When your arms are too heavy for your shoulders
When your legs can't bear your own weight
When you don't know what to do
But then again, what's new?

When I turned sixteen, I brought a girl home drunk and stumbling
A day later, I was interviewed by the government criminal investigation
Two months later, she was disowned by her parents
Last I heard, she's at a rehab in Florida

It's been a long time since I've seen her.

When I was fourteen, I hid cigarettes in my backpack, and lighters in my wallet
Used to sit in the middle of a basketball court and watch my stress float away in a noxious grey cloud
I stashed my twelve dollar pack of coors in a bush behind the half-wall

It's been a long time since I've seen those.

I was thirteen when I found a papercutter in the drawer of the art room.
Took it home with me, fell asleep to the sound of it scathing in and out of its sheath
I once got so frustrated I wanted to slice my throat with it
I threw it out the window

It's been a long time since I've seen it.

When I was fifteen, I went out with friends and got wasted on chocolate liquor
Two weeks later, *****
the day after, tequila
and the week before, strawberry daiquiri
I don't remember much.

It's been a long time since I've done that.

When I was thirteen, I wrote poetry to sort out my emotions

It's been a long time since I've done that...

when I read Emerson
just the same
as when hearing
Led Zeppelin
or watching
Breakfast at Tiffany's
just a bit of breathlessness,
a spasm of
echoes ringing bells
Cat,
reflecting back,
in my gasps,
about to burst into tears,
touch,
deeply,
I don't understand it.
It,
is in me,
just driving, on on, endlessly,
the motif, the Theme,
rhythm.

A man sits diagonally in front of me
to my left in the diner
Over his shoulder, I see
he’s navigating Facebook
on a cheap laptop
Behind him, I’m writing this poem
Every 13 seconds a notification rings
He has a Facebook message
The notifications are messages from a woman
She types heart shapes in place of words
It is the standard online flirtation
that has replaced real relationships
He is quite popular
as he eats toast with purple jelly
and sits alone

People once came to diners
to chain smoke cigarettes
and drink pots of coffee
and think
and talk
and read poetry
We didn’t have much
but we had each other
Now we’re individuals
who sit in silence
alone

Some of us get chat notifications
Some of us write poems
All of us still get the coffee
and the toast
with purple jelly

Would the happy couple like to come onto the floor for the first dance
Do you take this woman
Would the man in the crowd like to join them for his last waltz
I now pronounce you
The last waltz
No words to be spoken, he promised
Instead, he watched as she danced out of his life forever
She couldn’t keep his eyes from talking, not now
Does he catch your tears and build an ocean
Does he touch your face when you are sleeping
Does he know your spot of misadventure
Does he, does he, does he
The night drinks to life that should have been
The last dance
Would the happy couple come onto the floor for the final time
Mr and Mrs
Would the man in the crowd like to die now
The final goodbye
You look
Shhhh
She presses
Keepsake
Something Blue.

spit fire
swallowed swords
perspire six
bullets shot
arrows at the hoarde
cherub cut the cord
to this cloud nine
contorted to coincide
with the cliche story we
created in our minds
it's only
dragging us behind
the rest of the star dust
and eruptions in the sky
still I can't deny that you & I
seem to be aligned
& perfectly alive
but blinded
by this
blissful chemical
connection blurring boundaries,
any and all direction
I had built up to believe in
I don't see it
anymore.  

well don't you believe in ghosts?
I've heard that you can't see those
but they still make the most
of their state watching us
throw ours away
for rage and payback,
for show.

now you didn't
hear me say that,
it's just a theory
not a proven fact,
but boy,
do those theories hold fast.
alas I am ****** & sanguine,
a paper-hearted substance
& foam lip logic but
you may call me nonsense.

don't ask if
I know when
I'm gunna stop,
cause I'm not.
nope, I'm not.

I write symphonies.
Not with a pen but a brush.
My words aren't spoken.
They are thrown.
They are splattered.
I feel each stroke as a note.
A cellist writing his greatest concerto.
A masterpiece.
And I'm writing for you.