“Nobody owns life, but anyone who can
pick up a frying pan owns death.”
– William S. Burroughs

Through a door that is not mine
that’s left ajar from time to time
we see a man with zany eyes
scarred-up face, mouth full of lies.

Through a window at an ungodly hour
the night our neighborhood lost power
we see the man pull on a mask
and knit the weavings of his task.

I should have gotten quite the scare
when he pulled that woman by her hair,
then tossed her in the hole he’d fill
and quickly cover with daffodils,

but I’m no stranger to playing detective;
his plots have proven rather defective.
A call to the cops brings a rap on his door
that eventually leads to the lush garden floor.

Now, I don’t think I’m deserving of fame
my ego is simply much too tame
but I have kept dark things from view
and you listen well, so I’ll share with you.

There is something you should recognize
in that man with zany eyes;
don’t always believe what you’re told to see,
for he who plants the daffodils is me.

Boredom is sameness.
A note held to talents end
will be just noise.

I was not born of god and muse.
Pictures of virtuosic health  
captured in epic poetry
that I don’t want to write.

The music I make charms my world.
Trees and rocks
obey not the wind and current,
but the meter of my songs.

You too fell for tricks of snake,
though my tune called your name
long before they evaded my coil.

Forgive me, I won’t question your sleep below.
For even the rules of your warden dictate
you can’t look forward
while you’re looking back.

I could be your Orpheus.
Which is to say that even after death
you won’t get rid of me.

I could be your Orpheus,
but with the way his story goes
wouldn’t you say I’m probably
more like his lyre.

There is this lamp that sits right on my desk,
layers of dust signaling lack of use,
I bought to make my space more picturesque
that's still void of light, though with one excuse.

I could replace the bulb sometime tonight
but I do not desire that false glow,
for things look better in the morning light;
what’s in the dark I do not want to know.

I don’t recall a time that lamp did work;
it gets me into bed before sundown.
It is no myth that monsters like to lurk,
they tend to use my thoughts as their playground.

It is simple why I won’t fix that lamp:
I’m tired from running monster day camp.

The thing about you
is that you’re pathetic, too!
Forgive me, I’ve had a few.

Five drinks in you start to spew,
"I think it’s true,
the thing about you

that left me no one to live up to."
I should have said what we both knew:
"Forgive me, I’ve had a few."

Instead I send a needle through,
by means makeshift voodoo,
the things about you

that drown me in a root beer brew:
those ******* eyes of fizz and warmth and Xanadu
and please forgive me, I’ve had a few.

So, I hex you in that way I do
when I didn’t ask to hear your view:
"WELL THE THING ABOUT YOU–

Forgive me, I’ve had a few."

I promise that my grin is not of spite,
as my cheeks begin to crease from the weight
of my smile stapled wide. My eyesight
is tinted green just thinking of your date.
I promise that I don’t resent your side
or hands that get to linger on someone
I think I deserve, though I never tried
to be the one you needed to outrun.
I promise I’ve been in a similar
boat, but waves sound like an aquarium
against yours, so just take my signature.
Paint my mind with the way you love them,
because I promise what’s yours feels like mine
if you’re someone I can hate all the time.

“The problem with falling is sooner or later
you’ll have to hit something.”
- Jenny Owen Youngs

My eyes met your eyes
at nine years old in the cafeteria.
I learned you were terrible
over a loud lunch where

your laughter met the spilled drink
and tears making their way
down another’s skin.

Your hands met my back
before I met the sting
of your unheated pool.
This was the standard when

my lips met your lips
at an age we boasted
in a space that was ours.

My friends met your personality
not once.
Our space was where you launched us.

My gaze met the Milky Way
when you were the only one
around to care for light years.

My feet met the ground
when you called me
your favorite expletive.
You rethought that stunt when

my fist met your face
upon remembering how terrible
you were in the first place.

Like Orpheus, ****** of lyric and word
I pray my song will not meet thy sleeping ears
But pour through orifice meant for only one,
​My veil be lifted!

Sweet and swift, words of thy present god,
Plead mine eyes set forth without jest,
For backward glance should destroy my love
​If only for my spirit,

Eternal in thy presence but still without,
Eternal in flames from whence thine eyes yet slept
But woken now for my loves melody to take,
​Not the hand of Hades!

Bound is my chain of yearning to which only thee holds the reins,
Thy past with dear Aphrodite becomes my right.
To know where thine love lies true, thou shalt not sway from my lead;
​I turn only for my love!

Where doth thine eyes wander, should mine stray not from thee?
Where hath thine eyes gone before thy saving grace?
This lyre charmed the wrath of death for mine prize,
​Thy love and thy word

With thou in step to this ascent toward worldly pleasure,
Thy love only known without falter.
Mine trust of thine Hades falls as feathers from a dove,
​Thy purity is false

And thus, I must turn to know thine ways,
Praying for the lies of Hades, if only for my spirit,
I turn to face thine histories and met with thine ashes
​My trust forsaken!

Just another morning
when twilight reaches my windows.
The days and I darken.

To enjoy the sun with strangers,
we walk in unacknowledged silence.
We have the same warm skin
but to bring it up would be weird.

When we fill the street
is it correlation or causation
that the sun joins us?

They always fade;
I would like to make it to four in the morning
with the warmth remaining.

Strangers pass,
all warm,
if only from our own blood,
but to bring it up would be weird.

If I could grow another arm
with hands and fingers
to match the others
I would have trouble deciding
if it would hold you up
or reach for your help

The only reason I don’t seem so desperate
is that I’m limited
to these two arms
to beg for your thought

There are a lot of problems that come from fixing people
hoping it will fix you

The least of which being
that it never does

Build a house with only your hands
and sing in a choir
with the voice of a lawn mower

But pages rarely fill through pride