Winter flowers are small and hardy.
They lack the ostentation of summer blooms.
They are quiet, they do no insist upon themselves.
They are as they are, blooming in defiance of the cold and the dark.
I often feel like those flowers.
I have wreathed my aunt's face in those small, resilient, flowers.
We shall not succumb to the cold of winter.
We will bloom in defiance.
We will bloom in love.
We will bloom in remembrance.
We will bloom.

i’ve had too much to drink tonight.
please excuse me if i stumble.

have you ever been to a bar where you want to **** in the sink?
not in any, “**** this place” sort of way,
just,
on principle.

this is the sort of place
where patrons
**** in the sink.
the sort of tavern,
where the sink ******* are;
where you thank god for grime;
where it’s not just atlanta *****;
where,
should you **** in that sink,
you are not just sullying the reputation of one befouled public house,
but are continuing in a proud tradition,
of most noble and illustrious drinkers.

There are 140,490 miles of railroad in the United States,
21,000 miles of Amtrak rails,
Amtrak owns 2,142 railway cars
plus 425 locomotives,
only one station near Atlanta,
(the ones by Toccoa, Jesup, and Savannah don’t ******* count)
and just the two of us.
My point is:
There’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday

Maybe plans will never work out,
and I won’t have you in my life the way I’d like.
Maybe we’ll grow into two completely different lives,
but we promise to meet up every five years.
Maybe we both just disappear for a while,
and just happen upon the same town/train station one day.
Maybe we’ll never be close friends,
or lovers,
but maybe,
just maybe,
there’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday.

When I was young,
I used to follow the train tracks.
For miles and miles and miles,
just waiting for my train to take me away.
And when I got home I’d have so many stories to tell.
I saw two dogs *******,
And a family of opossums,
And a dead deer,
And a really pretty bug,
(And I got you some flowers but I dropped them,
when I thought the dogs were chasing me)
But your parents would always get mad at me for disappearing
when they’re supposed to be watching me until
my mom gets home.
And they’d tell me,
“do you have any idea how upset she’d be if
she knew you ran off like that?”
And I’d apologize for going off by myself
And they’d say,
“We forgive you. We won’t tell her
Just this once.”
But they’d never
never hear me
when I tried to tell them:
I can’t help it. There’s a big, beautiful, country out there
…and I want to see it.

Then when I got older,
I kept following the train tracks.
For miles and miles and miles.
Except now, I was a little more grown up.
I didn’t just disappear anymore,
walking along the tracks.
No, I had responsibilities
and obligations
and most of all,
a little money.
So, this time, I actually got to ride the train.
So my trains took me away,
And when I got home I had so many stories to tell.
I saw two drunks *******,
And a family of musicians,
And a ****** on the nod,
And a really pretty tree,
(And I got you some jewelry, but I dropped it,
When I thought the drunks were chasing me)
But more than all of that,
I saw a girl.
She was beautiful and funny and kind and smart.
But they didn’t have time to listen to my stories,
About the drunks and the tree and the girl,
Because we had responsibilities and obligations.
So I didn’t even bother
Trying to tell them,
I have to go back. There’s a big, beautiful, country out there
…and I have to see it.

So,
I don’t know if I’ll see you again, or
If I’ll get to follow all the train tracks I want,
But there are 140,490 miles of railroad in the United States,
And it’s a big, beautiful country out there,
So it might be planned,
Or by mistake,
Or luck,
Or divine providence,
But I think
I hope
I pray
There’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday.

There is never enough time.
How many words
have gone unsaid?
Forgotten
by the light of day.
Kisses unfelt.
Embraces that could have been.
Friendships and lovers,
partners and foes;
Such things that may never be.
Sure, time makes fools of us all.
But what really frightens me
are all the corpses.

Hey, did you know
You’re never alone.
At any given time
You’ve got a million million
Microscopic
Tiny little friends
All over your skin.

Relax.
I know your instincts are screaming to fight.
This is a mistake.
You will only hurt yourself.
Just relax.

You are frightened, confused, and angry.
This is only natural.
You will tell yourself to not feel these things.
This is a mistake.
Feel them, own them.
They are yours.
It is only natural.
You are being dragged backwards through a hedge.

You say,"Stop it!
The branches are tearing my shirt!
This is my favorite shirt!"
This is a mistake.
**** your shirt.
Tear it into bandanas,
sell them on Etsy.
Just buy more shirts.
Pack of four. $9.99. Wal-Mart.
Tell a stranger a story
about the scars the hedge gave you.
Maybe he'll trade you
a shirt for a good story.

