My hands above my head,
I grasp for purpose,
and pull the Sun to my chest.

Circles become arbitrary.
Squares, the cousins of
rectangles are discredited as
man-made. That's why metaphors
known as squares are seen as
vulnerable shapes in a misunderstood spectrum.
They are dotted lines
dependent on right angles,
left ashtray to explain anomalies.

So for order we justify lines.
We contain music within them.
Until, of course, the Holy Ghost
is found. Because that strike
against the canvas is thought
to be premeditated.

But that isn't human nature.
That isn't God.
It will only become recorded
notes on a page.
It's retrospect.
A future remembrance of the past.
It's the Sun in your heart,
knowing that containing that
kind of energy is hazardous
to your health.

My father told me
to **** myself.
Lacking like-mindedness,
thankfully I've never been one
to do as they're told.

Knuckles white,
gripping the steering wheel,
face flush,
my inner monologue tells me
to drive straight through the curve.
A crash a crunch and a click.
This accident had a purpose;
was on purpose.
Upside-down, perspective is vertigo.
Clarity is a crack in the windshield.

Shattered glass lay around me.
Lump in my throat
from a pill too large to swallow.

So I crawl to an antique store
and purchase an urn.
A pull from a cigarette, I tap
the ash into the urn.
When the pack is finished
I place the lid
and hand the contents
to my father.

My fingers bleed
as I scratch the inside of my skull.
Like cleaning out a pumpkin to carve,
removing pulp and fingernails,
and scattering seeds to be planted.
Vacant minded, a candle
placed and centered in my head,
illuminating my eyes
and putting color to my cheeks.

Tape measure stretched,
razor sharp snap back.
Graphite on pine.
Rusted teeth cut deep.
Being boxed in, yet waiting,
anticipating the metal nails to sing
as wood meets wood.

Plumes of smoke escape
the pine structure.
My candlelight depletes along
with oxygen. This containment
only serves to obfuscate while
holding a crowbar.
And the seeds planted above
linger in soil
marinated by wood chips.
All the while the vegetable
shrivels up and cries.

Why do you do the things you do*

You ask.

But I'm stuck
on the beat of your words.
One syllable quips
following one another.
And I
STOP
         Pushed aside, you tremble.
My smile doesn't help.
I was a fool to think it ever did,
in circumstances such as these.
But to be fair, I haven't done
anything wrong.
I was only asked why I am...
me.
And to that, I have no answer.
Better to speculate.
Because the heavy lifting
required would be better if
you backed out.
Lest you through your back out.

Self,
centered,
watching the world burn.
This calm is maintained by
expelling air in between each blink.
Glass is far in sight,
glasses cracked
and not foreseen,
because I'm not a seer.
Blanketed in ignorance,
wrapped: up tight.
Shelf this selfishness, I'm told.
So I consider this advice.
Rearranging the paperbacks.
Misplacing the first editions.
All the math in the world; variables
do not ease understanding
of long division.
So I'm left not right,
have never been alright,
and that is why being centered
is crucial for survival.
That is why becoming adaptable
isn't laughable
while watching the world burn.
It's having a cold disposition
to withstand the heat.

"Which side of the bed is yours?"
You asked.
And I panicked.

I don't believe I have ever been asked.
Not for any particular
embarrassing quirk.
Not much space do I use.
It must be my fear of the bed itself.
To rest my head.
To be touched.
To close my eyes,
and simply
breathe

So you ask which side of the bed is mine and I tell you to take the bed.
I'll take the couch.

This world wasn't meant for me.
To be all that you can be
means you must give in
to giving up one of your desires.

When you can feel your heart
by touching your wrist
you're able to close your eyes
and feel the Earth spin.

That is transcendence.

That is comprehension.

It's what cathartic energy
once was, before sacrifice was
essential for happiness.

This world hasn't accepted me.
I've only learned to
tolerate injustice and
repetitive wrongdoings
that history has tried
to educate the masses with.

They're written in
differing languages and
many books; books that implore
morals and ethics,
but place brothers and sisters
into groups of people
destined to fail.

Simply because
minor differences are easier
to swallow than
major similarities.

That's why this world isn't
meant for me, or you.

We sacrifice
our lungs for shelter,
and our hearts for love.

The need to stare through people
is leaving my eyes crossed,
faster than lines on paper.

Left is the desire to scratch
this itch; an exasperating need
to mark one more line.

What sweet intent leads to
discretionary electrical impulse
that grasps the heart tight,
and stonewalls a swallow.
To recall warm beams of light,
with internal engaging delight,
watching nature bend
towards the will of the sun.

               A Push
A Pull

Gravity
displaying its omnipresence.
Invisible forces
envelope our globe.
Dancing in little corners,
from time to time,
as if meant to
find a lone soul.

A private affair.

To stare at,
not through.
A normalcy embellished
as a miracle,
made for you.

Since adolescence
I have been an insomniac,
something sought after
these days,
by ignorance
masquerading itself as
open-mindedness.

An hour to me is not an hour to you.
The same standards apply,
only because those
restrictions can not be lifted.
Such a beautiful tragedy,
concerning a man made
mandate,
that dictates calendar years
and sixty second intervals.

