I spent a few hours trying
to write a poem from your perspective.
First I get stuck on something I would say to you,
that’s not completely stupid or irrelevant,
and then, after I say in the poem
“Everyone is an atheist,”
I try to write how you would respond.
I am not sure if you would have moved on
with whatever other subject,
or have something to say,
(though it feels like you usually don’t)
And I realized,
after two years of knowing you
intimately,
I do not know how you think,
I don’t know where to begin.
I can describe you,
But I don’t know how you would
describe me,
or anything else,
and this
terrifies me.

All that one might see
in this strange world, with all it’s grim
trivialities,
and our ruffian leaders
and our expensive college degrees
that promise nothing,
is depression.

I won’t say that you turned my life
into a happy Beatles’ song,
But you have certainly been a companion
To enjoy the goods things in life,
Like proper violin music
and teas with multiple vowels.

And when I do feel overcome
with the trivial stress of
our trivial lives,
I know that, not only
do you feel my pain, truly,
but that you will do
anything in your power
to lift my body up,
knowing and trusting, rightly,
that I would do the same
for you

We were parallel like
hot math,
which face it,
is made of stuff we don’t
understand,
but someone we know to
be true.
So many chemicals involved,
So many novels written,
Philosophers think they have
Everything understood,
until they get to what love is,
and that, my friend,
is tricky.

I’ll surely attempt to question what I feel,
not to doubt but to answer, to know
fuller, to understand You and I.
But I’ll always know,
love exist before
rationality.

Violins where plucked
just like grapes for wine,
speaking in the vernacular
of birds in the Amazon,
the colours of orange and green
with more species of bird
in a square kilometer
than they have in the entire
Northern Hemisphere.

Going to the outback as an adventurer
Might have been our grandfather’s idea,
one that I might share if things were
different.

But we have dreams of
large cities couple with an
ocean view,
and we both want to capture it.
From the sun setting
to the people it contains
to the raindrops falling off
a precipice,
going nowhere.

We’re artist, we can share our passion,
our passion shares
us.

I find it hard to write
love poems about you.
I usually don’t know where
to begin.

Love is like gravity.
Powerful, ever present,
but by itself, well,
not much.

Because love is so much more.
As much **** as it is butterflies,
encompassing all of the things.
From snake oil to water of the rose

I want to be your biggest laugh,
The best high you’ll ever have,
I want to be able to count every hair on your head,
And feel your spine, up to your seraphic wings,
I just want to melt into your skin.

the most remarkable thing about you being with me,
is that it’s you,
and that you are with me
(it’s the most extraordinary thing in the world)
it’s motion, it keeps me moving again.

It is this small but interesting town
We keep finding hidden and new things
even though we have been together
so long.

And at one point
I believed I could survive
with only half a heart
arteries spilling out like roots
of a pine tree.
But
you ended this.
You joined
your roots to mine
and we were one
once again.

Allow me to state a fact
(as obvious as the colour of the sky):
Love is so strange.
It can bring me to scream and curse and
slam doors and kick holes in the wall
(watch the sheet rock explode in dust to your amazement)
It can absolutely do away with all reason, all that effort
to foster a logical, intelligent mind.

But I woke up in such a terrible mood today
I didn’t even get out of bed until four
(my class was cancelled even though I did not find out till later)
I come to see you on your brief break—I had not eaten
in a day and quite frankly the thought of seeing you
scared me.
But I saw you, and I swear to God,
everything is right in the world.

What is the matter with the sky?
It is raining down books like snowflakes,
they are just gently falling down, melting
into dust when one tries to read them,

And the miles to travel to those words,
the years it takes, my, what a journey.
Walking through northern Norway
with ice breaking beneath where you stand,
you feel the cold, it is sharp, it brightens
your vision and the mountains grow blurry.
You think about how it rained down books in
New York City but no one could read them.

