I told her she reminds me
of a bird chirping at 1am
and she never asked why,
strange yet beautiful,
inconsistant and seldom,
appreciative upon scarcity,
a hedonist of silence
has never found serenity
in the blurred lines of infinity,
but the confidence of
clamour will fade
with every night a chirp
goes unheard,
the consistency
of inconstancy is the hand
that feeds and the
bite that bleeds.              MJB

I'm staring through cigarette smoke,
having a drink of *** and pepsi (I ran out of coke)
listening to an 8 minute Periphery song
an in-depth conversation,
the ticking of typing
patio lights
and staring
into nothing
in between stanzas
I'm humming alone,
and tapping my feet,
It's 1:09am
and I work at 6am,
morning fatigue
can get on it's knees.

The result of my previous work
you’ve read is not something
that has just flowed down a
current of creativity, dont be fooled,
the amount of wasted words wilted,
stuck to wine stained cedar desks and
lost in distraction of cigarette smoke
and the blood of a workdays fist,
the open windows
on a computer of
unfinished work
is only proof that I can see
a reflection in the screen
when it’s turned on too,
the lament of the mouse
and “don’t save” turns the clicking
into grinding teeth,
oh, yes..
sometimes I can write a piece in minutes,
but other times, I’m either rekindling a
relationship of drywall and knuckle,
pouring drinks,
lighting cigarettes,
answering phone
calls, coughing through
fields of wet cement
in my throat,
or staring at the paper as
a mirror in a casket,
when I sit down and write
with cigarettes and drinks
the outside world doesn’t exist
but at the same time
reality has never
existed as much as it has
at that moment.

I've kept pillows in my window
for years and I've never
bought curtains,
the sun always peels open
holes between cushions
and I've never done anything about it,
I've put almost transparent pillows,
thinly stitched, the sun still makes
it through, and I've never bought curtains,
I'll wake up in the morning from
ray nudged eyelids but the
room's still dark and I've never
done anything about it.

I haven’t been
drinking much lately,
I haven’t wrote
anything in a while,
and I always knew
putting the two
hand in hand was never fine,
a healthy vice is trapped
by an unhealthy outlet,
and the curious kid looking
for a spark
had dried his fork,
I do miss the teeth sinking
into my throat
having the pain
run to my hands,
I miss waking up
with cinderblocks
glued to my scalp,
the nightstand used to eat
up the empty bottles
and the stomach pains are
now keeping me up at night,
I remember whiskey stained
chest hair and biting at hangnails,
****** fingers and the
taste was fuel,
I remember writing
and waking up
and erasing
and waking up,
what is a poet?
I’m going to have
a drink and this was
written sober.

When I was 17 I watched a man **** himself,
I remember the morning like it was yesterday,
the air bit at my heels
and it was too cold to be at the skatepark,
there was a lounge area of
weathered tables and pine trees
about 50 yards north,
I still remember the look in his eyes
confusion filled mine,
he was old, around 70
and I kept skating around,
he just sat there with
saltwater in his veins,
holding a long barrelled
30-30 it looked like,
I kept skating and fixating
my eyes on what he was holding,
it manipulated my vision,
reached out to hopeful ignorance
and yanked it through my throat,
we never made eye contact,
his eyes were buried down
a steel thief,
I kept rolling back and forth,
and I never knew thunder had
the ability rip the bearings
from the wheels,
the crack turned the bark
on the tree behind him
to a yelp,
and I’ve never saw blood fly
until that point,
I still remember how fast
it turned from a picnic table
to a crime scene,
how aimlessly the yellow tape
flew in the wind, as if nothing
ever happened,
time forged a signature
on a death note to man
who never felt the chill
bite at his heels that day,
that barrel screaming for forgiveness
knocked at a door with perspective
standing at the peephole,
I saw myself in his shoes
when I saw the life leave his body,
I went back that day
and saw the city worker
spraying the pavement,
running an eraser over
the pen-painted picture
in my mind,
the chill shattered my
porcelain heels that
day and shooed me
away from the
griptape forever.

I still live with my parents
and at 2am I walk around
the house with ***
stained boxers and drink
caffeinated drinks,
when I drink, I drink,
when I run out of money
I drink my parents *****,
I smoke and my dad
******* hates it,
I can barely afford it,
I work 3 times a week if I’m lucky,
and buy clothes I dont need,
and food I shouldn’t eat,
I ***** about religion
on social networking
sites, and I dropped out
of going to university,
I want to be a writer,
I still live at home with
my parents,
are the two synonymous?
my sister is 17,
18 in December,
and she’s going to school
for the love of GOD
stick with it
dont be like your brother,
I know I have a kind heart
and cry when my tire eats roadkill
but compassion doesn’t pay the bills,
I can sit here and personify my life
as dragging a worn sock full of pebbles
down the street and giving a sock to myself
as a gift for someone who wanted pebbles

but I’m not,
factuality’s sanded down
into some form of actualities  
that resemble anthology,
I am by no means dumb,
my comprehensive abilities
are above average, I know I could
have gone through school
with ease, for christ’s sake
I was taking english literature,
I sure use a lot of religious expletives
for a sickened nihilist,
regardless of the fact,
my boxers are dry now.