The sound a scribble makes
at three in the morning is
a continuing story of dark circles
and ever slowly forming indentations
that are everlasting countenances.
The sound dead leaves make
as they're stepped on quickly
shows a path yet to be discovered,
leading to an uncovered face formed
by bark, mottled with sweat
as sweet as syrup.

A petrified face.
Covering a worn sponge.
One willing to grow and absorb.
A tired brain.
Swimming in Dextromethorphan.
Controlling a hand
that extends to yawn.

After counting
sixty sheep,
I'll start my next interval.
One nod to know
it worked.

A person must judge another by their character. Ignorance and bias media make issues out of race. If you are a person that does not understand any movement, then most likely you have never stood up for anything in your life. It is sad that divisions are at play between people when we are all the same. We are humans. Your ***, race, or theology does not matter. What does matter is the fact that people come from different backgrounds. That is the only difference between people. You do not choose your parents. You do not choose your upbringing. A child that is handed everything will not understand the life a child has that only knows struggle. If you do not understand socioeconomic disparity and the reasons why they are in place, you will not understand injustice on a institutional level. When you see other races talking about ideologies such as "white privilege" it is completely justified because there are situations that a white man may not face ever in his lifetime, but a minority is aware of and taught at an early age because they will certainly come across it. The beauty of this country is being able to have an opinion without the fear of consequence, but understand that basic "Rights" are a fallacy. A right can be taken away. That in and of itself is a privilege. There is too much complacency within this generation and ones before it. You must have convictions. You must have beliefs that are not only based around religious faith, but the act of altruism. Does a person need to label something to reach a level a comfortability? No, not at all. That is a common misinterpretation of ignorance, when it is plainly a way to state that knowing what something is does not have to be explained. I'm not sure if some think education stops when schooling is finished, but it's not. And as much as people want to talk about this country and others falling to the wayside, it is because of inaction and not being able to unify and have empathy for others. Your life is your own, but to secure a future and continue progression we must all stand together and not be presumptuous, but rather be protective of community and critical thinking. There are too many losers in the system, and they aren't minorities, they're people not properly educated. You can't erase history as easy as you can erase atrocities that aren't just. Don't put your trust in your government, but your neighbors. But that doesn't mean that you should also exclude social programs that are needed as much as oxygen. This is the life you are given, and it is you decision to stand up or sit down. And if you do stand up, do it for the right reason: valuing life. If this message does not resonate with you, we have nothing in common, and that's fine, but don't talk about current events or social problems that are beyond your comprehension.

- Charlie

Inward apathy is not
to be confused with
sociopathic credence.
It's a blade held to the throat
of the man that wields it.
Never would the cold steel touch
the person who thinks of suicide
as cowardice, but believes bravery
to be disillusionment in the form
of medication, or speaking up and out
offering solutions to problems
that they do not know the variables
that come along with it.

How many teeth make up a smile?
How many lines form a frown?
If lines are infinite,
what does that tell you about
an expression that is countered by
obligatory inquisitive ambivalence.

Shoulders are for tears.
Spines are for intrepidness.
Skin is layered; tough and thick
no matter benevolent or malevolent,
a person's love is misconstrued
as skin deep, albeit it is formed
between synapses.

It's a spark, a fire, the intuition
to never say goodbye
and ignore accountability.

I could not produce a perfect sentence,
so instead I killed my family.
Intricate webs woven,
and little seeds planted.
Words that will not touch a page
let loose a vindictive voice.
That's why your inner voice
finds words like onomatopoeia funny;
it's sharp.

As you project your frustration
into a headache, it passes along.
You try to remember if your family
history has been linked to cancer.

Yet some people will say:
Words Don't Hurt.
But they know.
Because they once
had families, too.

Santa does not visit psych wards. No matter how many times I frequent the hospital around the holidays, St. Nick is nowhere to be found, albeit some nights Jesus Christ's screams fill the halls throughout the night, this baritone of madness slowly becoming a gentle hum that helps me drift off. The chorus in my head sings along to this hymn of psychotic fervor.

The firewood kept beside the fence post was soggy, surly was the evening weather, and Mother Nature was redefining the word torrential

A drop to the eye, rendering it senseless. On one side of the spectrum, a crystal or a rock comes from dirt. Although that other side, the side of the spectrum that enlightens by color. A yellow or a blue or a red are useful.

So by that exploitation will become the
puzzle pieces of which the artist creates. Imagine having a thought cross and be ignored. Saying that, maybe the Earth isn't flat, and maybe a Christmas card is not as commercial as it is ceremonial.

Perception is one side to say, but the gentleman pouring gasoline on a fire is far from the man asking for a drink shaken, not stirred.

When the fire becomes everlasting, water will not quench a thirst for destruction, and that is because there has never been an accident that could ever be everlasting.

The man that knows that does not exit the house with a helmet. He simply raises the proverbial glass and swallows what is in front of him. At times the end brings a sweetness.

The only other times are consumed with a bitterness. One that an artist knows as he takes his shot of whiskey, but not of the man that is readily available to set himself on fire.