I never said goodnight, but
I suppose I’ll say good morning.
               It’s nice seeing the stars fade out to the sun for a change.
“*******” says the sun to the stars. “Those
people don’t need to know about you guys.”
               The sun knows one day we’ll go to those stars.
               And old Sol won’t be as popular as he once was.
                                                            But *******,
                                             I want to go outside, but this
****
                              Alarm is keeping me in.
                                                                           I’ll wake up the whole house, and
Mom
                              Will worry about my insomniac sleeping habits.
I guess I’ll have to enjoy the sunrise from my dusty windows.

When it rains, I won’t be in the position
To get out of here unscathed.
As the rain falls downward, this muddy ravine
Goes higher, and I’m a young teenager again.

Mud up to my knees and twigs and leaves in my hair,
I climb on all fours on the embankment, thorns stabbing my skin.
And all I have with me is my machete, a curse and a smile upon my lips.

I’ll make it out alive mostly,
It’s the best anyone can do.
Don’t tell me I should be happy,
Happiness is a privilege, not a necessity.
And once you start smiling all the time the good
Things are not as extraordinary, your food starts tasting the same,
Colours bleed to together in such a way you don’t
Even notice what colour they were before.
And when darkness hits you’re truly blind to it all.

Whereas my lack of smile means nothing,
My scowl just an ordinary thing of life,
The grays blend together indiscriminately,
But when I see colours, they bring my eyes to new heights,
It showers me with their light.

My little darling,
Have you ever known,
You were always,
My sentient metronome?

You speak a beat,
And I follow your tongue,
You set the rhythm,
I just follow along.

My little metronome,
Lately we have had different dreams,
You have dreams of the ocean,
I’ve been dreaming of New Orleans.

I know I can never change you.
I can’t make you change your song.
I’m afraid I must leave you,
We’re just not getting along.

My little metronome,
You still set the rhythm of my heart,
Maybe in the future,
We won’t be so far apart.

And one can never know,
Where either one of us will grow,
Maybe one day I’ll turn out to be,
Your sentient metronome.

I gave you a drawing for our second anniversary.
It had a man leaving a woman who was saying “don’t go”
I bought it as a reminder for myself,
That no matter what, I wouldn’t do that.
Not long after,
reality set in,
We saw each other less and fought even more,
We were angry, frustrated, and young,
And then I betrayed that drawing,
I left,
I shot myself in the head.
Now the ceiling is coming down,
My stomach detests the idea of substance,
I try to take it day by day but my god,
Life is so boring without you,
The clock moves only when it wants to, *******,
While you’re busy chasing your dreams and other men,
If only for friendship.
I stare down at the ocean I created for myself,
Trying not to think but *******,
You’ve been in my thoughts for years, I just
Can’t let it go.
I won’t wait for you, but I’ll pray,
“Come back”.

It’s a testament to his will, that he wakes up everyday,
The cigarettes that he breaths, keeping demons away,
And of course he don’t wanna leave, but the future is now the past,
Nothing really matters now, nothing don’t ever last.

He remembers the creases in your palms,
Makes jokes about about singing Psalms,
Would look up to the stars, wonder
“Why the **** are we ever are?”

It’s a testament to his will, that he can still find peace,
It’s not like he has bills to pay, college is under lease,
Popping strings on his guitar,
Curiously falling into ever more.

He don’t believe in no Satan,
Though the world, is full of hatin’,
And no one is ever ever right,
He’s still keeping hold,
Philosophy tight.

And he still sees your kingdom ways,
Still thinking of those yellow plays,
He still don’t wanna talk no more,
Keeping busy with them busy ******.

And my how he thinks he’s from dust,
And how he’s lying about his lust,
And how he thinks you’re from light,
Just wants to fall from great heights.

It’s a testament to his will,
He’s gonna force the world to stand still,
The chance is maybe one out of three,
Of him being weightless and free,

He’ll be happy for the rest of his being,
Knowing he’s finally leaving the living.

When I feel my worse,
When my body is to burst,
I dream of you,
A poison and a cure,
How can I be sure?

