Like a fire come
During drought season,
Ain't nothing coulda been done.
Red, White,
Blue lights
Pour like liquid
Into my irises.
Deaf to the sirens,
Congested to the smoke,
Numb to the pain.
Another one down the drain.

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.

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.

Everyone spins,
you spin too.

Everyone sits and stands and frets.

Everyone sees and listens
to the cooing of morning doves.

Everyone is so God ****** beautiful,
and life dithers between
reality and imagination.

Harmonic resonance,
I can feel it in my veins.

Vibrate with me.

It's as if those sleepless nights
Were dragons in my mind,
Soaring through my clear eyes,
Torching the darkened skies.

It's as if I've been chasing them down ever since, desperate for another gust of wind
To buffet my smiling face with
That same feeling it had back then.

I suppose the high is never as good
As it is the very first time it hits you,
And the naive overdose of emotion
Was just a piece of something bigger.

Shine in my eyes,
how that ***** sun does rise.
Light bathing the skies,
color comes in a disguise.
Ain't painted,
no surprise,
how that ***** sun does rise.
Shine upon my brown eyes,
let me make a choice with pride.
With consideration I decide
I ain't a saint,
no surprise.
How that ***** sun does rise.

Better off not setting foot
on her snowy inclines.

Wouldn't want to slip.

Don't feel like a climb.

Would rather just stay the **** inside,
from this safe distance I can yet admire.

The rain drips.

It paints splotchy little designs.

I hope it helps to
put out her fire.

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.

A dip,
quick.
Maybe more
than just
the tip.
I want to
take a dip
in your
rushing waters.
I want to
get wet.
Come, and
soak me.
Kiss me.
***** me.
I want to
give you
something.
I want to
leave marks.
Your skin
as my canvas,
this is my art.
I'll take the pain
from paint,
I'll take the rush
out of brush.
I'll take handfuls,
I want to
pull you apart.
I want to feel
the beating
of your heart.
I want to grasp
your mind,
I want to hear
that you're
only mine.
I want to see
me, reflected
in your eyes.
I'll take handfuls,
and I'll take
my **** time.

I threw a bunch of old photos out,
and it's really bothering me.
Not like, constantly, but...
I think about it every so often.

I'm astounded at how awful it feels.
I don't think there's anything else,
at least as much as I can remember,
that makes me feel this way.

I think it's because it's not... Hmm.
It's not just something bad that happened to me.
I think it feels so awful because,
it was just a hastily made decision on my part.

It'd be one thing if they got burned up in a house fire,
or even if they got ruined or lost in a big move.
I could tolerate that kind of loss, that kind of fate.
But the fact that it was me, that I intentionally
went and discarded them, especially after having
them for such a long time...

That's the part that really digs into my psyche.

Been gazing.
Looking.
Peering at things
I aught not to.

I see it clearly,
the sky through
a closed window.

I no longer just leer
at my faint reflection
in the glass.

I been looking,
gazing at you
for far too long.

Been taking down my mirrors.
Been changing up my song.

Sometimes there's nothing more beautiful
than a rotting carcass of a squirrel on the road.
Petrified, hollow-eyed, stiff as a board.
Sometimes you need to see something dead
in order to really appreciate life.

A leaf fell slowly,
Wafting in the autumn breeze.
I saw it mirrored
In the water's reflection.
I met my eyes again
Before it touched down,
And watched myself scatter
Into the ripples.

The water never calmed down,
The wind was pushing steadily
Into the sleepy boughs and limbs.

The trees all stretched
And sighed,
And shook themselves free
Of the summer growth.

They showed me how
Not to focus too much
On myself,
But to see the scattered refractions
Of everything else.

And I breathed in, raising my head.
With a hand on my cheek and
Feeling the stubble there,
I wondered how long
I'd been just staring
Into the eyes
Of the face on the water.

I'd keep you like this
forever,
beautiful and naked.

The collector in me
sees you
wrapped in plastic.

Behind glass,
top shelf
in my curio cabinet.

Not to be played with,
only appreciated
from afar.

Don't believe poetry.

The road of indecisiveness
is paved with dead squirrels.

It's not a car wreck I fear,
not an illness or disease.
I don't fear cardiac arrest,
or slipping and hitting my head.
I'm not worried about getting killed,
death will come
when it deems me worthy of harvest.

I'm not afraid of death, I'm afraid of wasting my life.
I'm afraid of living a life laced with routines,
routines that crept in over the years
and make time fly on fast-forward.

I'm afraid of opportunities, missing them,
letting them pass me by
so that I may yet reside
in my comfortable fast-forwarding life.