That is a drop of rain on your tongue. At the beginning it is too fragile to become a warning, but at the end it is what separates lands and lives. That is why saltwater and tears aren't that much different.

Remember when you told me you forgot your middle name.
And that you didn't remember if you even had one.
That your parents weren't particularly religious; that they forgot God.
And that you've been forgetful lately.
You couldn't
remember
the last time you picked flowers.
Or a president.
Or shot a gun.
Or put a flower in a gun.
And that Vietnam was like Iraq.
And France would bring WWIII.
"What's my middle name?"
You asked.
"Where's the Middle East?"

"Didn't the nukes dropped in the Nevada desert sand create glass?"

"How many windows does this room have? Can you see?"

"The eyes are the windows to the soul."

My eyes feel old
Is what my grandmother would say
when she was tired.
She would play solitaire.
After each game she would
shuffle the deck three ways.
I would always mix them up
scattered on the tabletop.
That's what I remember
from the sixties.

There's no sense in coincidence.
But I found the perfect book for you,
the same day I read your obituary in
the newspaper. These reading materials kept on a locked ward.
You kept buried under ground,
like a secret turmoil your family
could not bear with.
The one you also spoke of.
But that is irony.
Something I do believe in.

"Am I God?"

"I've killed people. I've killed you twice today. Are you God?"

You weren't afraid of your shadow.
But rather the people in the sky.
The peers walking, talking, doing
what they do best.
Dissect the innocent.
Disengage humanity.
Regress until broken,
until shattered,
until sand.

"Am I God?"

You aren't, a ******'s son.
Nietzsche was correct.
God is dead.

At my best.
With a novel in hand,
and one just finished
placed diagonally over
a journal, I can breathe easy.

At my best.
I started drinking again.
It used to be whiskey.
But I've only started with beer
this time around.
The whiskey can wait
till December arrives.

At my best.
Two pills in the morning.
I gave you fair warning.
But you just smiled and
saw trial, not error.

At my best.
You ask me what I'm reading.
Best to be coy, "You've probably
never heard."
But you don't ask, "What's the
meaning of this word?"

At your best.
With me.
During a
transitional
period.
Each of us,
something
in comma.

None of this matters.
My words are stale.
An extended vocabulary is
as pointless as the pencil
this was written with.
My gift of gab may have
made women wet, just as
the ink smeared on my palm,
but dilated pupils do not
read between lines, they only
see yourself in yourself in
yourself. Then you blink.
You blink because an illusion
isn't a fabricated reality as
much as it is a cue from
your damaged brain that has
always reacted faster than
a mouth expelling empty words.
This goes for *** as well.
No matter how many times
you pull out, a disappearing act
doesn't wish away a pregnancy.
Only a pill the morning after can.
And only a ****** is as expendable
as the money left on a bed side table.
Or a mattress without sheets.
Not a man that walks away in
running shoes, not living up
to his full potential.

Art is subjective.
It's composed.
Some paint flowers.
Others find catharsis
through madness.
But with a belt buckle
around my neck,
I know that this will
be my masterpiece.
Tears will be wasted
because peace wil have
been found.
And the mind will
finally embrace the
quiet it so desperately
yearned for.

My ****
in her mouth;
I told her
to choke.

Some may see
me as a writer;
a person who
spins words and
articulates emtotions.
But I'm not sure if
I see myself as
anything more than
a subtle manipulator.
I'll take a feeling
and it will become
a paragraph you can
see beyond farsightedness.
I'm not a seer, but God
help me if I've been
looking for my place
in the world. I'd like to
think that there is more
to my life than the
words I choose.
I've written dozens
of short stories,
and hundreds of poems.
Some say that there is
a novel within us all,
and I'm sure there is,
but that's not what I'm
after. What I'm looking
for is not a snap of the
fingers. Or a bulb
to flash. Not even a
seed to grow. What I
want is a teardrop
that falls in a lake
and creates a ripple
effect that slowly
spreads out. I want
a snowflake to hit
my tongue and not
dissolve from the heat.
Instead what I have
to give is a left hand
pushing a ball point
into paper, disrupting
the flow of the ink.

When my ex took her life,
we were both newly single.
I was out of state,
she was out of mind,
and no one thought to tell me,
because, frankly, she had already
pushed everyone away years before.
We reconnected, while she was
seeing someone, who was taking
advantage of her, as she would later
come to explain. So when I drove
to her parent's home to pick her up
she was apprehensive, but only
because that's what she had been
used to, abused too.

We sat across from each other.
She told me how the last five years
have been long, and she missed me.
I told her it was mutual, but that
might have been a lie. My mind was occupied, hers too, but by voices that
weren't her conscience.

She told me how she
hasn't had sober *** in
a very long time. She told me
that she was a slob. She told
me she had two bottles of beer in
her bag. I had a bottle of whiskey.

We drank, and talked,
and kissed, and ******.
And woke up to each
other the next morning.
I pour her a cup of coffee
before driving her home.
And after the car ride I
Told her I would talk to her
later, and I did.

