You decide.