I'm afraid of the adventures,
the ones I skipped out on.
The ones that happened
while I was sitting here comfortable,
and alone.

I fear the friends,
the ones I never made.
I hear their strange voices
while I whistle along,
working my comfortable job.

I'm frightened, you see?
Not of death, nor misery.
I'm terrified at night,
when I lie down in bed
after another day spent
In this comfortable life.

Guess you don't need
Drugs and alcohol
To hate yourself,

But boy they sure do
Make it a lot easier.

The demon is singing again
and I find myself humming along.
It's the same rhythm it's always been,
it's the same familiar song.

The demon is singing again,
swimming in the fugue.
Amber, green and clear glass,
drowning it in blues.

It's too late.

Can you not see
that the pages are full
but the soul is empty?

It's too late.

I'm tired and dead
from wishing all these wishes
that're racing through my head.

It's too late,
it's over you fool.
Don't bother submitting.
Don't go back to school.

I ****** my pants
on my way home from work.
It soaked through
the seat of my pants
into the seat of my lifted Jeep
that I bought to compensate
for my crippling erectile dysfunction
that plagues my already
miniscule *****.

I got home and didn't even change my pants,
I took them off in the driveway
and wrung them out into my mouth
and just put them back on.
Drinking my own **** has always
been my secret way of enhancing
my paltry intelligence.
I was so stupid before I started drinking ****
and now I'm less stupider. I'm more less dumb. I'm getting more less dumb every day.

I **** myself too the other day but
that was just a bad roll of the dice
on a big ****. Snake eyes.
Big brown snake eyes.

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.

It's been more difficult
lately
to separate from my thoughts.

Slipping into
Something more comfortable;
This sordid state of mind,
Feels almost
Familiar.

I've been here before,
Angry and petty,
Wading through red water,
Knee deep in my contempt.

Sometimes the little things
Can have the biggest impact.

Meanwhile the grand scheme
Goes on, obscured by routine.

Blind to the signs,
Willfully or maybe
Just through a
Simple lack
Of self
Examination.

Is there a benefit
To being ignorant,
To feign stupidity?

Laziness,
Motivation and the lack thereof.

I am saturated with sudden
Icy clarity,
As the autumn sun
Tickles my memory
And paints my heart
With nostalgia.

To live in ignorance,
To merely waft through existence...

Or to change?

Time is short.
I know I've been here
A thousand times before.

Man if I really didn't give a **** about anything,
I would eat Warheads until my tongue bled
and my stomach erupted with ulcers.
I would eat sour patch kids until
my stool was black with blood
and my lips cracked down to my chin.
I would **** on lemons until my teeth fell out,
and my eyes watered like when I was standing
at my mother's funeral.
Man, even if I didn't give a **** about anything else,
I would always love sour things.

Nothing,
I mean nothing,
Wakes you up in the morning
Like some dude locking up his brakes
Two cars ahead of you on the interstate.

I don't care how tired you are,
How hungover you are,
How little you slept...
When you're going 80 miles an hour
And someone locks it up like that in front of you,
You immediately turn into Dale Earnhardt.
You're wide awake, checking your mirrors,
Heart pounding out of your chest.
You haven't checked your mirrors in like, 10 miles.
You're locking eyes
With the dude in the car next to you,
Hand in the air
With an expression of
"Did you just see that ******* ****?!"
On your face.

Then when you finally make it
To wherever you're going,
You can handle anything!
Ain't **** bothering you after a wake-up call
Like that. It's honestly liberating.
Food tastes a little better,
Being grateful is a little easier,
And life seems just a little bit brighter.

Coffee, take a seat.
With people driving that way,
I don't need no coffee.
And the next time you're feeling
A little too tired on your morning commute,
Don't forget,
I'll be matting the brakes
At mile marker 137
To wake your *** up, too.

Ripped up, little pieces of paper.
The baritone hints of doubt on a voice.
Redundant pens lining the shelf.
Accumulated dust, hair, dirt.
Faint scents from long ago burnt incense.
Paper and ink.
Machinery gone silent in contempt.
Hollow sounds of footsteps from the hallway.
A wooden chair being drug across a kitchen floor.
Chimes, bitter tinkling like an old music box.
Distant atonal whistling, creaking foundations.
Glass bulbs swinging ever so slightly.
Bare filaments, jagged lines burnt into retinas.
Softness within a blanket.
Feeling the weight of gravity.
Letting bones stretch, muscles twitching.
Eyes racing and alive beneath their lids.
Heartbeats.
Touch.
The color yellow.

Quick, man.
It goes ****-ing quick.