Then we ended our relationship.
And I told her I would talk to her
soon, and I planned on it, but she
beat me to the punch, and knocked
all the air from my lungs.

This will be the best poem
I will ever write.

Who's to say if it will be my last, but one thing it is not is a first attempt at finding the right words to convey to you.

And finding the right words
has never been a challenge for me,
but ******* if you aren't giving me a run for my money presently, insufferable me with bleeding
tongue resentfully.

I say that word with an intrepid disposition, because I do not resent the person, but the action: The act of unwarranted silence.

I'd like to think you have a limpid conscience of the beautiful woman you are, at peace with yourself, when at the present time you are consumed with future maybes and counting seconds. So maybe adding myself to your equation was selfish, and brought complications when thinking about anything linear, considering all of the variables.

There was only intention to
rhapsodize the zealot I met on a mutual wavelength, a double helix we all share that some of us forget about, yet here is the reversion, the Neanderthal, the ******* who grew a beard to expose himself, looking at this whole experience all wrong.

Instead, there is Royal Purple Prose to look as extravagant as you are stunning.

Now all that's left is cognitive dissonance to later become
addictive retribution.

No one in town knew his name. Generations have passed on, but he was still there. All they knew was the little house on the corner of Brindmore Street. It was a house covered by nature, once thought to be inhabited, but that was far from the truth. Edward Trake lived there; alone and delusional Edward was becoming claustrophobic.

He was now eighty-nine-years-old and had been a resident of the town More for eighty of those years. He worked in More, got married in More, settled in More, but never had children in More. His name would eventually die out, just like his marriage did when his wife Linda knew he was sterile. He forgave her after some time and heartache, but always thought of how things could have been different if he was able to conceive a child. He loved Linda; they got engaged and talked about children, both fond of a family life. After two years of trying they both decided to see a doctor and fix any potential problem. Linda was in full health and in her prime, Edward however was not. He was told he could not produce a child. A month later Linda left.

Linda eventually re-married and had the kids her and Edward had dreamed about. And although Edward was not the man to deliver Linda’s wants he became another father figure in her children’s lives. He became Uncle Edward and was involved in their lives as he would have been if they were his children. The only problem was that they weren’t his children. He was glad to be apart of their lives, but to him it felt like owning a house and sleeping outside. He had the convenience of being in their lives but nothing else. He could not help in their development, because at the end of the day he was just an outsider. Uncle or not he was nothing.

The last time he saw Linda or the children was one of the last times he left his home.

The argument started after Linda’s husband, Allen, had yelled at their seven-year-old Patricia for coming into the house covered in mud. Patricia was in the backyard playing house when she decided to make “mudpies.” Edward loved Patricia’s imagination and often fed into it, but her father was a strict man that lacked in creative thought. To him she was being disrespectful and needed to learn a lesson. The problem: Allen had his idea of discipline firmly cemented, which were lessons brought through physical contact and emotional suffering. Edward didn’t approve of smacking a child, whether they were wrong or right. He knew Linda felt the same way, especially after previous talks of future children they came to agreements on discipline. So, out of respect for Linda he felt that he had a right to step in. He thought the title of “Uncle” meant he could express opinions. Unfortunately he was wrong. After a few years of marriage Linda lost her right to have an opinion as well. Something about one being meek and something about inheritance.

“She was just playing, Allen.” Edward yelled over Allen’s intimidating voice.

“Mind yourself when you’re in my ******* house,” Allen screamed back, directing his attention to Edward. “This is not your child and you have no right to say anything. When you have your own children you can discipline them however you want. And since you can’t have children you should shut your **** mouth.”

Edward was fuming, “You think that’s fair? Do you think you can attack me personally like that?” Edward said while clenching his fists, “You’re something else, you know that? I feel sorry for you.”

“You feel sorry for me?” Allen erupted into laughter. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” Allen continued, “You come here and entertain my kids and wife because I got what you can’t have. I have a family, you loser. Why do you think my wife left you? Because you can’t have kids? No, it’s because you’re a loser. Now get the **** out of my house.”

Edward stood still. He was doing his best to stay calm, but Allen was hitting him where it hurt. He knew about his insecurities because he knew Linda’s past.

“I’m not leaving with you like this. I couldn’t care less about you, I’m here for the kids.” Edward said, still holding back his frustrations.

Allen looked at Edward in shock.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but you have two ******* seconds to leave my house. Now!”

Allen screamed while cracking his neck. He was ready for a confrontation with Edward.

“This is Linda’s house, too. In case you forgot.”

Allen charged after Edward. Edward stood still and when Allen drew near he reacted swiftly. Allen tried to hit him and missed. When Allen leaned back to throw a jab, Edward landed one clean punch to his jaw. Allen dropped to the floor and was out cold. Patricia ran out of the room screaming and crying, and Linda stood there in disbelief.

“Get out of my house,”
Linda’s monotone voice sending shivers down Edward’s spine.

“What?”

“Get out of my house now, Edward.”

“But-I-but...I was trying to stop him.”

“You have no right. You need to leave.”

“Linda, I know you don’t mean this.”