It is in her movements that she speaks the greatest to me,
The unflinching energy she has as she talks to her cigarettes,
The swirls in her eyes in the dark at night when no one else is sleeping.
We first met in the belly of a whale, flying far too low on the ground,
I spotted her from a distance, and in an instant
I loved her like a man who never touched a woman,
Only looks at through the narrow pinhole of an airplane window,
It was love at first sight; she hadn’t looked at me yet though.
So I drive to me her, that dreaded hour of a wait past her father and friends,
And the rolling hills and the polarized blue of the sky in which birds made their home,
On the brick laden hills in which people called their home,
And we finally met, and it was like making love
for the first time to someone who has been there, done that,
But it was alright, it was ok,
Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt
Anymore
As I fell
Into this city’s embrace.

I am armed to the teeth,
Wielding a camera and a notebook,
And by god I’m not afraid to use them,
So stand back, as I Occupy my own ******* mind,
And spin circles because that’s the way I like to take
Photos, with the city and the stream of lights blurry till the end.

I am shaking back and
Forth, now listening to the wildest
Swing music, you spineless ******* are too
Scared, I know it, get into that dark gypsy swing,
Relinquish that control, ha, as if anyone truly has it,
We have nothing and we should celebrate our inability to let go.

poetry, moving, motion,
kinetic, effigy, ocean,
swimming, swimming, sinking,

There was once a time
before words were among us,
before, there was just movement
of images of rolling hills
and towering skyscrapers,
colliding and fusing together
into a spiral staircase.

Before there was language,
we had movement.

before language,
We would just stare at each other
for a dozen minutes at time
as if our features were a French painting
done by an existentialistic artist, trying
so hard to create the beauty he cannot find for himself.

And how I would stare into the ocean of your eyes
grasping your fingers as our very presence
gave each other lysergic bliss.

Before language.

He gave me one hell of a cocktail, full
to the brim with snake oil and water from the rose,
And I started sailing like a sailor,
Straight to the moon, straight back to you,
To the ******* outer edge of the solar system.
And it’s this stupid attachment that gets to me,
I hug it like an octopus on a Christmas tree,
And distract myself by downloading anti-virus programs all day,
And smoking cigarettes and whatever else,
And I write out in anger in frustration,
I don’t want to rest, I can’t be my best,
So now I’m sick of this city,
And all it’s ineptness to sing to me,
I want to travel far, far away from the man who killed me.
He gave me one hell of a cocktail, full
to the brim with snake oil and water of the rose.

A boy drank some ethanol on a dare today,
He has survived being poisoned before, so he
Figured, why not? Nothing can **** me after
What I have been through, and drank he did,
And it felt rather good, an out of body
Experience, but after he was done
The nausea hit him, and he went to bed
with no other thought except
that he was responsible to this.
No ever learns, ever.

deep browns and golds,
and skyscrapers as high as tombstones,
speaking through the train station’s whisper,
drinking for a hundred thousand dollars a day.
and all of it is like molten metal,
searing hot and cold to the touch,
the ardency of you being with me,
the frost you gave when you left,
Nothing but a bad memory and quite a head ache,
And nothing but awkward explaining to do,
I’ll be better without you,
Without you.

It’s a funny thought to know
that most people will never see me angry,
or watch me unlock the animal inside.
They see me hide under logical and rational thought,
of controlling my words, and not giving in to these rampant
things you call human emotions,
And then all of the sudden, like a bullet in the hand,
you’ll know I have awakened, and torn off my mask,
you’ll will feel nothing but clairvoyance
and maybe dread,

that’s the way I do my art,
and how I write these stupid poems
and break strings on my guitar whilst screaming like a wolf,
you’ll know.
And I only reserve this beast to the walls of my empty house
and the people who love me the most,
they are the only ones I ravish with these terrible feelings,
so when the beast comes out, be glad I love you,
When the beast does not come out, be thankful I do not.

