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.

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.

Does dose, dosage,
imply usage?

Don't claim,
but judge
accordingly.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The irresistible compulsion.

In my mind's eye
I've already taken my brittle phone,
grasped it longways
and slammed it repeatedly upon the edge of my desk.

My beautiful mind's eye,
It shows me the gruesome satisfaction
of so many bittersweet actions
that I dare not take.

Even as I write this.
As I live
and breathe.
How wondrous it would be,
free of this digital monarchy.
How magnificent a scene;
my cell phone split in twain.
But..
Alas, nary a second would pass,
we're I to destroy this rectangular glass,
without me wondering
if all was well.

Maybe once my family is dead,
Or maybe not so dramatic...
Maybe if I get a land line instead...
Then I could relish the taste
of destroying something
I truly do hate.

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.

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

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

The kind of tired
that sleep don't fix.
Start off on my back,
force my eyes closed,
listen to my heart race,
stare at the ceiling.
Flip onto my side
and slip my arm
under my pillow,
and just listen to the wind blow
the chimes outside of my window.
Maybe lay on my stomach
and hug the pillow tight,
this feels pretty comfortable,
this position might be just right.
That's when the smoke detector
begins to chirp in the night.
I'm running out of time,
God please send me to sleep
because work is gonna ****
if I don't get this relief.
Please give me sleep.
Please.

Visions of guilt
and disappointed faces
are floating behind
my eyelids.
Memories
of embarrassment,
and past bad decisions,
line dance through
my skull.
I'm feigning sleep
while
I'm wide awake
in my soul.

There's a sinking ship
beneath our feet.

We don't notice it though,
we can't see.

Busy playing in the metaphysical dirt,
busy tumbling gravel and stones from our shoes.
Busy. Too busy.

What do you notice
first thing
on a Sunday morning?

That's all that
ever really matters.

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

The beauty of a vast field
covered in rippling waves
of budding, golden grain.

Offset only by its uninviting notion.


Lovely to look at.
Hell to walk through.



Like much in life.




Like your eyes.






Like my mind.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

The sun don't quit trying,
despite the duvet of morning fog
and the moon won't stop crying
over the sad songs of summer frogs.

In the blink of an eye
it's all over and
there's always more sky
with cloud cover and
we'll all be shivering
having shed last year's winter coats.

Howls in the dark fly
at us like beach sand
caught in the windy cry
of something once planned,
and time keeps on withering
turning puddles into castle moats.

The days don't quit flying,
despite our reluctance to step in the bog.
The nights won't stop, forever dying,
they keep turning on and on like a cog.

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?

A slight taste of copper,
A whisper of a doubt.
Neighbors are screaming,
A dog is barking,
It's 7:00 pm.

My left ear gets hot,
Maybe that means
Someone is talking about me.
I ponder who it could be,
I wonder who I want it to be,
As I imagine sticking my head
Out the window of a moving car.

Streetlights whipping past me,
Streaks of orange arc-sodium
Burning into my retinas.
Someone takes a picture,
Flashless,
And the memory is gone.

Back home, neighbor is
Pounding on the wall.
The fishtank is low,
It gurgles at me in contempt.
The dog is still barking,
It's 7:01.

My ear is still hot.

I spend a great deal of time
alone.

I just won't think about it for now.

Maybe tomorrow.
Ah,
tomorrow.

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.

Where do the lights go
when they leave your eyes?
Do they waft along through the rafters,
do they linger on long after
love has come and gone?
Do they illuminate darkened rooms
with a subtle radiance,
like seeing heat on the horizon
that sunny afternoon I spent
speeding down I80?
I saw a mirage mirroring your vestige
and my flesh rippled with goosebumps,
my thoughts had been on the lines
right as they began to blur.

In my dream, I'm coming home.
Footsteps echoing in the foyer
as I climb the nineteen stairs.
Keys and tumblers.
The door swings shut behind me
with a soft little snik.
In the dream there's a dog
asleep on the floor of my apartment.
I'm frightened when I see it,
the blonde fur intimidates me.
In my dream its tail is curled,
wrapped around it's body.
It's facing away from me.
My emotions ramp from frightened
to fearful as I step towards it,
and when I reach out a shakey hand
to touch the blonde fur...
I sharply inhale and retract my arm,
the dog is ice cold.
It turns it's head and looks at me,
and where it's eyes used to be
are now only two tangled, knotting messes
of writhing maggots.
In my dream the dog speaks to me
just as the scream that's caught in my throat
has a chance to escape.
It mutters something gutteral as I begin to shriek.
I never hear the word it says, though.
I wake up sweating.
I wake up again.

When I touch you
I'm nineteen again.

I'm on the bridge again,
Looking at the water beneath.

