I put my heart on a string
and gave it to you
as a necklace

You hung it from the ceiling
and beat it half to death
like a ****** pinata

Wrapped it around your finger
and yanked it up and down
like a macabre yo-yo

I swallowed all of the pain and
it tasted like hairspray

like chewing up eggshells
like biting aluminum foil
like licking pennies

I don't even want my heart back
please just please **** it now
step on it wearing stilettos

I just want to be whispers in your mind
I want to be a spider on the back of your skull
I want the curse of remembrance upon your soul

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.

Don't ever let distance trick you
into thinking that things would all
be so much better otherwise.

The things I hated about you
from all those miles away,
are still the things I hate about you
standing face to face.

I think I've fallen in love
With the little trash can under my desk.

Every morning now for years
I've been finishing in it
So that I don't have to clean
Anything up when I'm done.

It's gotten to the point now
Where I can't get off
Without that little trashcan
Being around.

I've *** into a lot of things
Over the span of my life,
But nothing has ever compared,
I'm calling that trashcan wife.

And I don't know
What I would ever do
Without it.

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.

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.

Saying goodbye was only the beginning
of a whole new world of hellos.

Brown bleeds to blue and back again
while man sits upon his legacy
as if it were the throne of a king.

New days come to those
who least expect the throws
of a moral quandary.

New days dream of those
who dream to dispose
of their old ways.

All these things I said I would do
are catching up to me
and it seems like laziness is adhesive
keeping me stuck in this chair
but really it's what's within
that's keeping me from
doing all those things I said I would do,
so now I just feel guilty when
I sit down at the end of the day
to stare at monitors and play
stupid redundant games
just like I've been doing
for my whole ******* life

There's a way to break this cycle
and it's as easy as just ******* doing
all those things that I said I would do

Oh my, what a beautiful necktie.
Is that houndstooth, oh let me see.

Ain't been a man of my word lately,

feels fine.

Just fine.

Can't help but wonder why.
The sun floats across
the clear morning sky
like a piece of dust trapped
in the fluid of my eye,
and I just can't help
but wonder why.
The same old song
is stuck in the back of my mind
so I hum while I work
in rhythm and time,
but I just can't help but
wonder why.
I watch myself whisper
little white lies
to keep you safe
and to keep truth disguised,
and I just can't help
but wonder why.

Let's just stop and breathe.

Just for a bit,
until the tunnel vision fades
and the circling black dots
clear from my sight.

Until I can inhale
without gasping
and dry heaving,
just a little longer
so the drums
in my temples
cease their
restless beat.

...Just breathe...

Okay.
I'm ready.
******* do it.

Oh, I smoke too much?
Maybe you breathe too much.

People want you to believe
that happiness should come easy.
That life rains it upon you
like a brief and pleasant rain
during a hot summer day.

They want you to think
that if your life doesn't bring
those little drizzles of happiness,
something must be wrong.
Wrong with you,
wrong with your life,
or that other people
are oppressing your happiness.

What they don't tell you
is that happiness takes work.
It's a conscious decision,
it's constant maintenance of the mind,
it's a light in the attic,
it's a reminder to not look down,
to not look behind.
It's an internal war.

Happiness starts with a decision,
and it only gives up
when you do.

Bouts.

It comes in fits
and tantrums.

Intermittent
bursts of
responsibility.

I'll **** the place up
for two months,
then in one day I'll
clean everything.

One time Mom got sick of me
not picking up my room.
I was eight.
She turned into a whirlwind
and tore everything off my walls.
Ripped everything off my shelves.
Upturned my garbage can
and my tackle box.
She dumped everything
into a big pile
in the middle of my room.

I cried and
in my first bout
of responsibility,
I cleaned it all up.

Just to start all over again.

Numb-tongued and dumb,
ain't that sweet?
Liquified amber wrapped 'round my teeth,
grant me ignorant relief.
I'll pay the total tolls tomorrow,
a sandy mouth is worth this release.
Burning desire,
sipping fire,
I'm embracing stupidity.

I tell myself I'm sick of doing shots and then I wise up and do a shot of brandy to calm my qualms. After lighting another cigarette I forget all about what I was telling myself in the first place.

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.

