Do you resent me
for such a hang up?
What am I supposed to do?
Oftentimes I'm torn,
frayed and tattered
along my edges,
trying to dance between
what is right
and what I like.
The stretch of space
between those two
have only grown more vast
with age.
Sprawling wastes fills that void,
wider and wider and
I'm always left reeling from my choice.
Indecision is the ghoul
that haunts my soul,
telling me to
avoid these feelings all told.
For when I do decide,
I can't seem to pick right
and I'm always left
reading the bones.

and so are you

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Tongues tied and covered in ink,
choking on the ashes of thought.

Mindfires burning eternally
so we all write it all out.

writing is dead
just like you

so I'm giving up
because thats what
I do

best

I think,
therefore I am
thinking.

...At least I think I am...

I slip into my coat
Of coarse surface rust,
I'm pitted.
I stand with a squeak and a rattle,
And with a sigh I stride
Toward the sodden gray sky
Peeking at me through the slats
In the yellow venetian blinds.
With a wavering hand
I tug on the strings
And turn round in wonder
At my various things.
A kettle, a pan, a jar of bacon grease,
Dry pens, a magnet, some broken porcelain,
A stain on the carpet, a stain in my skin,
Where did this **** all come from?
When did it all begin?
Did I have an intention,
Did I have even an ounce
Of certainty?

jizzy **** and yellowed teeth
smiling up at me
as dripping, I stand,
a man set free

She reaches behind her
and spreads everything,
her head presses into the comforter.
Duvet? Comforter? It's argyle,
whatever you wanna call it.
Green and light teal, the colors
of the blanket and pillows
match the curtains
hanging in the unfocused
background.
I turn the volume down
as she moans through
the initial insertion.
That's my favorite part.
The rhythmic slapping
of flesh coming together
begins like the beat of
some primal, animalistic drum.
I notice the furnishings are
seldom, a single dresser
with a large mirror
is the only thing I can see.
It has a light finish on it.
Interesting.
I would've gone with a dark walnut,
or maybe a mahogany.
Is dark wood furniture out of style?
I look around my room,
at the dark stained wood desk
that my computer sits on.
My **** isn't even hard anymore.
*** slowly dribbles out as I finish,
mostly unsatisfied.
Unsatisfied with my paltry velocity,
and further unsatisfied with my
terrible sense of interior decoration.
Oh well, I'll go again in an hour.
Maybe I'll get some ideas
for my kitchen.

I have time
I have shelter
I have food and money
I have love
I have hate
I have so much nothing

I have nothing
I have vast collections of nothing
I have nothing stacked to the celing
I have nothing draped upon my body
I have nothing in my heart and mind
I have an immeasureable wealth of nothing
I have nothing in my eyes
I have nothing

I have so much nothing

I wonder if they ask her
about the bruises around her neck.
The ones just under the line of her jaw,
dark smudges of broken blood vessels
eerily resembling the shape of my hands.

I wonder if they notice
the way she stepped softly and wide
for days after I took her inside
of the tent last weekend
on that one rainy night.

I ponder if they see
the peculiar way she looks at me
or the lights in her eyes
when I say that she's
all mine.

A leaf here,
roots there,
bloom comes every year
bringing with it
the flowers of new dawn.

Reach for the sun,
ye of old mind,
growth comes slowly
but consistanly
throughout our lives.

When comes frost
riding on autumn winds,
shake off your old leaves
without chagrin,
let growth begin again.

...

The guilt comes and goes
It's starts with love
And fades as it grows
The roots of a wicked tree
Buried in the snow
Siphon bits of joy
From deep down below
It always starts with love
The guilt comes and grows
Like the waves of an ocean
That everybody knows

I don't need this,
it's all refuse
and I refuse
to keep it any longer.

All my beloved,
all my collected
and cherished.
They're heavy
with sentiment,
burdened with
memory.

Artifacts of my past
that I cling to,
like plastic wrap.

Take all of me,
every scrap and
every piece and
send me home
to waste management.

Free my thoughts
from the chains
of remembrance,
so that I may sing again.

Girl, you're never more beautiful
than when you're crying.

Your edges are dithering,
contaminated with snow.

I can see through
you.

I'm losing something here,
as the days slink by.