Woke up today
about thirty,
even though
I fell asleep
about twenty-five.

It's slippery,
your boy needs traction.

Sick of spinning my wheels.

It goes quick.

Veiled silhouettes
Of horsemen galloping all out,
Cast in black against the twilight sky.
The beating sound of crashing hooves,
Like a heartbeat, like the ticking clock of doom,
Pound louder and mercilessly into reality.
Torches ablaze with hate come careening through,
Shattering the uneven glass windows,
Buildings go up in a funeral pyre.
Coughing, screams of dispair, a cacophony
Of misery, an apocalyptic wind chime blowing
In the smoke laden wind.
Blood flows and the red,
The red screams my name
As it runs through the hardpan,
Spelling out my destiny
In little crimson rivulets.

I can taste it now,
A desert in my mouth,
As I walk west
In solitude.

Little imperfections,
I usually so easily ignore,
Suddenly became amplified
Since meeting someone I adore.

Get out of the mirror,
Get out of my head,
I just have to focus
On being myself instead
Of trying to be
An idealistic version me,
I just hope that she likes
Who I am.

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.

I expected to wait my whole life away.
Never thought that bird would return home.
What if.
What if she didn't have meaning
tied in a note around her leg?
What if I was happy
to have some anguish to relish in?

Do I tend?
Pick something up off
the floor of my memory?
Do I find something new,
yet long gone,
to ascribe my longing for?
To apply my doubt to?
What if anguish has always been here,
untapped and brimming,
and I just keep picking things
to soak in it.

I fear it was never the bird having flown,
that brought me to such depths.
I fear I've been living in these depths all along,
and just finding reasons to persist there.

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

I stepped on the clutch and shifted out of neutral,
flicked my headlights on and checked my mirrors
then eased out of my parking spot on the dark street.
The morning was brisk and damp with precipitation,
I enjoyed the rhythm of my intermittent wipers
and reached for the little unbreakable comb that I
always keep in the tray on top of the dashboard.
I combed the snags and tangles out of my beard
as the oversized tires beneath me ate up the road
in a grumbling monotone hum of rubber and asphalt.
I combed you out of my beard and replayed last night
in my mind, the dim lights and low music wafting
through my memory like a breeze through a window
that rustles the curtains and shuffles papers around.
I smiled at the sunrise peeking over the mountains.
The naked mountains, the purple-pink tie-dye sky.
I smiled at the sunlight in my eyes, at the instinctual
way my eyes squinted and my hand reached up for
the visor over my head and swung it down just right.
I smiled at the prospect of the day, at the implications
of the previous evening spent swimming in her eyes.
I smiled at the idea of tomorrow, and the next day,
and all the months and years I've yet to experience.
I smiled while I drove.

It's a silent desperation.
like screaming underwater,
or sobbing into a pillow.

It's like I'm living my life
on the razor-fine edge
of complete abandonment.

Is today the day
that I throw my phone away,
and turn up missing?

How long will it take
to hire my replacement
at work?

You can knock all you want
but there's no one home,
my apartment will be empty.

You'll find my car at the curb,
my wallet and keys on my desk,
but you won't find me.

I'll be gone.




Then I wake up,
shower,
and head to work again.

"It's always sunset here!"
she said with an airy laugh.
"Like a land of infinite twilight,
or a place where the golden hour
persists forever. It's like a dream!"

She turned and smiled at me.
The golden rays of the frozen setting sun
turned her hair into liquid bronze,
and I marveled at the visage.

"I'm happy you like it here"
I said with a bitter grin.
I saw my reflection in her glimmering eyes
and the taste of copper flooded my mouth.

Blood on the pillow.
Bit my tongue in my sleep again.
It's dark in this room,
blankets all askew
and my teeth are dry
from snoring.

It'll be tough falling back asleep
because the dichotomy between
reality and my dream
is too vast.
Too great a divide.
I'll be imagining
That dream
all day long.

The relationship between
Vivid, bright honesty to strangers,
And living white lies with those you love.

It's fun
Finding someone uninvolved
And telling them
All the things
You can't tell yourself,
Showing them
The pieces of you
That you lie about
To everyone else,
That you lie about
To those that you love,
To those that love you.

The comfort of complacency,
The smooth flow of denial,
The willful ignorance,
For the sake of continuance
Down the path of least resistance,
That leads to nowhere but the grave.

When in the end
It's the hard way out,
The difficult decisions,
That lead to freedom.

The hidden truths
I've been ignoring
Are the only things
That really matter.

It's my fault.

Always has been,
always will be.

But I'll try my damnedest
to come up with a good excuse.
To push all the blame on to you.