Done…

Done, is the drink in his hand.

Done, dim are the lights,

last call.



As faces fade,

and the door opens,

lonely is the man,

that fails.



A shift in seat,

eyes wandering,

left to right.

While all the while,

he wrote;

he writes.



October air,

carries,

the man home,

to the streets.

Yuppie < Beatnik,

in public,

he speaks.



Parked,

in a bench,

his bed.

Words written, they

position his neck,

he rests his head.



Morning, glory!

Next day, reprieved!

and,

joints rustle,

as leaves are blown by the wind.

Away goes the old,

death is easily carried,

away.



This life,

his life,

carried away.

Not knowing,

that,

destruction is beautiful.

It only takes one’s self,

to realize.



To realize,

a beauty that:

Is not at the end of a bottle.

Is not an ashtray full of butts, or

of what ifs.

It’s not lights out.



It’s the glimmer in someone’s eye.

The morning dew,

that reveals,

the previous night.

It’s the ink, bleeding.

The newspaper that crumbles.

The makeshift home,

that conceals,

a lost soul.

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.

Through the day,
until the end,
I stare at you,
my on loan friend,
I can't relate,
I feel displaced,
you are the worst of the human race,
I stand and stare,
and pull my hair,
us together just isn't fair,
but we have to work,
though you'll stand and lurk,
you're just a misplaced quirk,
annoyance throughout my day,
my vehemence barely stays at bay,
and all I can think to say,
is that...

*You can go **** yourself.

It was raining.
On this damp May evening, my mother turned to my sister and asked her to refrain from speaking to me.
Pensive is the word she used.
My sister heard the word "pencil" and thought I was sick with lead poisoning.
I remember her checking the room for different writing utensils, she was looking to hide them as you do the knives when the depressed family member comes for a visit. Such a sweet girl to take the graphite and leave the eraser. I'm sure it was a subconscious gesture, or made with complete disregard, but nevertheless I was smiling.

The first time I fell in love, I was standing up straight, head over heels. A web browser was open before me, asking the difference between love and anxiety. Later did I come to find that the former and latter are more similar than most know or care to know. One night while looking at her lips and glancing at her eyes, she told me I was adaptable. That was the first time I questioned love for lust.

My grandfather started crying.
His hands, those of a carpenter, were holding his face. There I sat across from him, hairs on my neck standing, praying for him to speak first. He always spoke first. He would also tell me to stop him if I've heard the story he was going to tell, although I never did. But the story happening before me was one I wanted to stop but couldn't. Never have I seen this man cry, and that would be the only time I ever would. Two years later he had passed on peacefully.
By then it was my turn to cry.

Some remember the words they've spoken. Others the words they've heard. But I can recall all of the times I've sat in silence. The moments and memories I hold in the company of the ones I love or have had love for are some of the more quiet times in my life. The only quiet which can rival that told above are the times that I've spent putting word to paper. And those are the quiet times I can't remember offhand, but I can always revist. Those quiet times are kept in the walnut filing cabinet.
Right beside the
photograph of the cabinet maker.

The day you taught me how to cross a street was
the first time I remember my anxiety.
Lungs expanding, mouth shut
and seemingly everlasting.
Pulse rising, brow moist,
too young to know the innuendo.

"Look both ways," you said.
And I did.
At the time I listened to you,
your words; guidance bestowed
upon me, not only because of your
responsibility and obligation,
but because of love.

As time went on,
it was easier to disregard
your words.
I would look both ways,
and after a while I knew
you weren't behind me.

After a while, I was glad
that you weren't.
You never took my training wheels off,
because I had never rode a bike,
but I learned how to cross a street.

I would look both ways,
cross,
setting my own direction.
And when I learned to
ride a bike at twenty-two,
you still weren't behind me,
and I was drunk.

Wind in my face,
eyes closed,
light shining through
my eyelids.

With closed eyes,
you can't look both ways,
or appreciate the innuendo.

Tripping.
Tripping,
Because…
Because society says so.
That’s why.
Tell me I’m wrong,
When…

You have war in the streets, but
I’m wrong to complain.
And you ridicule,
Free thinkers,
And you call them insane.
When you try to take liberties,
That are permanently engraved.

And sell us consumption;
****** abundance;
Utter redundant,
Dreams among us.

Marketing schemes,
Big budget dreams,
Jobs that disappear,
But,
Keep optimistic,
Don’t fear.

Take a trip in your nation,
Consumed with corpulent creatures,
Once known human,
Easily seen,
Wiping Big Mac sauce from their lips,
Clutching Old Navy Bags,
Drinking Starbucks coffees.

Little change do you receive,
From a store,
When it all goes on plastic.