But you say,"My pants!
The hedge is covering my favorite pants in grass stains!"
Stop that.
This is a mistake.
Cover your pants in new and interesting stains.
Paint in them.
Spill food on them.
Comfort a dying animal,
let it bleed on them.
Do too much *******,
**** yourself.
Get bored, cut them into daisy dukes.
Try wearing a skirt, a sarong, a loincloth, the wind.
Calm down,
they're just pants.

"But what if I break the hedge!
The Homeowner's Association will **** me!"
This is also a mistake.
**** the Homeowner's Association.
You did not choose the hedge.
The hedge did not choose you.
And once you're on the other side,
you won't to answer to them.
No one will find you, and
you don't have to come back.
Unless you want to.
But that is your decision.
Yours and the hedge's,
no one else.
Remember that.

"But who is dragging me through this hedge?
What kind of hedge is it?
Why is this happening to me?"
These are the wrong questions.
You are being dragged backwards to through a hedge.
That is all that matters.
Concern yourself only with what matters.
Making it through.
Landing on your feet, or
barring that, getting back up.
Seeing what's on the other side.

So you ask,"what is on the other side?
What if I hate it?
What if it's a parking lot?
What if it's all sticky?
What if everything's on fire?
What if it's just more hedges?"
Relax.
You're looking at it all wrong.
Maybe your friends are all there.
Maybe it is all sticky.
Maybe it's a combination liquor store,
ice-creamery,
minigolf course,
and you can pour whiskey on your face,
and eat Rocky Road,
and finally get a hole-in-one on that ******* windmill.?
Maybe it's the way home.
You're still looking at it wrong.
This, too, is a mistake.

You were dragged backwards through a hedge.
Dragged.
Backwards.
And you made it.
While you were worrying
you didn't notice you already made it through.
So now you're here,
on the other side.
Now it's your call.
You can do as you wish.
Watch the sunset.
Or dive into a new hedge, maybe
headfirst this time.
Or walk home.
Or make a new home.
It's your choice.

And really, who's going to stop you?
Some puny ******* bush?

We can save the world.
We can wear capes if you want.
My baby brother.

MY DEAR HEART. STOP. IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG. STOP. YOU HAVE GROWN COLD WITH HURT. STOP. YOUR DRUM IS OFFBEAT. STOP. BUT REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG. STOP. YOU BURNED AND PUMPED MOLTEN GOLD AND WERE UNAFRAID. STOP. REMEMBER THOSE DAYS SO THEY MAY COME AGAIN. STOP. THIS PAIN IS NOTHING NEW. STOP. WE NEED IT TO FIND THE JOY WE LOST. STOP. YOU WERE MADE FOR LIVING. STOP. NEVER FORGET THIS. STOP. THE TIME HAS COME TO OPEN SHOP AGAIN. STOP. WE MUST DUST OFF OUR WARES AND RESTOCK THE SHELVES. STOP. I KNOW IT HURTS. STOP. IT IS MEANT TO HURT. STOP. THE HURT REMINDS US THAT WE ARE ALIVE. STOP. AND WE ARE ALIVE. STOP. COME AND FEEL THE SUN AGAIN. STOP. COME FIND ME. STOP. I WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU. STOP.

GIVE MY REGARDS TO THE LUNGS.

Were I a schoolboy,
summer'd pass me by.
All day I'd sleep,
content without the Sun.
But I am grown, and
must live until I die.

I shall name the birds
crossing through the sky.
I shall not rest until
the deed is done.
Were I a schoolboy,
summer'd pass me by.

There's work to do,
and little time, I sigh.
My hands are sore,
I've only just begun.
But I am grown, and
must live until I die.

My lover waits, and
to her arms I'll fly.
Though not just yet,
I cannot cut and run.
Were I a schoolboy,
summer'd pass me by.

So she calls my name,
her smile is not shy.
If I could, I would
sprint, like I'd heard the gun.
But I am grown, and
must live until I die.

I lament my youth,
lived in vain, I cry.
But I'm awake,
I'll rejoice in work and fun.
Were I a schoolboy,
summer'd pass me by.
But I am grown, and
must live until I die.

You frighten me.
Plain and simple, I am frightened.
I have a briefcase full of fear,
that I have packed so tight,
that I could not possibly fit one more worry inside.
I think,
that if I tried,
it would burst open and spill all over the ground.
Exposing me again, in ways I've long ignored.