I don't even feel
like myself,

not anymore.
Not now,
not here
in this paltry persistence.

Your edges are gaussian,
furred and blurred.

I can see through you.

It's just what
I've been looking for.
It's just what's right.

You'll fade and
I'll hate, all
over again. All
over again. All
over and
over again.

My eyes ain't
what they once were, sure, but
I can't see you
at all anymore.

Not because I'm blind,
you just happen to
tinct.
I'm not blind, you just
happen to
translucere,
one day you're just
gone.

I swear yesterday
You were right here.

You've darkled, and turned gossamer.
You pretty, pretty veil.
These days I guess that
I just don't see too well.

I, but a blessed lamb,
but aren't we all?
Sent forth dithering
into the gaping maw of life
as a sacrifice to
uh,
the um....
What's that word
that means
doing something
for the knowledge of everyone?
Whatever,
family dies,
and life goes on.
So yeah.
**** is funny.

Our shadows played
on the bedroom wall,
rhythmically knotting together
as sweat began to fall.

Come came,
puddles on skin.
I exclaimed.

Catching my breath,
her head to my chest,
I sighed and I squeezed
just when she said:
"Don't go falling in love with me."

I didn't say much,
maybe just squeezed a bit more,
and she spoke up again:
"Ah... I can't stop you, of course."

It's selfish
and it's cruel,
to tell you
that I'm thinking about you.

So I'll just go to bed.

Quietly and alone.

When I'm swollen and pulsing,
the roundish spot on your hip,
your skin under my fingers,
my tongue between your lips,
light from the setting sun
spread across our tangled limbs,
bits of lavender I keep finding,
your perky peaks beneath the sheets,
my tender remnants in your hands,
the congruent mixture we make
on those certain kind of days.

Paint me in your purples and pink,
and I'll soak it in.

It's hard to give a ****
About work, or
About money,
When the only thing
I'm saving for
Is **** like video games
And car parts.

pet her with your tongue

Wickless and wingless I won't burn or fly,
and the ash tray is full but still I cannot rise.

Both of us, smiling,
A little out of breath,
Now on the
Far side of
The duck pond.

I listen to the rhythm
Of her breathing
And see the slight
Rise and fall of
Her chest,
The bead of sweat
On her upper lip,
Inviting me to taste it.
My thoughts wander,
Cementing that sound,
That rhythmic breathing
Into my memory.


I look forward to hearing it again.

Sticking a tre-flip off of that three stair behind the bowling alley.

A suicide bomber strapped with C4 running into a crowded building.

Carving up the powder, bombing down the mountain on a freshly waxed snowboard.

Shooting up a movie theater with a 3D printed, fully-automatic 9mm sub machine gun.

Catching a gnarly ten foot wave off the coast of Hawaii and ramping off the lip to catch some air.

Indoctrination of uneducated children and young men to serve as soldiers for an unending holy war.

Landing a backflip on a Haro BMX bike while a crowd of onlookers chants and cheers.

Subversion and subterfuge within a foreign government in order to topple the current president.

Dropping in to a half pipe at the same time as someone else and hitting a high-five in the air.

Starting fires across a city nightscape to purge the neighborhood of vacant buildings and houses.

Fire reaching for the rafters, sirens in my ears.
It's burning and spreading, it has been for years.

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

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

Through these nightly mind-movies
I see beautiful stories unfold,
yet I awaken sweaty and cold.

In these sporadic visions of slumber
I see her in the sliding glass
door, standing right behind me.

Even the loudest dreams
drift off into oblivion
upon my waking.

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

forgotten families and hollow points
my books fill me with the emptiness of space
they pour their stories
into the vessel of my mind

Poetry is ******* stupid too,
so ***** all of you.

Tonight I filled
I filled up
a bottle of Beam,
A coke
and a 16 ounce glass.

I filled it all up
with ****.

Because yes,

I'm that ******* lazy.

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.

Yellow lights turn red
and ten thousand times a day
the children whisper lies
they've heard over and over
from the adults in their lives
countless times.

Don't cover your face,
it's hard working for tips
without those painted lips
but the children will grow
in this infantile life
without ever knowing
the truth behind those
beautiful lies.

All this and more
is found shrouded in
a brief amber light
turning to crimson.

All roads lead to a stop sign.