I'm making shadows in the moonlight,
I'm driving three hours to Williamsport
At 10 PM on a Sunday night.

I'm looking at our reflection
In every pane of glass,
I'm ******* in knots
And I'm driving a little too fast.

I'm playing hacky sack
In a big circle outside
Of the Limerick diner,
With all my friends by my side.

I'm staying up too late,
Because to sleep would be a waste
Of the seconds
And the hours
And the days.

I'm surrounded by orchids.

I'm watching fireworks
On a pier down Wildwood,
Where we jumped over
The banister
On the fourth of july.

I'm carrying wood over
To a blazing fire,
I'm playing pool and darts
And I'm not even tired.

I'm watching a couch burn
As Pat finishes his Bailey's.

I'm writing in that notebook
Behind me on the shelf.
I'm savoring a coffee
With a spoon in it.

I'm drawing on the back
Of every paper placemat.

When I touch you
I'm nineteen.

Or twenty nine.

I'm losing the meaning
Of time.

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.

The virtuous voice
of father time
is singing
bittersweet lullabies
that I don't
even recognize.

My ears ring,
and I squinch up my face
in revulsion.

I hate writing.

But I love the idea,
And more importantly,
The image
Of being a writer.

What's cooler
Than a glass
Of brandy,
Beside an ashtray.

With a full pack
Of marlboro lights,
And a mechanical keyboard
Clacking away the night.

I want to be a writer
For all the wrong reasons.
I want to convince you,
Dear reader,
That I'm a phony.

Maybe you already knew.
Maybe it doesn't matter why
I want to be a writer.
Maybe all that matters
Is writing about it.

Grease, grime and filth
Black hands from all the silt
Knuckles busted
Bleeding thumb
Time to take this
Baby for a run
Starter up
Hop on in
Let's go around the block again

The door to honesty is ajar.

A breeze of truth is wafting through.

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.

I feel like chunky peanut butter started out
as a failed batch of regular peanut butter,
and they were all like
"****. What do we do with all this
partially blended peanut butter?"
Then the suits probably figured:
"market it as intentional,
******* rubes will buy anything."

Blossom
With the nuanced energy of remembrance
Shine
With the piercing light of yesterday's sun
Smile
Until the muscles ache with joyous pain,
And strive to never forget
All the memories that
We've created with each other

May time's erosion be kind to us all

Wide open.

The throttle.

The tap.

Whatever.
Whatever analogy floats your boat.

Let it flow,
let it
roar.

Watch the numbers shrink.
The gifted numbers,
the heirlooms,
the legacy of ancestors.

Watch the needle race from
full to empty.

Watch it all swirl
clockwise
down the metaphorical drain.

Find me sprawled.

Hungry.

Fiending.

Find me when it's all gone
and you won't even recognize me.

You'll look down,
pitiless,
and I won't even notice you were there.

Some day maybe
you'll sing to me.
Not necessarily
to me specifically,
but I'll be
listening
and you'll be
singing.

Maybe in the shower,
maybe pulling in
the driveway
on your way home
from work.
My ear pressed to the door.

I want to see you
in the shower,
singing along.
I want to reach out
to the clear lining
and press it against
your naked, wet body.
I want to wrap you up
in that protective plastic,
and you won't miss a single note.
You'll keep singing and I'll caress
your every curve and mole.
My hands gliding up against
the smooth refined finish,
so gingerly sweeping
across all your bits.
Soapy and slippery.
So close but not.
Not quite touching.
Not quite real.
My skin isn't
something
that you'll
ever feel,
or feel
feeling
you.


Beauty encapsulated,
preserved in time and space.
The sound of falling water.
The blurry look on your face


is telling me to
Stop.


Your voice in my ears,
my make-believe dream.
You'll sing that you love me
and I'll wake with a scream.

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

Maybe if you weren't so pretty when you cry
I wouldn't feel compelled to be so cruel.

Speak less,
Do more.

Yo ****.
Disere trans ain't long for living.
She gotta bouta hunnert miles left inner,
If dat.
Limp er on down Alan's,
Dem dere'll see what's dere to see.
Maybe she got but grit inner gears,
Maybe first just gone and done quit.

Bled it out, one,
one day at a time.

I shouted at you.

You didn't cry.

I don't find none,
none is what I find.

I tried for you.

You didn't try.

Bled it out one day,
one day without time.

A paltry show of effort,
a slight scent of something rotten
wafting in through the breezeway.

When you thought it was finally over,
did you close the book shut tight?
Where do you write the rest of your story
if there are no more pages left?

Do you wane
in the face of
such shame?

You were true
to you,
I remember that much.

Now no one knows.
No one can tell just
where the road goes.