What people don’t realize,
Is that credit,
Is misplaced poverty.
And people speaking their minds,
And making a difference,
Are treated with disrespect,
It’s humanities ignorance.

So next time,

You see a man on the street:
Playing a guitar;
Singing a song;
Painting a portrait;
Projecting a message;
Getting along.

Think this:

There are a lot of way to describe credit.
Only one for money.
You can want to make money.
Or you want to deserve credit.

It only depends on how, you
Think of that.
But one thing that’s always true,
Is the sound of change,
Hitting the inside of a cup.

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.

It seemed as if,
you fell into my blade.

Searing pain, screaming
my name.
Hand gripping chest, and finger
points to me.
I'm to blame?
I'm to blame.

Bitter.
Sweet.
Your eyes running,
while you stay stationary.
I lick your tears,
because...

I've waited;
menacing stares are dry,
there isn't need,
for moisture.
Solidity gone, against,
soluble grain.
I've waited for your tears;
I've missed them.

But in the end,
when your misadventures,
become takes of legend,
I will take pleasure.
A tale is a tale,
but a corpse is a tally.

The handle
to the front door won't budge,
but it can still be locked
from the inside.
The overgrowth is five years
in the making, vines took over
this home of once improvement.
I don't believe we ever
owned a gas can.
A boarded up pool.
The one in which the dog died.
His body was as bloated as my eyes. The puppy in the pictures still hung in the basement beside the kicked in window.
Leaves and insects rest
on the linoleum floor, a cohabitation that was formed out of vacancy.
A long dresser left ajar from wood paneling, insects crawling around,
not that one would know how they
got there. Old paperwork and letters survived. The assumption is that the moths never arrived to join the spiders nestled in their leaves.
Both longhand and typed sentences that spoke of longing, love (young love), happiness, direction, and lastly evaluation. Broken glass fixed against the dresser, a reflection shows.
The dirt and grime is of a
subconscious level.
One that exceeds the proximities
of the appropriate metaphor.
So what is seen is loss.
And although this occurrence
comes as a new beginning, the best solution at the given moment may perhaps be a broom and a dustpan.

Once upon a time
There was a story never told
A soul that was unknown
A man who grew too old

Privacy was his game
This game he played so well
Secrets aren't of shame
In retrospect they were sometimes swell

Mr Hermet's shell grew too small
Enough to make him crabby
Too many objects to hold
The man looked surly and shaggy

Like a grape in the sun you find
All the years past weren't too kind
The texture soft and wrinkled
This man still undefined

The tears run like waterfalls
Too quick to slow down

Same as the time this man has left
Not enough to make amends
Maybe some to gain respect
If not, go ahead let the end commence
But all in all he did his best

I don't like the fit of my pants, I think. She is wearing a black dress. Probable that it is her favorite. She often mentions her closet, her designer clothes, but they go unnoticed. She owns many, but this particular dress she wears more frequently.
She is in a good mood.
Her life is falling apart.

Where to next, she thought.

What is this now, I think.

We are sitting at a restaurant downtown. I order my second beer. Our waitress leaves us to our thoughts. I sip my beer and wait for her to speak. She takes a sip of her water. I can see that she is tapped out.

Drained.

Purity is filtered.

I rest my hand on top of hers. She keeps her eyes on her glass. The past month she has not made eye contact when I touch her. She keeps her eyes closed when we have ***. It would be silly of her to close her eyes and picture me while we ****, but a man can dream, right? I remove my hand. I sip my beer and wait for her to speak. She takes a sip of her water.

"Are your eyes open when you **** him?" I ask.

She does not falter. She orders a gin and tonic. Our waitress leaves us to our thoughts.
I sip my beer and wait for her answer.

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.

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

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.

Wake up. You need to get up and do something. All you have done is slept. Get up. Wake up. You're wasting time. You're wasting yourself. You're useless. Get up. Wake up.

How many sleeping pills does it take to end this? Where can you purchase a gun, illegally?

Wake up! Get up!

Remember that time you were a child. The phase you had with melting pen caps on lightbulbs? I'd walk in your bedroom and hear a sizzle. You standing in front of the source. Black-handed. Sometimes red-handed. Really depending on which pen you tore apart.
My poor peculiar, special little boy.
It's time to wake up.
You must get up now.

A shot of Jack and a lager.
Thanks.
Ravenous gulps.
Scribbling on napkins.
Little one box ideas.
Multiple pens. Different ink.
Couple notebooks.
Exacto blade, one that looks like a carpenter's knife.
Some masking tape.
Never deny the importance of masking tape.
Keep drinking. Keep producing.
Try sleeping in the morning.
No need to wake up from this high. Walk home. Keep procuring ideas.
Take a nap on a desk.
Buy a bus ticket.
Wake up six hours away from home.
No bag.
Some money.
Look for a terminal.
Look terminal.