Again we've come 'round, baby,
living in this dead end town.
When I stop to think about
the days gone by,
it makes me resent
all the decisions
that I was too afraid to make,
and all the time we've wasted
not ******* the nights away
or robbing banks together
or traveling the world
or going to plays
or just loving each other.

I resent all this wasted time
spent alone, baby..

But, maybe if we did end up together
you'd turn out to be
a real numb ****,
and I'd be longing
to be alone.

I'll never know.

her name always looked better
written in the condensation
accumulated on the shower door

I'm sorry for all the complaining
I did as a child when you asked me to vacuum the stairs. Really it was one
of my only chores.

Now when I visit and climb them,
the dusty, darkened corners of carpet
bring me to a violent halt.

The ***** stairs haunt me Mom.

**** everything is ****

Personally,
I'd rather my shirts
All have a hole
At the nape of the neck
Over having to
Deal with the feeling
Of a tag.

I don't mind
Working in the rain.

It makes coming home
More of a special occasion.

Sometimes I smile
Through a wet beard,
And think about how
Good my bed will feel.

Above the circling hawks,
Above the flattened cubes
Of corporate brick and mortar.
From here the people
All look like locust,
Swarming the asphalt
And coursing the concrete.
From here the sunlight
Glints off of a thousand
Cars, glass and paint.
It twinkles a bit,
And I'm reminded
Of the ocean.
Waves beneath us,
Silently crashing
Their way through life.
Stand with me
On this vista,
This precipice,
And let's just watch
For a little while.
Dressed in
The colors
Of the rising sun,
You're the perfect
Contrast up here
On the coal bank.

I woke up and started coughing.
I coughed up the taste of you from the dream I had.
I coughed brown phlegm into the sink basin.
I coughed and coughed and coughed.

I coughed until sour spit filled my mouth
and I puked all over my socks.
I coughed until my ***** throbbed
and I ******* myself.
I coughed until tunnels threatened to
make me black-out.
I coughed and coughed and coughed.

I coughed until I choked,
my heart was stuck in my throat.
I coughed until I spat it out,
still beating, onto my coat.
I coughed and coughed and coughed.

I coughed until I was lying face-up
in a... casket?

Dandelion seeds in the wind,
the sun burning in her hair,
and she bathes in that light
with a sheen of delight
dancing across her lips,
pressing outwards against
the crimson velvet rope
of her physical boundaries.

Were it a dream, she'd fly
with those monarchs
that so well contrast
her gradient eyes.

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?

I didn't want
I didn't want to begin with
I didn't want this
I remember the days before I was born,
the great nothings of that time are branded,
seared and scarred
into my mind
I didn't want days
I didn't mind the nothing
It was quite pleasant, if I recall correctly
that grey nonexistence
that black nothing
I didn't want all these somethings
I didn't want at all

It was comforting.
But the questions hurt
and the wanting came suddenly, harshly
and it will never leave
we are beings of want
beings of try and try again

I don't want to try
I don't try to want
I try
I want

Did you want to be alive?
Did you try to be born?
Did you choose existence?

I know I didn't.
It was forced upon me.

Been carrying a gun for a little over a year now, and I just gotta say that it has been such an immense relief. The knowledge that, no matter where I am and no matter what may happen that I have an easy and convenient way to blow my head off at a moments notice. That knowledge was well worth the inconvenience of getting my concealed carry license, worth it ten times over. It's like being blessed with beautiful power, power beyond my previous comprehension of what it means to truly not give a **** about anything. To really be impervious to anything, any little slight, any angry person flipping me off in traffic, any loss of love or heartbreak. I walk with a white grace that has never existed in my mind before, I carry peace on my hip, I carry sacred silence from the repetitive thoughts that tend to haunt my consciousness. I'm invincible. It's like a fun little secret that I walk around with, it's like my head is full of confetti and I'm just waiting for the perfect surprise party!

Like a pocket full of balloons.

Over thought,
Under done.

Undecided Decisiveness,
Choosing placidity
In place of catastrophe.

It's all in your head.

Where have you been?
Who were you there with?
What is his name?
Why do I even ******* ask?
When are you going to leave?

Sure I scream
for ice cream,
but custard is
******* delicious.

****.

Maximus IPA