The night came
screaming
across the sky
faster than
the sun was
dying
to meet the horizon
like I was dying
to meet
the ideas in your mind
and all the curvature
of your soul
and all the bits
and pieces of
space dust orbiting
those eyes that
can't quite focus on
anything other than
the horizon where
dreams and hopes
await the sunrise
to bring nourishment
and the eventual bloom
of reality
with creeping roots
dancing down our
brain stems
and into the
bottoms of our
hearts
where the truly good
in this world lies

contradiction
followed by
contradiction
with

u n u s u a l
spacing

endless metaphor
describing pain
and injustice

wash
rinse
repeat

you're a poet, harry

It's funny
how much poetry
I write
just because
I want someone
to talk to

The lady at the store
was complaining of
global warning
and how the snow
the snow outside
yes look there
that snow shouldn't
belong
now should it
and I had only
stepped inside
to warm my face
because my soul
couldn't reach my extremities
but that global warming
that climate change
she said it can't be real
and she love love loves the cold
and I took note and
thanked her for her time
and went off into the cold
because at least the wind
has no shame about trying
to tear your face off
if you disagree

He spent all his
time
digging holes in his soul,
deep wells where others could
throw in their coins
and wish for better
things and while
it never made him
happy it did make
him awful rich
and he found that
the key to happiness
was shaped an awful lot
like a 40 foot yacht
and a supermodel wife

I hear Buddha
whispering something
in the corner
both profound
and simple
(not that the two are mutually exclusive)
and I'm sitting here
not raging
I don't "rage"
at anything
but I do find this world
so
so....

Unsatisfactory

But I'm not sure why
since things are pretty
okay right now
all things considered
and we must remember
to consider
all things
like
the lobster
the children
the inevitable heat-death of the universe
and rejoice
in our abilities to consider
and to evolve
things like the
poetry we write
by adding creative
spacing
as a flourish for
simple words
that feel profound when
we write them
but when we read them
they are as obvious
as they ever were.

I write poetry
as journal entries
since I am all out
of secrets to keep
after the birds
I talked to
flew off with
the very notion
of trust
and here I struggle
against the idea
of identity

I write my best
poetry
when I'm at my worst
with the words I am
able to call out
while my head
goes under the
water again
and again
forming a beautiful
narrative that
attracts an audience
who pay no attention
to the person
causing all the ripples
and splashing sounds
casting sharp notes
to contrast the laughter
on the boardwalk
and I find myself
arguing a case
for meaninglessness
because that's the
only way I can
purge and create
these words
that so spectacularly
resonate with
those who need them

I am not sacrificing
myself because I'm
a savior
I'm doing it because
it feels good.

Most days
I exist solely
as a rebellion
against the countless
dead
whose numbers I will
eventually join

Why is it that
we romanticize
self-destruction
and buy so heavily
into the archetype
of
tortured artist
tortured soul
and since when did suffering
start to be used
as validation
and survival
and resilience
ignored
as we try to
collect and count
our scars,
only trading them
when something is
to be gained