“I do, and you’re not welcome here anymore,” Linda said through teary eyes.
“You should go before Allen wakes up.”

“If I leave now I won’t be back.”

“I know. Now go before he wakes up.”

Linda walked to the front door, opened it, and stood beside waiting for him to leave. He looked at her and they both had tears running down their cheeks, silently sobbing. He walked toward her and they stood there, speechless. He tried to speak, but found it impossible. He leaned in, and kissed her cheek, then stumbled over his feet as he walked out. She stood at the door as he walked off. After five steps he turned around to see her still standing by the door.

He stared at her for a minute, which felt like an eternity, before he found his voice.
“I still love you,” he finally said.

“I don’t love you. I have Allen.”

“I know that’s not true.”

“Edward, you’re not my husband. Allen is and you need to accept that. *******, you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“I was your husband, Linda. I love you, and I know you still love me.”

“You’re mistaken,” She said through tears, “Now go. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

He walked off and never looked back. He knew he was out of line, and couldn’t put her through this. He walked off and never had the chance to see if she saw him walk off into the distance. When he vanished from her view he also vanished from society. He felt his life was pointless without having Linda and her children in his life.

At the age of eighty-nine he decided he couldn’t dwell on this incident anymore. He lived a long life, maybe not the happiest of lives, but a long life nonetheless. He went into his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. He was staring into the prescription bottle help firmly in his wrinkled hands. His sleeping pills were his fate. Twenty pills would give him the sleep he has been searching for. He wanted to leave this life through sleep and enter the next life feeling fully awakened.

He took his medication, not recommended by his doctor, and rested his head for the last time.

One week after his death he had a visitor. It was the first visitor he had in over thirty years.

Unaware that the man she was looking for was dead, Patricia knocked on the front door and eventually left. Before leaving she left a letter in his mailbox.

Dear Edward,

You not might remember me, but you were at one time involved with my mother. My mother, Linda spoke very highly of you. After my parents divorced she was hesitant to contact you, and she wasn’t sure if you were still around anymore. I loved the times we would have when she would talk about her youth, and your name was always brought up. I believe I heard your name said more than my own father’s name. I spent the rest of my years wondering where the man my mother was so fond of ended up. After a few years I was able to reach a few people that led me in the right direction. When I told my mother what I was doing she was very supportive and wanted to know every detail as it came along. Unfortunately she passed on before I could find you, but I know that her will is still as strong as it was when I told her about my decision to find you. In Heaven or on Earth I know she would be delighted that we could have the chance to reconnect. I’m sorry if this is too big of a shock to you, but I knew deep in my heart I had to find the man that was so special to my mother. I hope you are well and this letter is still significant after all of these years. And thank you for being by my mom’s side through her worst even though she wasn’t aware it was at the time. I am grateful even if she wasn’t at the time. I hope we can meet soon.

*Sincerely, Patrica.

College dreamers,
trust fund seams broken down
like veins after repetitive prods.
Drinking days
are alliteration accented
because two
dollar drinks deserve denotation.

A hangover that brings
clarity is irony;
a sad realization made
after a night of excess.
A drop of vulnerability
and personal accountability
is desperation, and preference
at this point is permissible,
yet premature.

Face buried, between the sheets, wrapped in legs and lust,
books thrown against a wall.
Classes are dropped faster
than broken furniture
and one night stands.
And **** the taste.
We're all chasing that last sip
that brings a confidence
to think rhythmically.

From the days of arranged marriages to the current remarks about **** culture, it seems that no one is ever meant to be happy. Either settle or keep their peace, and understand that for every idiom there is, another is written to contradict the former. For example: The pen is mightier than the sword, but leave it to a lover to stab you in the back.

The same finger you use to wipe a tear will later be used to point and accuse. This is the figurative punch called emotional abuse. It's the air that escapes your lungs faster than leaving the atmosphere, ascending to a place called Heaven, but free falling to a home known as Hell.

What starts out as fingertips delicately caressing skin leads to a poke then a piercing sensation. It's standing with your right hand over your heart, speaking trivial, incoherent words, as your left side goes numb and your newly acquired slack jaw can easily be the reasoning you never hoped for.

Only a misanthrope can find understanding in distance, knowing that it has nothing to do with making a heart grow fonder. Isolation is conceived with a utensil, using a wandering eye to beseech a vast vocabulary and an abundant color palette.

The man that wrote purple mountains majesty wasn't staring at a landscape, but rather a wall in a room with a closed door. And every love letter written was never meant to be sent, it was only after something was lost that something was gained.

I spent a day sleeping, or at least
covering my face with a blanket.
Then night came around.
And my body ached.
My mind was preoccupied.
I thought of all the ways I could
take my life.
I've tried pills, but I always throw up.
I don't own a gun, but I've
done the research.
But one thing I did do was fashion
a noose, from a blanket that couldn't
cover me. I placed it around my neck,
and thought of where my life was headed, such a joke conceived for
an ill person at their wits end.
Now I lay on my hands, keeping them
from being idle. After I rub my neck.
Waiting for the courage to ignore the
value in the little things.

July 6, 2012

"Blind Sea"

Marked, said to be,
I'm losing you, slowly,
but surely.