There is a curious thing about girls,
That my friend and I don’t get.
Or, maybe no man gets.
It doesn’t matter what or who they are,
A hook up, a long time lover, a good friend,
When things eventually blow up—they always do amongst us human beings
And when we scream and kick and tear the walls down,
Rip our hair out to the roots, and partake in substances
We would otherwise look down upon, but when we actually see them, or talk to them,
No matter how much they hurt us, since we care
We can see nothing but the good in them,

Their reasons, no matter how validated or not,
Ebb through us, and we forgive; I may be a pessimist
But I always see the best in them, the sound of their voice turns my stone heart
Into honey, even when I hated them and screamed for mercy only weeks ago.

And they never realize , no matter how much they hurt us,
We still believe in them. And after however long of this,
After ignoring our friends and family about being too mature about things,
We will finally give in, and we will say in unison,
*******, I don’t need this **** anymore,
Even though it is only half true.

And the girls, they will wonder why no one else gives them
The time of day, or love or whatever, or seem to only get
The hard *** guys acting tough and only want a good ****,
It’s because they missed an opportunity to have a guy
Who was absolutely deluded with good thoughts about them,
Who woke up and saw what they were really doing,

They missed an opportunity,
While we hauled *** far away, bitter and thankful
In the long run.

It would be oh so nice to have a
woman who
didn’t mind staying up late, to watch the sun rise with,
to watch wasted hipster musicians play in the dirtiest bars,
and not be afraid to talk about philosophy and ideas with the same
enthusiasm and nonchalance as most do with those god awful tv shows,
It would also be nice to have a career instead of a job,
It would be nice to start making money off music, photography, writing, painting,
Whatever else.
It would be nice to not feel so crazy.
I suppose all of those things will come
In time.

I don’t see why we pay for ***
but having a conversation with someone
is free,
you would think that it would be the opposite,
*** is so easy, and it always feels good,
even ****** ***,
but having a conversation?
What a stupid, hard thing to do,
and god forbid you are too open,
or not open enough,

conversations take time and skill and thought,
how is something like that
free?
I’ve always wanted to visit a brothel
and do exactly that,
look a ***** in her eyes and

do the most awkward thing humans do on a daily basis,
and at least she would be getting paid
for something almost worthwhile.

Every time someone mentions they love Christmas,
take another drink.
Someone says “Happy Holidays”,
take another drink.
Every time you feel as if everything is pointless,
take another,
You see a person you hate acting happy,
that’s two drinks,
A Christmas song plays, traffic is terrible, your family thinks your views on religion is a phase,
and you spent all your money on presents and you’re wide awake at night feeling like death even though the drive to your house was nice and you said you were going to do some artsy things,

when you know that the past few Christmases were great and lovely and now both an intrinsic and extrinsic variable has changed to ruin it all for you,

take another drink
take another drink
take another drink
drink it all ******* gone
and drink some more.
Hum,
*******,
bug.

She asked me, what did you want to do today?
I wanted to take her to the park,
while it was raining and miserable in December,
It would be a surprise of course,
I wanted for us to feel the cold and misery together for once,
Lord knows misery loves company, and I’m sure
It might be something new to her, to go out
And do it deliberately, though it seems I do so all of the time.
What I stupid idea, she would think.
No,
I just like the idea of it raining
On the just and unjust alike.
        But we didn’t,
so I’m here under my patio
reading the poetry of Bukowski,
Getting a semblance of understanding of him and all that he means,
It rains on all of us,
May as well let it soak through our fragile skin
Together,
Or alone,
It doesn’t matter either way I suppose.

Fleet Foxes are on, doing their melodic folky thing,
And I’m sitting writing here, taking large swings
of fire breathing liquor,
if only to forget her.
       And it’s alright,
       It’s ok.

We kissed on the mouth in the moonlight
during the 11th hour of the
11th day of the
11th month of the
11th year of the
twenty first century,

      And everything was alright,
      Everything was ok.

But now I write letters to you that you will never read,
That I’ll never even again, I may print and burn them
(If I ever feel the need),
But I think I’ll start writing to myself now,
At least I may listen and take heart to what I say,  
Anything at all to keep you and the demons away.

