It’s kind of funny, how
you and cigarettes are so alike, even
though
you hate smoking and
the smoke doesn’t like you.

I go to both you and cigarettes to keep the demons away,
you both give me company and something to think about,
you both put me at ease and get my mind running
at the same time,
and you are both a poison,
and,
and,
both
addicting, habitually, chemically even.

And lately cigarettes have made me nauseous,
I try to get the buzz and I quit before it’s even halfway
done,
And now you make me nauseous, and
I’m only getting the poison side of things,
So what’s the point?
I suppose I’ll just quit both
of you.

I’m driving away from the party,
Late at night, in a foreign place surrounded by fog,
unbeknownst to me that I was going the opposite direction,
And I thought wow, that’s a hell of a spot on metaphor
for the new year.

A year ago I had it all laid out like it was nothing,
I was with the woman sitting at a bar that was our second home,
we never drank or smoked, just the occasional tea or the frequent
coffee for me, and we
barely noticed that the clock struck twelve,
and we kissed on the lips for the hell of it like it was nothing,
and it made it more special that way,
the idea that no matter how many years pass,
we would still have each other, and this was fact,
until it was proven wrong later that year.

We thought
we had
it
all
figured
out.

What a joke.
So long serendipity indeed.
This year I have not the slightest
clue
and this opens up the world to me,
it’s a terrifying thought,
will I be alone?
successful?

will I make love or just turn the word
into something meaningless,
when will I be wrong, when will I be right?
And
I know I just need to let
it all go,
The art of uncertainty,
what an art it is,
People will come and go and I will never know
but I can accept that I won’t,
give up that control,
let go of the wheel,

if you’re going to die, you’ll die,
if you won’t you won’t,
And so it is, and so it is.
Cheers
to the new year.

I can’t recall what the food tasted like.
The words you said, I’m not sure I’m understanding them right.
My hand is reaching up and stroking your hair,
As you gaze into my eyes with a crooked grin.
Everything is in slow motion, I can’t quite believe
Everything is alright,
But it is,
It is.

So I threw all our pictures,
Let’s just take some more,
So we killed our love.
So let’s just make some more.
And through all of them pretty things,
And through all the hell it brings,
And now the world just sings,

To me and you and up above,
To me and you and up above,
To me and you and up above.

So now we start from the beginning,
Or is it the middle or the end?
Either way it’s a perilous journey,
Let’s go, I’ll hold your hand.
Everywhere and the parlor tricks,
All those things going astray,
And all of life’s greatest kicks (in the ***)
Well we ain’t gonna go that way.  

So I threw all our pictures,
Let’s just take some more,
So we killed our love.
So let’s just make some more

there is an endless sea of clouds below me
and this crazy city quickly is drifting away
I’ll miss the raucous jazz,
the smell of coffee and Thai on every corner,
the hustle of taxis and subway stations,
even the absurdity of time ******* square.
and Hobo Joe who says “god bless you,”
It’s all far away now, as I drink
Ginger ale—what else?
on this plane.

The Appalachians are below me now,
Another world up here,
Another world down there,
Another world everywhere.

here was a thought of how
life is like a child, with all of its random acts of absurdity.
thoughtless, maybe not, there is something in there, it has the
best
intentions
but it does not know them
so this child, this baby,
is life, are we
the parents,
the creators?
or some participants
in a greater scheme? We try to control life
but it won’t listen, maybe it will get tamer as you
get tamer but I still doubt it, as a parent you
are world weary and cannot
win.

People love
poems and articles about all of the bad things,
substance abuse, broken hearts, broken necks,
poverty, war, depression,
hunger, ******, lethargy,
whatever it is,
and people love those writings because
they feel less
alone.

others have passed through these fires and
a few have indeed come out alive,
it’s perfectly normal—maybe, from what I tell in those poems
for you to daydream about driving your car
into the Atchafalaya Basin
with your ex in it,
or knowing that you could not just end it all
even if you wanted to, because it would give you
no trepidation or pleasure,
just another thing of life’s routine,
or maybe the only reason you
have not jumped off a building
is because the buildings in your town
are not tall enough.

Whatever the case may be,
it is painfully obvious,
we are all miserable on this little planet.
I’m not sure if knowing so makes anything better,
Or if it changes anything at all,
but it is an oddly
nice thought.