I read through
my recent stuff
again and I
appear to be
profoundly
depressed
over something
or other
but the words
sound nice
as I write
about my
waning hope
and I suppose that's
all a poet
can really ask for

In our attempts
to remain unknown
it's no surprise
how long we're
alone

It's Wednesday
and I realized
I haven't taken
a breath since
the Sunday
before my birthday
and the only way
I found out was that
people kept asking
"Why are you so blue?
How can we help you
be happy?"
but I am happy
I am so very happy
at least that's what I
was thinking while
my head was spinning
against the earth
due to oxygen
deprivation

The world moves
in shades of gray
around me
and people aren't
one way
or another
they just sort of
are
and they sometimes
do great things
and sometimes
terrible
but they themselves
are just shades of gray
arguing over who
makes the best
stormy sky

It's not that I'm a
pessimist
or that I've been hurt
so much
that I've decided that
glorification of suffering
would be more validating
than seeking comfort in others
I don't think the world is
a fundamentally broken place
nor do I think that people
are broken too
People are what I need them
to be at times and
the world is all part of a greater
narrative
and the truth is just
whatever is useful
at that moment
and right now
it all is veering
towards being
meaningless

someone once
told me
"zach, the eyes
are the windows
to the soul and
if you look hard enough
you can see what people are
truly like"
of course
this was all fueled by
drug and drink
and perhaps my
friend was just feeling
philosophical
and perhaps
I ignore that adage
because I was always
afraid to look into
your eyes
because I didn't want
to end up being
disappointed
that your soul
was nothing like I had
imagined

It's not that
I have troubles
with people
it's more that
I spend far too
much time
putting words
to made-up
fantastic landscapes
and scenarios
because I find
people so much
more interesting
when they're hiding
in the rain

She had a heart like
one of those two-way
mirrors
and those around her
debated endlessly
about whether or not
you could see in
or if it was her heart looking out
and when the mirror
eventually cracked
under the constant
poking and prodding
those around her
were suddenly
a lot less
interested

I write poetry
for strangers
instead of my friends
because I can't see
my fears and dreams
reflected off the eyes
of strangers they way I can
in the mirrors
that are my loved ones
and looking
at other people is far
easier than looking
at myself
trying to find
the spots that gleam
in the sunlight

While waiting for
my tires to be changed
an old lady struck up
conversation with me
and we talked like old friends
and she told me about how
she grew up near a cannery
where you could buy unlabeled
cans for two dollars a case
so dinner was always a surprise
and we talked about how to
heal the world and she gave
me a book of Catholic prayers
and when we parted ways
we agreed that we would like
to cross paths again but
didn't exchange information
because sometimes the absolute
best experiences are spontaneous
but altogether life-changing