I am afraid you will be fickle,
that you will grow bored with me,
and resign me to a shelf of fond, forgettable, memories.
I am not suited to being a suitor.
I am afraid I will frighten you,
that a certain look or a touch,
will send me screaming and cowering,
and having seen that part of me,
you will turn away.
I am not without such insanity.
I am afraid you will move too quickly,
burn me for warmth,
before finding new kindling,
and leaving me thin and grey like smoke.
I am not a cigarette, nor a burning filter.
I am afraid I will drive you away,
when my heart is heavy,
and my fortunes fall,
and I cannot see the sun for the clouds.
I am not without such storms.

I am not afraid that you will hurt me.
There is no need to fear certainty.
So let me be clear,
you will hurt me.
I am prepared to hurt.
I am a hand that feels the first warmth of spring,
after being clasped in prayer,
after a long winter spent on my knees.
When feeling returns, it hurts.
Always and inevitably.
The hurt is needed to get blood flowing again.
So forgive me, should I call you pins and needles.
However, I am one well acquainted with hurt.

I do not break easily.
But, please, do not take this as an invitation
to bend, spindle, or mutilate.
While my flesh may cover for me,
I carry many scars,
and do not forget them easily.
I do, however, have a profound capacity for forgiveness.
And patience.
And passion.
Even if I forget it at times.
Like I forgot that my heart is made of fire.
Like I forgot that my eyes are full of stars.
Like I forgot that my mind contains multitudes.
Like I forgot that I know how to speak
     with my fingers
              my hips
              my lips
              my tongue
      and my toes.

But you have an art about you.
You are drawing me (closer).
I am drawn.
You are a mystery,
that I promise I will not try to solve,
although I may dismantle the etymology of our conversations.
You are snowflakes on my tongue,
that I want to melt on your inner thigh.
You are delight and delirium,
decadence drizzled down with dew.
You are the roots entwined
in the gaps between your fingers
You are the ocean echoing
inside of your ribcage
(thanks for that one e.e.cummings)
You are my gut screaming at my brain
in gibberish sounds I barely comprehend.
You are a word that almost sounds like home,
a forest, a clear view of the city, a flower, wreathed in flame,
a cat with a story for each life, a joke forgotten, a sigh remembered,
warm hands, milk chocolate, three dances, one just made up,
laughter under teary eyes, *** under starry skies, hamburgers with eggs,
four weeks and three days, or was it nine weeks and five days,
and more and more and more and so much more.

I want you to see that I am full of scripture,
that I burn so God has something to read at night.
I want you to kiss me when the lights go out,
and not stop until the candles burn blue.
I want you to look in my eyes, and see
the world as it must look from heaven.
I want you to pull open my ribcage,
and start my heart beating again.
I want you to breathe fire into my lungs,
so I have no choice but to dance, and spit, and shout.
I want you to show me my hands are not for eating ash,
nor my mouth for vomiting ink onto the page.
I want you to see a constellation in my skin,
that you trace until it is tattooed to my bones.
I want you to sing me lullabies at dawn,
after I've been up all night painting the wind.
But I am not one for glorifying forever,
and you are not one for begging promises.
Thus, I am frightened.
             and I am alive.
So please,
stay.

We are bound by the sins of our fathers,
forever seeking a pair of scissors.

Since you have already plucked my heart strings,
let us make music together.
Whisper to me at night,
in syllable serenades that I
will only half remember on waking.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
until my tongue can stand it no more
and I must speak in symphonies.
Touch me delicately,
tickle my ribs until they become piano keys,
and play them until they cry out
chords that spell your name.
Let your laughter be trills in our cadenzas.
Let the pop of your knee drive a march to my bed.
Let me run my fingers up your spine,
jumping vertebrae like octaves,
from your tip to your toes.
Let my every shuddered breath be but syncopation
to the bass drum of your heart.
Be quiet with me,
let us play in piano,
soft as silence or sleep.
Stay there, linger for as long as the fermata holds.
And then, let us raise our voices together,
glorious crescendos upon crescendos,
until at last we can build no longer, and
return together to the tonic.
Run your hands across my hips,
play my longing in liquid legato strokes,
effortless in your endeavors.
Touch me again.
Let our gasps play counterpoint
to the melodies of our moans.
Take what you will of me,
fill me with song,
write sheet music in my lungs,
so that every breath I draw
sings on its way out.
Purse your lips and kiss me like embouchure.
Give me every quaver, every semitone, every holy harmony.
Leave me buzzing vibrato,
kiss me con brio.
Let me caress your delicate curves,
as though you were a violin made flesh.
If my temperament be just, then play on.
And let us be of one form, sonata-allegro,
until we must be jazz.
And then we shall burn the world with passion,
with chords no one knows but us.
So, for the sake of recapitulation,
I must ask again:
let us make music together.

A charcoal suit hangs in the closet,
it stays clean and freshly pressed.
Fine leather shoes, always polished.
A selection of silk ties,
each blacker than the last.