What a madness everything is!
I think so with a wicked smile.
If you’re the *** of the joke and everyone is laughing,
May as well laugh along.
But to tell you the truth,
The punchline,
We’re all in the same sinking life raft.
And the people who know  are considered the crazy,
The mad the suicidal the outcasts
But it’s obvious that they know they are on
A sinking life raft,
Why else would they panic if we shook the boat a little?

        And think of all the ethics, look at religion, philosophy,
I need an atheist Bible *******,
        One surely must exist,
Something nice to get a more concise
idea of this stupid world I’m trapped in,
Because I’m a sucker and I believe in my animal bones that things will get better
even though the evidence is all pointing in the opposite direction,
like how everyone believes that woman will want me,
Even though the evidence is pointing the other way.

      So **** it, I’m heading north,
      Get a job in Alaska and make money
      Even though I’ll have no way to spend it,
      Except maybe on hookahs and ****,
      Ha, what I stupid life that would be.

Isn’t it all rather stupid?
Philosophy is my only constant friend, and it believes
that we build things out of nothing, quantum things,
But I’m starting to believe that as human beings,
We do this to ourselves, we build nothing
out of something,
assuming we don’t blow it up
in the first place.

Over the course of a set amount of time,
of being around each other long enough, it was
growing obvious that we had one major difference.
It was how I knew what I wanted, and a vague idea how to obtain
it,
And I was powered by selfishness and self interest and a narrowing ambition,
To the point where some may call me an effigy, or an *******, or an artist,
While she followed me around, trying to find herself, her own passion,
Her inspiration and all of that jazz, though she helped me greatly.
She was selfless and noble and, while I tried to help her find herself,
I was still shrouded in whatever the hell was going on in my mind,

You couldn’t call it pretty,
I was often such a whirlwind of aspirations, ideas and conflicts
it was hard to keep up with me,
hell, it still is, in that regard, but I hoped to help her grow and inspire her,
to go out and feel the world with bare feet and all of its beauty and discomfort.
I have not changed at all, still looking and trying to predict and plan,

But one thing I never anticipated
never even flew into my mind
was that once we rolled into the university,once she found the beginning threads of herself,
She found her wings,
And I was too heavy
to fly with her.
So she left me on the ground,

And I find that I’m not so ambitious or self sufficient as I thought I was.
But a vain part of me thinks that I am Daedalus,
Except this time I’m hoping
that her wings do melt
after all.

There is someone stronger inside of me,
He calls himself Radchenko, and he is
The friend that is always there for me when I see him.
He will see me in the mirror and he will say,
You survived another day my boy,
You are the one who lived after all,
Like ******* Harry Potter, you survived the thing
That has killed greater men.
You have the will to fight after all.
And I’ll nod my head, knowing that these words
Are somehow true.
**** right I’ll say.
Just you and me, Radchenko.
He reminds me of the poems I’ve been writing,
That the only meaning out there is the one that I create,
And the bridges can be for another time,
“Time to build them, and cross this ****** ocean,
Don’t build this thing if you intend to jump off of it,”
Other people are never the answer,
But you are.

It’s such a shame
you are a Christian, despite what you have done,
You have taken bigger steps than most men ever will do,
And live a life that can inspire jealousy in the zaniest
adventurers, by
living on your own as a nomad
for half a year, creating art, meeting strangers, following your heart and gut,
And you put all the blame, all your self achievement
on a god, and I don’t understand.
No doubt I am an ignorant, selfish man destined to the pit of hell or some other place for my ludicrous skepticism to
most theist,
but it saddens me.

You lived a life and had a great spiritual journey—for even I
believe in some sort of spirit
(just not the one you do)
using your own self reliance, your own will and passion and ambition,
No doubt the perfect example of the American dream,
Going out alone in the desert and coming back with gold,
And yet,

You say you are a mere follower, like a lowly dog,
Chasing at a deities heels,
Praising him for all that he has done even though I am sure
without him it would have happened anyway.

