Vibrant orange puddles
sprout and wilt,
time washes over me.

A tide is pulling
the blankets down.

Love is scribbled
in the corner
of an old textbook.

A tide is pulling
the curtains down.

The moon peeks through
on a sunny afternoon,
and my eyes smile.

A tide is pulling
us further apart.

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.

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.

Harmonic resonance,
I can feel it in my veins.

Vibrate with me.

One day you'll lie down tired,
albeit thoroughly satisfied.

Yet you'll still remember
those times.

I can put my boots on blind
Not adverse to working overtime
I'm up before the sun
Don't need to carry a gun
But baby at the end of the day
When I'm tired and sore
I get excited to keep on this way
Even as I start to snore
Cause money don't stretch a long way
When I want to buy so much more

I was so ***** the other day;
I cleaned my **** off with a vacuum cleaner.

An abusive alcoholic? Who, Me?!

No ma'am,
I'd just like to order a dozen wings please.

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

Jacketed in scale.
Wire wheel.
Self-etching primer.
New seals.
One coat,
high temp enamel.
Paint it black,
hit the track.

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.

There's no real reason
That I never called my step father
'Dad.'
I came up with some throwaway line
When Mom asked me to call him that.
I was young, but I remember saying
Something along the lines of
"I respect my Dan more than I respect my Dad."
She must've thought that was adequate reasoning
Because she never brought it up again,
And I've called him Dan ever since.
I think now I may have missed out
On an opportunity, but there's no way to really know.
At the time I thought that
If he had been the one to come up to me
And ask me to call him Dad,
Then maybe my answer would've been different.

I can't decide whether
I never consider my biological father,
Or if I constantly think about him subconsciously.
I wish there had been a day when
He wasn't a kind and loving person to me.
I wish he would've been more obviously
Cruel,
Or sick.
People told me he was schizophrenic,
But that was never what I saw.
I only ever saw my Dad, y'know?
If he had been more obviously sick,
Or maybe if my memory wasn't clouded
By the idealistic, fuzzy veil of childhood,
Then maybe it would've been easier
To accept it when he told me he was leaving.
But when someone who only has ever loved you
Shows up one day just to
Say goodbye,
Well... I don't know.
I guess it makes it harder
To let go of hope.

I see a lot of him leaving,
In myself.
The idea of running away
Is appealing.
The prospect of chalking up my
Lack of responsibility
To something like a mental disorder,
Or wanting to be crazy,
Has always been so alluring.
I guess at the end of the day
Everyone wants to be like their Dad.

Never wanted to cook before.
Never wanted to cook.

What defines it?
Is there an innate sense
of purpose
grafted into the drywall?
Is it an undefined longing
for solitude,
for a little time?

I'll find it.
Coated with pine needles,
desperate for fresh lumber.
I'll find it buried
beneath seven years of therapy,
slathered in liquid doubt.
Dripping.
I'll find it dripping.

I ain't looking any harder today
than I was yesterday,
but I swear that I'll find it.

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.

I base my personality
off of other people.

Though I've been rather alone.

Who am I supposed to be now?

Don't ******* stop,
the finish line nears.

A perfect fan of water
spraying from the spoiler
of that passing Porsche
in the evening rainstorm
gave me brief inspiration
to create something new.

I kind of hate this.

Creation is frustrating.
My life has been full
of combating little impulses
that compel me to break ****.
Whether it be pushing a hinge too far,
or twisting the cap on a bottle
until I shred the threads,
it's compelling to break ****.
Then I always feel awful about it
after it's done.

Do other people have those?
Those little impulses,
those little compulsions?
But instead of them
whispering to break things,
do they whisper creation?

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.

One's got layers,
both equally delicious.
Not concerned about nutritious.
Not concerned about tomorrow,
or about getting granola
stuck in my yellowed teeth.
The sound of a lighter flicking,
the smell of the cherry flickering.
Soft red glow,
mmm.
Blueish twine escapes my lips,
I take a spoon and start to mix.
Uniform yogurt treat,
this just can't be beat.

Man my back hurts
From carrying all of this
Right between my shoulder blades
I wish it would crack
And give me some relief
Because I've got years ahead of me
And I'll still be carrying all this
I can't let it go
Not now, not tomorrow,
Not twelve years ago

Been here before,
done this a thousand times.
Yet still I find
something new.

Y'know it don't have to be a squirrel.
A rabbit or even a cat works fine too.
Let me tell you, if life grows mundane
all you gotta do is find something dead.
But if that doesn't quite do the trick
try being the one who kills it instead.
Life is littered with hidden speed bumps,
it can be good to find them, my friend.
Life begets life, or so it is said.
But a tiny taste of death will remind you
to beget while the getting's good.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Stupidity.
How many times can I apologize
In the span of a week?
How many things can I do
That are worth apologizing for?

In so few days.

Innumerous.
Stupidity.

Every time
The trees sigh,
I feel
A slight wind blow.

The sky sings
With whistling birds,
Swooping
In the falling snow.

A taste of lime,
A sprig of mint
Floats
Atop a cold mojito.

Twinkling rings,
Headlights glint
Briefly,
In an ebb and flow.

Luminous lies
Shine light on
My mind,
My eyes are windows.

Simple things
Convolute, in the
Face of
My writhing ego.

The day flies
On the wings of
A black bird,
A single cawing crow.

Wallowing, no,
Relishing in
This feeling,
Like watching a plant grow.

"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.

Dealing with these god ****** degenerates
gives me such a headache.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Pay your ******* bills,
it's not my job to *******
harangue you for money.
I'm just the delivery guy.

There's not a thing in the world
more liberating than
not holding it in any more.

Just letting it go.

Taking a massive diarrhea
while standing in the shower.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I fret and twist my hair into little knots
I twist and I twist until it all falls off
I like to hit my teeth with a hammer
I pick my skin until it bleeds
I pick the scabs I pick the moles
I peel off my skin in layers
And leave them on the desk to dry
I scratch my scalp and shed my dandruff
Onto the kitchen counter
And line it up with a dunkin donuts gift card
And snort up the lines of dead skin
I pick my nose and eat my boogers
The wet and bloodier the better tasting
They stick to the roof of my mouth
And I hawk a loogie on the ground
I *** right onto the ******* carpet
And never ever clean it up
The crusty hard spot that forms
Is dark and yellow with time and accumulation
I clean my ears with my pinky
Then lick it out from under my nails
I slam my head against the wall
Until all the photos fall
I play with knives and fire and drugs
I love to give myself a hug.
The look on my face inside the mirror
Is pure bliss from popping all my zits
My eyes shining the same color
As the flecks of **** inside the toilet
I never ever clean the shower
I **** in the sink sometimes too
I hung all my posters with glue
I stack my laundry in a tower
And wear my clothes until they reek
Drank every night for 20 weeks
I hide my toenails under the carpet
I dry myself off with the drapes
I like to live all alone
I'm finally free inside my home
I saved those photos on the shelf
Someone save me from myself

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.

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.

Blue
and green
and purple and pink.
Tight
and loose
and acutely obtuse.

Be mine,
do you have
the time
to complete
me?

Or are you busy
being
you?

More than a trope,
still I'm roped
in.

Deserving,
no,
demanding
of more
than just
being something
to adore.