Fallible, it seems.
Love lost, unforeseen.
Tell me, now,
not knowing differently.

Horizon line, in all is bent.
Hand imprint on sand.
Tears sent out to sea.
Captain this ship.
Its capsize was meant,
to be.

Fire works,
as an opposing element.
Overhead, wind sweeps the air.
Pulling apart; distressed, the flare.

Beautiful is the night, at its
darkest shade.
All is still, beckoning for a whisper.
Then the deck overflows with heat.
Bodies never felt are touched,
communication brought with it,
a raid.

One can only hope to keep dignity.
When people panic, you see
their true colors.
The Captain rests with his ship.
The others, have others.

*Do you remember drowning?

Racing thoughts are not an
internal contradiction.
It's not crying while laughing.
It most certainly is not an inept,
young adult that describes
their mood-swings as being "bipolar."
Don't fret,
because I will explain,
in depth.
At this given moment I can list pages upon pages of what it isn't. And that's the point, maybe, considering that these racing thoughts have created enough points to produce a stippling picture of an overall paranoia.

Four days into this headache, an unattainable inquiry is not reason.
It's not reason.
Not reason.
Not reason.

At this point in my life there is nothing to achieve by convincing strangers of my sanity. No matter how many times I may try and blink a person away, it just leaves me with tired eyes, and in the end, less credibility. I'm gasping for air with a plastic bag wrapped around my head, praying that my body can find peace and not twitch. But I'm fooling myself, like a friend, your friend. One that exclaims love and intimacy, but is given a kiss on the forehead, blocking my third eye.
Then after a tumultuous day of unknowing and racing thought, I'm left in a neurotic state, waiting for a cool down period before I'm left
toxic and unwanted.

+91364727-37474838

BLACK MAGIC, **** YOUR WIFE, **** A TEENAGER, *** TO MOUTH, FREE PROSTATE EXAM.


Try writing from your heart, with a hand that won't  quit shaking, and lungs that might explode from anxiousness, only to see your words
be drowned out by a combination of words made to make cents, but heavy lacking on sense. A mind that cycles is like a firefight with your synapses looking for that spark. It's electrifying and mind-blowing, these moods that take months to overcome. Electrifying are the manic months, ones where you hide bank statements, where you penetrate a woman both mind and body. Mind-blowing is the depression, and the barrel of a pistol clenched between your teeth, as you open up your junk mail hopelessly searching for a letter sealed with a kiss.
But it doesn't exist.

How do you write poetry?
Do all of the lines have to rhyme?
Because I'm lost as ****.
Haven't had any luck.
Knowing this was a waste of my time.

A cold sweat forming
on my brow, you offer me
half your seat because
I look morose, and I tell you
in a contemptuous voice
to not dare take advantage,
but your need for closure
outweighs my need to mouth
the word friendship to you,
yet you focus on my lips hoping
to inch your way closer.
I guess you confused my
narrowing eyes for eyes of
lust and appreciation.
And don't get me wrong,
I do appreciate you
as a person,
but right now I do not feel
the need to be looked at as
a play thing. I'm not a *****
kept in your nightstand.
I'm not a blanket
made of boyfriend material.

Sleep's unattainable when
you've found the girl
of your dreams.

The little black book I keep next to my journals sits on a bookshelf I made from recycled wood. A fresh coat of paint may hide a splintered past unknown to me, but that is of zero importance when refurbished trees that died for a purpose hold books containing paper collected from a different tree that is now dignified in service.

One that expands as more hot air is blown, and shrinks when cold shouldered. The little black book holds numbers without faces, but the pocket in the back holds a face that could never be confused as paint by number.
It maps out the girl I've been searching for that never deserved a page in this book of lust, only the pocket in the back that will one day accept my trust.

And the reason this little black book is kept on the recycled bookcase is because the paper is also recycled, the same as the trash that litters the pages.

The 20th century a new philosophy was introduced: Existentialism.

Existentialism is pertaining to human existence, and finding our ideal self, along with the meaning of life through free will. This German philosophy must have been confusing, because not long after the beginning of the next century, free will showed us that eradication and apathy can be achieved by "following orders" and not questioning the ideals of your country's ideology.

The idea of this philosophy is that humans are searching for who they are and what they will become by the choices they make based on their experiences without the complications of laws, traditions, or ethnic rules. Now, the ivory and ebony pieces that lay atop the granite chess board are one of a handful of acceptable, yet objective black and white cohabitations that can't function one without the other.

Strategically sound is the sycophant. Then in reference to people, how easy is it to spot a Parasite when trying your hardest not to be stereotypical? That is why it's easier to hate a person because the color of their skin rather than their theology and ancestry.

This idea of free will is sometimes misconstrued as a hindering factor in reference to the education system. Our foundation is put in place at an early age; this is our fundamental axis, and this reasoning is acceptable because
of our commitment and trust in conditioning ourselves.

And when you need to teach youth about hate and pass it off as love, you must regulate the educational systems, and propaganda needs to be subtle yet exposed in mass media and entertainment, along with chalkboards and textbooks.