It just makes me sad, that’s all.
I could never find a reason to justify altruism,
Or why I would ever want to deny the power of the self,
Who do you respect more,
the man who was born from ****** who had to fight
his way up to the top or else get
beaten down, trampled on, forgotten,
one who knows your pain and knows that only you
can get through it, ****** and dying you may be,
or the man who was born under the watchful gaze of a
strict parent, smiling willfully as the parent dropped bread
crumbs along their path, and god forbid the man ever
deviate from it?

I don’t understand it one bit,
We speak a completely different language.

I
responded
to a person
giving out a negative opinion
of something I do.
something small.
sending out
facebook event invites.
He said he never goes to any of them.
I send them to everyone every time I have a gig,
the popularity of what he said
angered me.
I say to him, in an effort to be snarky, and equivocal,
true, now that I think of it, commercials and
posters are pretty pointless too.
And he agreed. And now I’m not sure
how untrue his
idea was.

And all around me I see
doubt
rip the world to ribbons
let us see what is certain
if nothing is left,
well,
that is a certainty of itself.

Ergo sum.
I am.
The Latin set of words is also
the name of God,
I still wonder
if the two are the same.

But what is left?
Doubt the word of others
doubt what you see, hear, feel,
doubt that three sides make up a
triangle, because God could very
well just be ******* with you.

But at least you’ll know
the mind is more easily known
than the body.

Ideas of mine tend to vanish
when I return home
my mind get’s comfortable (a horrible sin)
and all I want to do is be thoughtless
even though all I want to do is be thoughtful.

Listen to the motion of the waves
and be not afraid
of the oncoming torrent.
We’ll just grow larger lungs,
our fingers and toes will web,
we will develop a vernacular
of the likeness of whales, dolphins
and other mammals of the sea.

But do not worry, when the torrent does come,
we may be far away.
For now let us partake in hallucinogenics
in the tall forest at night,
and take long exposures of the stars
with our cameras,
and then after take long exposure of each other
with our eyes
and we will see movement.
We will see the frozen waves of the campfire
And our eyes will burn,
And it will make us feel alive
to be next to each other.

And we will travel together to that Great City
of monuments and people and concrete
where people wear their bones on the outside
Wearing rags or the highest end fashion
(lately the two are one in the same)
We can travel the city for miles on foot
eating at the strangest of places
and being able to feel art;
feel the art of the city of the movement
you will find it only aesthetically different from
the Ocean or Forest
it is one, part of this place.
and it is our place,
even if you have not
found it.

This degree is a badge, not a tombstone
or it could me the makings of the next decade
I’ll procrastinate on being an adult
while my father leaves our house and
drives his new used Porsche around,
In the swells I play my Stratocaster
alone in the dark and I’ll make the sounds
of waves and
anger.

I’ll be lifted up by my collar bones
my speech will be the sounds of ripping paper
I’ll lose all contingency
And say good bye to serendipity

It will be my last known surroundings,
The trembling hands of human qualities
Be comfortable, creature, creator,
Let me back in.

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.

I named my dog Diego
and every time, without fail,
my best friend, when he sees him,
says “I want that baby”
and if you get the joke,
good for you.
If you don’t get the joke well,
You’re part of the joke too.

There is a burning sensation right behind the optic nerves of my eyeballs
I have reached 52th and Amsterdam, I am still blocks away from the Cathedral
I told the woman not to wear heels, impractical as they are,
I hope God is noticing the bleeding callouses on her feet.
I can’t walk inside the Cathedral,
for me I am already in it,
this city as an honest temple of man,
in all it’s raw scarring and beauty.
    
  Months go by.
I am nowhere near the apartment off 70th and Amsterdam
There is still a burning behind the optic nerves of my eyeballs
It is frustrating. I have
been recording a song for hours
trying to replicate the static of the waves near the ocean bay
trying to somehow enunciate my words
while still being the right pitch

it is hard
and I am pleasing no one.
And so now I write a poem about it,
listing away all the curious mundanity
of all of it.

waiting outside of the recording studio
near the train tracks and the tall buildings
running out of time.
an old gypsy woman
wearing magenta rubber boots
and riding a  stained crimson fixed gear
passes me, trains come and go billowing
their impatient whistles
as I take double exposures of them and the sky
with my lomo 35mm.
Ate nothing but six shots
of espresso
and a pack of cigarettes last night, with
a side of liquor which
reminded me too much of memories too good
to be worth remembered .