He keeps his fingernails clean,
he is efficient.
His back stays straight,
he ignores the pain in his feet.
He knows what to say, and
when to say nothing.

Callused hands that whisper
the names of the dead.
Gray of eye,
soft of speech.
Lips well acquainted with,
"they will be missed."

He practices his smile,
warm but at a distance.
His presence is not unwelcome.
He does his job well,
and never once asked,

"Who will carry me
when my time comes?"

I really hate to interrupt you like this
but could you take your eyes off that blank screen for
just one second?
I'd like to ask a favor of you.
Look into my eyes
and tell me what you see
If you see a heart that's a little off center
and an Italian picnic on a too American
countryside
then I'd like to have a little more of your time

-but-

If all you see is the tear streaked face
of a child trying too hard to be a man
then just keep watching your after-shave commercial

Last night I woke up in a cold sweat.
I dreamed of a boy holding a dog.
She was dying,
and he wouldn't let anyone near her.
Because she was his dog,
and he was her boy.
When the other dogs came sniffing,
the boy pushed them away.
When his brother came smiling,
the boy hit him.
When his mother came calling,
the boy screamed at her.
And the dog shook,
and took ragged little breaths,
and then she stopped.
And the boy cried.
He cried so hard.
I don't remember crying like that.

I unlocked your mind you know
just to see what I could see
And if you promise to pay the postage
I'll mail you back the key.

sometimes I feel like a still life
that won't sit right on the wall.
sometimes I feel like a guitar
with one broken string,
so all the chords come out slightly wrong.
sometimes I don't feel at all
and I'm not sure I mind.

I'm a study in grey.
And I've nothing to say
as I paint my portrait of dissatisfaction.

I eat ash with my hands
and ***** ink on the page.
And if I sit real still,
I swear I can feel myself age.

In a room full of silence,
I have conversations
with the space between echoes.

I'm always running,
but going nowhere.

I'll meet you in Big Nothing.

oh god, what have i gone and done this time.
i walk along the boulevard alone,
a cigarette is tucked behind my ear.
I want to say i hate your dress, except
you feel the same about this tie of mine.
laugh quietly and well, and smile often.  
keep secrets close, but try to not tell lies.
You look at me, your looking turns me on.
Inhale, exhale, breathe deep and do not stop.
Nothing you do, or say, can stop this pain.
Drink deep, sing gaudeamus igitur.
An electrical shock illuminates.
Short, long, and meter can make all the words.
Do not forget to tie your shoes today.

Those twin bards.
Since pining bites us,
we taint our tales
with lace and gin.

You left your stink in my nose and your sweat in the palm of my hand,
And I know that doesn’t sound half as sweet as I’d like.
But that’s the point,
That’s the beauty of it.
Even unpolished,
       Unrefined,
  Unwashed,
I think you understand.

You are the man I wanted to be when I grew up.
The man who taught me to take care of others.
The one man I would follow to the ends of the earth.
I have always loved you more than any other,
And I haven’t seen your face in fifteen years.

You taught me to love unconditionally,
To live every day like it’s your last,
To never take what wasn’t given freely,
To help anyone in need,
And ask for nothing in return.

There are so many questions I never got to ask you,
So many stories I never got to hear from your lips.
Like how you got your purple heart and bronze star.
I found out years after you died,
When I found the military report,
And as I read of your selfless acts of bravery, I wept.

You laughed like a child,
Wept like a widow,
Had the eyes of an angel,
The hands of a carpenter,
And the heart of a saint.

You taught me that the caliber of a woman,
Can always be seen in her feet.
And the worth of a man,
Is always in his hands.

You were a farm boy.
Poor, uneducated, long hair and no shoes.
Your mother, with her fiery hair,
Couldn’t read a word but
She sure slept with a gun under her pillow.
You knew what it was like to live off the land,
And you inspired me to believe
That we can grow beyond what we’re born into.

But as I’ve grown up,
I’ve learned of your faults.
After all, even saints have their sins.
You were spineless against the wrath of your wife,
You let your daughters be abused
Because you simply didn’t want to fight.
And despite that I’ve always tried to follow in your footsteps,
Help those around me,
Be nice for the sake of being nice,
Never pass judgement,
And greet your enemies with open arms…
The last words I heard from your lips were these,
“Don’t be nice to people, it will only get you walked on.”

Now as I’ve grown up,
I’ve learned you weren’t perfect.
You were just a man.
Perhaps a great man, but a man nonetheless.
And I may not look on you with rose tinted eyes,
But knowing your faults just makes me love you more.
Because now I know that you were made just like me,
You stumbled,
You fell,
You made your mistakes,
You bruised your knees,
And cried yourself to sleep.
I know that I can live up to you,
I can make you proud,
Despite my mistakes.

