we're the ones stuck somewhere between a passionate desire for life and a violent desire for death; trying to stop the hour glass from pouring its sand into the bottom half with a cigarette between our finger tips... we are scared and confused and contradictory...

and yea i guess
this is the human race
our compasses all
point to the same fate
but the beauty is seen
by those who dare to stray
we're all natural skeptics, anyway

A way of life (you say you you are not a poet)


A way of life.

A not uncommon phrase.

But still, an *uncommon concept.

What is our *'way' of life?

What is my way of life?

Beyond the supposed-to-do,
Which is a way, pre-charted for you
By others, how does one live
Above and beyond, the day to day?

You say you are not a poet.
I say way.
I say you have chosen a life,
Where words are jewels, choices,
Public choices, to be very praised,
Kicked or worse,
Ignored.

That is a choice. Test is:
I have a way,
Of speaking in my voice,
Saying what I need to say.

I have chosen the way of a poet,
For better or worse.

Don't tell me you are not a poet!
You are out there, to be read.
Courage is not lacking.

You have a way of life.
It is distinguished,
It is dangerous.
Only the brave
Dare come this way.
Craft can be learned,
Courage, never.

If your job is becoming less than a passion and more like a wrecked marriage.
You get up, you take a very deep breath and run.
Run like you're fighting your life, run till it's no longer killing you from the inside.
Because every time you decide to stay, to give it a shot, a try a do-over, you always end up getting hurt.
Even though you never show it, you put on that million dollar smile and get back to trying.
You try until it kills what's left of your will to live, your will to dream, your will to be the person you aspire to be.
You become less like an employee and more like a zombie.
You get up, get dressed, go to work, you wait for that magic hour; 5 o'clock, you go home.
You do it over and over and over, but you don't realize the compromise you've made.
That compromise to save a sinking ship; your marriage to your job, a kind of compromise that will poison your existence and take away not only your life, but every bit of feeling you have left.
So run like there's no tomorrow, run fast to the life you've always wished for.

he had pastel cheeks and thin bones the
color of serotonin,

and

his hands had white callouses that bled
while he slept,
and sometimes when he awoke his lips
whispered of the hushed fluorescent
moon.

when he spoke his voice was as distilled
as a calm ocean tide,
and i wanted to be one of those swimmers to
drown myself in his tremendous
depths.

There was an old man of Boulak,
Who sate on a Crocodile's back;
But they said, 'Tow'rds the night,
He may probably bite,
Which might vex you, old man of Boulak!'