Oh dear readers, please don't forget
that without you there, wherever there is
all of my words just wouldn't exist.

But I do not fear, and I do not regret
for were you not there to be readers
I doubt that I would ever even know it.

Coiled tightly
and buzzing with flies,
on the sidewalk
is where it lies.
I stop to admire
the odoriferous tang,
as a bicycle tire
cuts it neatly in twain.

Plunged into the tides of your mind
swimming along just to find
a little space to breathe.

Crowds choke the throat of the streets
where they all came to meet
someone else to squeeze.

Now there's a sign up in the sky.
Cursive smoke spells out the end of time,
in bitter stuntplane strokes.

A brush the size of our collective hearts
comes crashing down in the dark
to paint us all anew.

Touch me.
Don't wait,
don't make
me say it.

Spend enough time
feigning stupidity
and it'll end up
becoming true.

Shine and dance
as your blessed iridescence
flies in the moonlight
of a brisk winter's night,
as we spin, time slows
and above us infinite stars glow,
the fallen leaves twirl in a breeze,
limbs creak on the naked trees,
headstones stolid in the earth
all grant us a wide berth
because the dead they stand above
endlessly envy our true love.

Never finished college
Didn't write a book yet
Still don't own land
Haven't paid that debt
Can't say I've lost weight
Forgot to exercise again
Paying for a gym membership
Last time I went was two years ago
Meant to go to therapy
Maybe next week
Wanted to work on my relationship
Just ended it instead
Tried to quit smoking
But not really
Saw the calendar flip by
Like a picture book
I won't drink like this forever
I'll quit tomorrow

The rising sun casts
shallow shadows along
the ******* riptide.

Together we float
facing the receding
darkness of the beach.

In the morning twilight
we separate from the way
everyone else spent their day.

Leaves
Wilting
Falling
Drying
Sogging
Leaves
Leaving
Their trees

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.

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.

Deer turds are like
nature's coco puffs.

I can't figure out
what writes these words,
is it my hands
or is it the keyboard?

ʇɥƃıɹ ʇou ʇsnſ s,ʇı 'ƃuoɹʍ ʇ,usı ʇɟǝl

It's not easy
trying to decide
on whether to run
or whether to hide.

Because she's a storm,
a torrent of sorts,
and I'm terrified of
falling overboard.

Got home,
kicked my shoes off,
and removed my jacket
as I strolled toward
the dear refrigerator.

Got beer,
sat before the computer,
and banked my weary brain
off of the backboard and
it swished into the garbage.

I ****** the bed last night
just like I used to do years ago,
but I didn't bother changing my sheets.

Because I mean, ****,
I'm only sleeping with me.

The sun spins out of control
and I pull her ever closer,
with one arm in the air
and the other wrapped
around her shoulders
there's no place
I'd rather be.

Maybe the skies will sigh
their ever gradient glow
in shades and shadows
of red and yellow
as the blue fades away
into sullen dark grey
and the day loses me
amongst the piers.

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

Silence echoes,
yet it sounds like laughter.

You.
Yes you, constant reader.
Can you see how lovely you are?
You are my reason to rhyme,
the reason I keep my head up and my hands busy.
You are my soul, you...
You and I are entwined in this moment,
forever a part of each other's mind.
I love you, constant reader of mine,
thank you so much for all of your time.

Write a poem,
Hurry

Baby I can't.
I'm just trying to understand at this point.
Don't make me.
please.

It's more important. When you have something great you gotta go with it.
Any true artist would understand that. And I'd feel worse if you lost something great because of me

I can't Arlo. I need a cigarette. I can't write like you can.
I'm not an artist, i'm a ******* poser.

You can too,
Shut up,
You're my favorite person
And I love you.

Yeah, right now.

Fine.

I'm sorry.

Don't be.

okay.

The reason for death, is life.
if there's a reason for life,
I do not know it.

Nor do I care to.

I digress.

The question itself has reasons.
The answer to which we've all been looking for,
for the entire span of our existence.
Searching ourselves for an answer.

Ever since having said existence
****** so unjustly upon us,
like a suit at a funeral,
or the taste of a stale cigarette.

I dream of the gray between the black and white,
I dream of the deaths between lives,
and I dream of watching the sky
through someone else's eyes.

...and I wonder if it looks the same.

A-l-l-o-w
m-e
t-o
s-p-e-l-l
i-t
o-u-t
f-o-r
y-o-u.

An abusive alcoholic? Who, Me?!

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

i lose track of time
and loosen that doubt of mine
beginning with a sip
and ending up gulping
every last drip
from countless cans

There's a car behind me
on the stretch of old interstate
between Artistes and Centralia.
Barren road besides us.
Rub my eyes, check the mirror,
and just like that
they're gone.
Relief, I can slow down a bit.
Hate holding folk up
in this old Peterbilt.

They never play sad songs
on the radio anymore.
DJs are emotional doctors
prescribing me how to feel.
I miss the radio,
seems it don't miss me.

Still trucking,
but basking
in that ringing gold.

Lone open road,
I'll get there and
there ain't nothing
wrong with that.
Though, tomorrow I'll wake
and not want to start again.

Every morning.

Never want to start any more.

But once I get going,
well, it's not so bad.

Flip the radio on
and just be begrudgingly happy.

Listless veil,
dancing in the wind of causality.
Covered, yet you translucere
in the faint light of another day.

What is real, is not.
There's a fire
growing hot,
kept fed and fanned
by a facade's rot.

There's no phoenix here,
just a life left
steeped
in ashes.

Oh whispering, listless veil;
behind you hides the tale
of what the truth entails.

Do not part, it won't be missed.
Bury it, cover it,
obfuscate with bliss.

Don't turn your bowl over.

Okay, fine
you can make a little mess.

I'll clean it up and
we can go outside before I leave.

Don't look at me like that.

You'll be fine, Mom will be home soon
and she's full of love for you.

You'll be fine, I promise.

Don't turn your bowl over.

How long does your will run?
Does it bleed through the horizon,
persistently pursuing the setting sun?
Or does it waver in the summer heat
radiating off of these endless streets?
Is it all a mirage, a dream undreamt
from each late night's waking sleep?
How long does your will run,
because mine's only skin deep.

Months later and filled with redundancy
nothing will ever be quiet
We're not missed much these days
we've been gone so long now
Keep wandering on and wondering how
no one ever notices the forearm scars

Tranquil waters flow and wash away
our fervent disdain and distaste
While you leak ideas we breed ideals
and I bleed tweed sweaters
already frayed at the sleeves
threadbarren and disconnected

Best left behind,
that's what I've found.

Sometimes if you can't understand why,
then just maybe
it's best left behind.

Carry me yonder,
my stubborn stride.
For the past, and all it's burdensome belongings are
best left behind.

Poor little ball point,
all used and dry.

So faithfully you bled for me
forming the words
that I so bled for you.

So solemnly you cried for me,
the black ink flowed
from your eye.

You cried, and bled,
until my hand turned red,
you covered countless pages
with the contents of my head.

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

Fluttering lights
Like night sky butterflies
Waver between death
And endless life

How does it feel to fly?

Tomorrow's tomorrow,
Another day.

Willows are weeping,
Fronds all asway.

Roots un-uprooted,
Burrowed and buried.

Tomorrow's tomorrow
Can never stay.

Forgetting forgotten
Pathological ways.

Tomorrow's tomorrow,
Is Another day.