So I didn’t shed one tear at your funeral,
Because I didn’t believe that you were gone.
And I may cry from time to time now,
But I still know you aren’t really gone.
Because you’re alive in my heart,
In my dreams and my hopes.
Because someday I’ll be a good man,
And that’s thanks to you.

You see, I’ve always wondered
Why I’ve made it through hard times
And harder times still.
Because, truthfully, I’m not quite that strong.
And I know I can’t get by on my own.
So, I think that someone up there,
Is looking out for me.
Holding my hand when I feel alone,
Picking me up when I can’t go on,
Giving me courage when I’m scared to death…
And I think, I wish, I hope and I dream
That maybe,
Just maybe,
That person is you.

The *** dreams
               Are
                        The
                                 Worst
The ones where I can smell you,
The ones where you ******* sweat,
The ones where we feel our flesh become two-in-one,
The ones where you see me bared naked and true,
The ones where I know what you sound like when you ***.
A squeak
   A moan
      A scream
           A wail
              A cry
          A mumble
      A murmur
   A whisper
A silence.
I want you,
Inside and out.
I want to kiss your tulips,
And lick your lifeline.
I want to make love to your mind,
And **** your fantasies.
I could tell you all the things I want to do,
But I’d rather excite your imagination.
I want to (inhale) you
        and (exhale) me.
I want flushed cheeks,
gasping breath,
glazed eyes,
curled toes.
I want genuflection
And glossolalia.
You breathe life into my lungs.
You light my fire.
You fill me with passion.
And I am so ******* ****** at you.

A fog descends on our fair city.
Like crowns upon the heads of giants,
the clouds come to rest atop
the brows of buildings too tall.
Midnight diadems
glimmering in the beam
of headlights, homebound.
We consider our station
from the sidewalk,
daydreaming in the dead of night.
Absent thoughts for highrise kingdoms.
It passes,
and all that's left is fairy glamour.
And as we walk,
we look up
and up
and up.

Quietly, she said
                    (you don’t know
                             how beautiful
                             you are
            I laughed,
                    because I was frightened.)
as she led me,
           through a part of town,
                    I only knew
                    in name.

Quietly, she said
                    (and we sneaked,
                             passed her mother, and
                             a dog that
                                         did
                                               not care.)
as I told her
                    there was
               n  o  w  h  e  r  e
                  I’d rather be.

Quietly, she said
                    (while washing my hair,
                                in a sink,
                                        in a restaurant,
                    I did not eat at.)
and I said,
          “they call this a
                     ***** bath”
and
          she just smiled.

Quietly, she said
                    (I’ll be here,
                           always,
                    should you need me.)
and my tongue
               weighed heavy, so
                              I just kept nodding.

Sittin’ on the corner of 5th and Life
The place where little children sat and made their dreams
Night stretches on past a horizon of endless street lamps
While whispers of time gone by slink across the flesh on stale city winds
And in blind foresight the stars dim and fade
Fade to black and black on white
Sitting in the place where hopes met dreams
When lovers smiled and kissed while the days were still the days
But those days are gone, long gone
While a sigh may just be your soul escaping
My dreams still breath life into this world of everdying sighs
And the dreams are all we’ve got as the lights sink and the cold midnight calm creeps up your neck
Stale sweat and rusted cans dust the forgotten streets
Their eyes focus on the gray in-betweens and thoughts slow down like stagnant honey dripping from yesterday’s wounds
The taste of gunmetal and filterless cigarettes play on taste buds without a tongue
And now I lay me down to sleep and in these dreams my faith I keep
Of hopes and dreams and days long gone
Of better times and happier hours when we were
Sittin’ on the corner of 5th and Life

i write in black ink that turns blue when no one is looking.

You've told me you want my words.
Then take them, please.
I don't want them anymore.
The way they stick
in my throat
like razorblades.
They way they scream at me
from behind closed eyes.
I can't stand it.
I don't want this.
They keep talking
talking
talking.
But no one's listening.
They keep knocking,
but no one's home.
So pull my tongue out
at the root.
Leave me dumb,
leave me mute.
I will speak with
my fingers and toes.
Sharing secrets that
no one hears.
I will tattoo your name
upon my tongue,
and then
and then I'll just hum.
Let me speak again
nevermore.
So take my words, and
do with them what you will.
I've no need for them anymore.
Take the nouns,
the verbs,
and all them adjectives too.
Take them.
Take them all.
Take them please.
And give me peace.