Best advice I've read in three months;
wear sunscreen, and realize that
good advice is wasted on the young,
advice is also a form of nostalgia,
the givers of it reach out to the dirtier parts
of their memories, clean it up into something
hopefully worth salvaging.
another train passes and I start to grow
impatient myself, a long day of work
ahead of me.

(writing this right now)
Because I do not have a writing program on this computer
my notebooks are far away in my car
and because I had this thought which at the moment
amuses me
but i am half asleep
it is late at night so forgive
the rambling of all of this everything.
I will make a confession;
I am bad at hugs
I do not know how to do them

I can hug precisely one person right
and that person holds a very secular place in my heart.
I cannot give or receive complicated handshakes that everyone else gets
My hand just gets confused and flaccid faster
than losing a ***** after an untimely image of your lewd grandmother
hit’s your mind.

I have kissed maybe five girls in my life
Only one I have seen naked (with permission at least)
ha ha that’s a joke
Well. half of that,
Anyway.

Point is, you may not call me the most
lovable person
or the most affectionate
but somewhere
it is there
like the famous light leaks of an old Russian film camera
my love bleeds through if
you look hard enough.

One day soon
I will  voyeuristically
jot down one of our conversations in my
notebook, even if it is only
a droll one, I want a real one.

I can’t make up conversations
when I write
getting that balance between
intelligence and good ole fashion
human mistakes and awkwardness in there
is something I can’t do.

And this poem kind of *****
so I’ll just write a poem about
the conversation I will write down
tomorrow.

It seems to me
that there is a recurring pattern.
it is no secret,
good art of all kinds,
are usually brought forth by
an inner turmoil,
a demon clawing its way out of the body
and often the only way to tame this
thing,
to temporarily salve the wound,
is to create.

For these artist, if they could not do what
they do, they would cease to exist
as we know it,

maybe they would commit suicide
or be lost in the void of their own mind,
who knows,
I just know that they would not last long.

To do art, one must cannot possibly imagine a life
not doing it.
Lately I have found myself extremely
happy and busy,
and poetry has become hard for me.
I try to write one everyday
but while I have many ideas and inspirations
during the day, I get here and they fade.

I am worried. I
have to admit,
I almost miss those
demons.

It seems as if
I have no time
for time.
I do not make enough time
to read all the books I have bought or
learn something genuinely new on guitar.
my short efforts on learning the ukelele
violin and piano have failed.
Not enough time to study and understand
philosophy, or read
over history
Not enough time to dedicate to both school and art,
Not enough ardency for my job.
I have fallen into mediocrity
I resent it. I resent it so.
My album that I am recording is not good enough.
My reading habits are almost nonexistent
My photos are starting to look the same
I used to be above the rest but
they have caught up and are now excelling pass me.
Where am I then?
Am I just the typical hipster philosopher musician
Who’s greatest work will only be seen through
the narrow window of a tumblr poem?
And oh look, another aggravated, angsty poem
on tumblr, how special.
Frankly, I do not know how to balance it all.
And deep down I know even if I found a way,
I might cease to care.
And however many years from now, even if
my album is on the top charts
I have read dozens of books
And learned and experienced so much
I think I will always believe
That I do not know, or do
enough.

Sometimes and often
I attempt to remember how things were
only months ago,
and it seems as if I cannot do so.

I remember memories of memories
Like beaten and old film clips from the 80s.
In the same way old movies and photos don’t look
truly real, because they look different, it’s a whole other
world out there, coloured differently, different clothes
and cameras and lifestyles, except
everyone still acts mostly the same,
I know this but it is still hard for me to know it.

That was me only four months ago.
Things were very
different for me too, it was like another era
that my parents were a part of, not me.
Turns out I’m not much of a me
Without
you.