Considering the learning differential, people who use a different side of their brain than a peer have a chance of excelling in their studies of specific subjects; however, this does not apply in all cases. See science and language as objective, and abhorrence as once subjective with an edit and an asterisk.

One factor is assumptions made regarding social structure. And this is what happens when something is driven by an economic imperative. But statistics are heavily confusing and easily manipulated when some groups of people are thrown figuratively and literally into ghettos.

This has made people a taxable commodity, but not one for a universal vantage. The reason for that has to do with the socioeconomic status of certain communities. Then again, when a country is at war with itself, being drafted will provide an individual with the necessary rations, and when you're wearing a uniform, bank statements do not matter.

From this point on we can put people into two classes: academic and non-academic.

None of which matters when you're staring at the barrel of a gun: automatic or semi-automatic.

I wrote this in the dark.
Because the last poem stripped
from the book binding and ripped
from my chest was not valued at
the utility company's worth; a two-hundred dollar bill is not easily disbursed when each
poem nets zero cents per word.

A candlestick will
dematerialize faster than
a wax seal on parchment -
one that establishes the epoch of
Civil Rights -
this is a correlated falsehood
of fixed rents in a gentrified neighborhood.

The plus-side of *******
the poor to cater to the wealthy
is that when the new occupants
move in, and the stainless steel
refrigerator is moved in, the empty
box is placed at the curb, and with
the right imagination it can easily
become a home for two.

If I had known that I was going to
be the last man inside you, not long
before your last breath left your lungs
and escaped your body along with
your tortured soul, I would have saved
us both the time and trouble.
Let love be!
Oh naive me!
Of course we both knew the troubles
your mind conjured, and maybe my
lack of intimacy was torturous, however, not all of the sweating and
moaning could be forsaken,
as foreplay was eased into,
which was wrongly confused as
a careless flick of the wrist.
But I suppose you knew your body better, and could take yourself
places that no one else ever could
without having their arms
pulled behind the back
and secured tightly, because
when you flicked your
own wrist and became
wet and flush,
the only moaning you did was accompanied with wincing
eyes and curled toes.

Now I'm reading the newspaper,
and your name sticks out, screaming
at me, exclaiming riddles that you can
never answer. And the one that leaves
me the most unnerved is the one right
before me, becoming moistened by
misunderstood teardrops.

What is black and white
and red all over?

I ask you,
but I know now
that you can never again
answer my call.

So I'm left with only one of
two options, both of which
feel like a handful. I can delicately
place a flower atop your new
home among the rest, or
I can palm dirt as you are
slowly lowered down and
covered with the mound
that lay beside the congregation
that finishes their final goodbyes.

What if you're the addict that has accepted the first step a long time ago, while lines tallied up against years, and once familiar folk have given up hope long after patience; there's you first squatting in the corner of a house you barely know, with people you just met, and you shoot water in your veins, now on bent knees, praying this water is holy enough to ease the pain. The immaculate fix.

Arms outstretched, facing east and west, needles as big as nails delicately caressing the flesh and resting on sweaty palms, emaciating by way of lust and fear. No Will. No Power of Attorney. No Will Power.

They say Adam walked with Eve in the garden, and it was Eve that bit the apple. But you never hear the part about Adam killing Eve with silence. Adam was the snake. And of course above, and beyond, omnipotence comes with the added responsibility of design. "Would you consider yourself a Type A personality or a Type B personality?" The doctor asked.

One suicide and one admission to the psych ward should always be coincidental, but in case it's not and silence becomes deadly you must keep a straight face. Let the guilt mentally choke you, like a murderer choking the life from their victim. You look around the ward to find that there are no staircases. But empathy and keeping that straight face will lead to discharge, and programs, and twelve steps.
And you know when you get to that final step, it takes only one more
to push off and fall away.

The popularity of ten word poems
is more frustrating than the excessive use of exclamation points. Vonnegut may have thought of semicolons to be transvestites, but a readily available exclamation is the patron at a restaurant asking which farm the free range eggs have come from. To which you respond politely, while pinching your thigh. And the ten word poem is far beyond the measure of either punctuation. Those ten words are the publicly shared suicide note, crying for help, and seeking validation in the form of a digital thumbs up.

Overindulgence
can be habit forming.
A **** with diction
expounding
addiction will provide
rudimentary confliction.
Therein lies the problem
engraved on a needle
thrown in a haystack.

A **** or addict
can only shoot up
in a barrel that smells
of dead fish for so long
before stagnant water
leaves a residue and
film that peels off
quicker than a
week long scab.

To search for clean cotton
resembles digging through
a trash can for ingredients to
prepare a five course meal.
Flatware covered in water spots
are placed on a napkin that
doesn't dare dab chapped lips.

Fork to the left,
knife to the right,
and bent spoon shoved
in the back pants pocket.

If life is a box of chocolates,
overindulgence is the empty
box buried at the bottom of a
trash can. Struggle becomes a
wet glassine bag in an empty
wallet. And death is a pair of
silver bracelets. This is all about
over-extending, because if one
is enough, then two is too much.

It's about who you know in a room
full of strangers. Often times it's
fashioning a blindfold while
squinting to hear whispers.

Some may even consider the use
of a napkin to blot lipstick so a
collar presented at a later time
can be given a delicate touch.

And the manipulative know that
it's easier to **** someone with a kiss
than to completely rely on *******.

And lest we forget the crude that
claim ignorance when referring to
spit slowly sliding down someone's
skull as proper lubrication.

This all proves that ****** fluids
that contribute to a body of work
is priceless, especially Crimson.

To manage this all requires an
everlasting recipe. This is cake
made with blood, sweat, and tears
compared to the uncooked cake
left dormant in a box.

Preheat the oven.
Lower the libido.
More sugar..
A Country Crock...
Serve cold.

If rock bottom is melted ice;
diluted whiskey becomes the last
drink the goes down far too easy.
Red eyes stay dry because of a cap
left off a bottle that succumbed
to evaporation, and squinting to read
the ingredients is as useful as calling
the Sandman for a loan. That's proof
that sleep doesn't cure all ailments.
Try biting into a cactus for a drink
of water and swallowing with a barb
lodged in your throat. You would have
better luck winking with both eyes and
smiling with no teeth. Hope for an
eye-patch and set of dentures, or a
gun to the temple loaded with blanks.
That's the amount of sense everything
makes when you're stuck between a
rock and a hard place, or thrashing
in quicksand. So when you set fire to
wooden bridges or cut cables of steel
the width of a forearm you're left with
a cracked foundation and the body of
a home carried miles away by a cyclone
of wind. Just hope you're not a continent
made of ice that melts and swallows the rest.

This bar of soap
has been in my mouth
for far too long.
Foul words do not become encapsulated by bubbles,
nor does bubble language follow intrinsic guidelines as much
as it may be visceral.
In all actuality it is simple chalk
on simple sidewalks
that wait for gray clouds to release their collective and
wash away the different
colors into a storm drain
that teenagers throw garbage into.

At this point it's knowing
which soap tastes the best,
and hoping and praying that
a single curly hair is not lingering.

Drug addiction killed the writer.
Long before longhand became slow talk from a slack jaw, I was closing my eyes, not knowing whether or not I was tired or nodding.

Insufflating, incomprehensible snorting, the sound a nose makes when one is in disgust. As ugly as this euphoria is, I can't stop. Or I won't stop. That is why this writer is dead.

How many times can you wake up from an intentional overdose? More than three-hundred and sixty-five. **** it, because one day becomes one year becomes one lost person that is not only insufferable, but also a person that is no longer provocative, no longer privy to a responsible privacy that every man deserves.

So, as a man loses his privacy, that which we all seek, he can only close his eyes, because of drugs or not, and hope and pray that this is the night that he reaches eternal sleep.

A man spoke the truth,
and had his tongue removed.
His hands were left intact,
so he started to write the facts.
The men that articulate falsehoods,
came back to take his hands.
They searched far and wide,
including foreign lands.
He sat with pen and paper,
locked away on his own accord.
The men took his hands,
hoping thoughts could reach The Lord.
But this did not deter him,
because he lived for the truth.
And as long as he lived,
he would continue like in his youth.
But without a tongue he couldn't say:
You'll have to **** me to get your way.

An old friend invited me to his lake house, surely to get away he mentioned.
A dock leading to a pristine lake, not a ripple in sight. He left spare keys on an island table. Said he would be back in a few hours, apologized, and instructed me not to go into the boathouse, something or other about it being repaired. His headlights hit the home and by the lake until it hit the gravel ahead. I walk to the pier to get a better view of the lake. To smell whatever it is that you smell at times like these. The pier is maybe fifty feet. The boathouse is at the end towards the left, not exactly hidden by shrubbery, at least not maintained in a few years. Surprisingly the door opens easily. Light is scarce. Water is beneath. I'm not country nor wealthy enough to know that not all floors are solid.
A switch is to my right. It enluminates a workbench. Tools are absent, besides some rope to tie boats, I suppose. Instead it is covered with pictures. All of a boy. Possibly seven. I'm intrigued, delighted being a lie or an embellishment. Many photos are taken at this location. On the pier or besides the house, as others are taken at places I'm not familiar with. There's a photo with a boat, the boy is sitting and smiling, saying cheese with as much force as a wave. Under the workbench is that very boat. Flipped over, but still kept. I stand still for what seems like minutes. I'm walking toward the house pulling the door shut behind me. I make my way to the kitchen. Married couples always have notepad and dry erase boards hanging around. They did.

*I decided to head back to the city. The air here is too clean for me. Also, I went against your wishes and went into the boathouse. I'm sorry for your son. Your loss. I haven't touched a thing in my boy's room for six years. I keep the door shut. I'm afraid I'll drive myself crazy, ya know, just sitting on his bed and he runs in to grab and go. It's completely irrational, but so is burying a child. I know that I won't be all smiles when you return, possibly you as well after reading this, but I felt compelled to act and explain. Call me if you want to talk, I'm not sure I can give guidance on how to cope, but sharing stories is always good for the heart. All the best