A heart is most likely a bed.
It stays asleep.

Home, in a bedroom.
Curtains drawn. Shoulders carrying the weight of the world. I'm tired and I can't move and my body hurts and my eyes keep tearing. And I'm curled up and I don't want to feel like this. And the incessant ringing of the phone is unbearable. And I'm being told to wake up, but I think I'm dreaming. And this reality is absurd. Any reality is absurd.
And maybe I'm not sleeping.
Who's to say I'm even laying here.
My eyes can't be open.
Both eyes are ******* closed.

Why can't I get up?

Small specs of white scatter the night sky.
Each illumination is unfamiliar, and so distant.
The worst part: Looking up is looking at the past.
The scattered sky is littered with ancient visions; death has never been so apparent.

I stare above, watching the lights with an admiration.
My sub-conscious is as scattered as the surly sky.
My past is also the only light I see.

Everything I think is comparison in theory.
If I can't be certain I can't misconstrue an empty perception.
I stare above, deep in thought, my universe is speaking.
My intuition glows, as the North Star guides me.

Out of class; out of state; out of mind. Carelessness implied; wrong questions with answers to find.

And perception viewed and seen as shame. But, coming from the shadows, I say I'm not to blame. Only if strangers knew the real side of things. As anxiety expands and spreads its wings.

So my disposition would be clear. And people would know I believe in fear. It is represented through a single tear. People aren't prophets, they're not seers.

And that might be the reason I hold composure. Knowing there aren't cameras; no exposure. No bright lights as the clouds part. A notion that stings and steals my heart.

With all that said I wonder why I feel lost. When my mood dictates weather, and the earth sees frost. So yes, I act cold. Some see bold.

But that is the farthest from the truth. I'm just the image of confused youth. The mental equivalent of mental abuse. Yes...confused.

It brings my mind to a bind. As I state: Out of class; out of state; out of mind.

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.

She was eighteen.

She was eighteen.
I was approaching twenty-five,
closing in on seven years bad luck.
Never did I fool myself,
knowing that every few years a reflection shatters,
and broken pieces are left to be cleaned up.
It is important to find
the differential in conversation
between adult and child.

As we are life, young life
is only a little less prepared
to comprehend the fact that
many answers will evade us.
Effect is a noun.
Affect is most commonly a verb.
Maybe that is why we become jaded.
Maybe that is why we use the word innocence.
Children hope to find a wisdom
that they believe adults hold.
After so long children will begin
to seek their own wisdom.

My eyes were running.
Thoughts, too.
Whatever this was
that had taken over me
was...confusion.
Overall confusion.
Of course counter that with anger,
vulnerability,
mostly adrenaline,
and you get whatever this is:

A disconcerting wetness.

Only when the leaves die…
Time changes; days shorten and nights lengthen.
I fall as the colors change.
I fall as the temperature changes.
This proverbial color wheel is always on time,
it happens every year, and yet my comfort stays the same.
There is no change, same expression, that of a surly disposition.
Not having the warmth of sunlight might be a factor, but
I need to learn how to change my schedule.

Like a monster peering at a full moon; the Harvest moon is gleaming at me, taunting.
I stare at my hands, which gradually turn red.
The weather has me feeling cold.
I’m cold.
Less time; less sunlight; less patience; more irrational thought to consume.

Orange rays of light turn to a dark sky with an orange orb.
A prophecy that is told light-years away; a lifetime away that’s not in reach.
I hold my red hands above my head as I try to grasp the orange glow.
And deep down I know that is the wheel turning; the color wheel turning counter clockwise.
My world is shattered while staring above.
Everything is going back, but not in time.
Time has slowed. My universe is spinning too fast.
I’m disoriented.

I suppose this is normal.
I should know this is a constant in our world.
Seasons will change.
Time will change.
People, places, things.
But, I’m at a loss for words.
I keep thinking of nouns, when I can’t place the right verb.

Hours will pass and the days will pass.
Days will turn into weeks.
It will become colder, and that is when warmth is needed.
I need body heat.
I need to be surrounded by loved ones, but…
But that also takes time.
It is a transitional period.
It is to a degree.
Or for a lack of better words: It’s adding wood to the fire.

Crying is pointless.
Tears turn to icicles in a matter of seconds.
Which is self-loathing frozen in time.
And as the months move by…
The sun shines brighter; melting my sorrows and eventually evaporating.
My fears and troubles rise above me.
They get lost in the clouds.
And those days when it rains,
when people feel uneasy.
I know it’s our troubles falling back down.

The temperature rises, and I am content.
I hold my hands above my head as I try to grasp the orange glow.
And it feels good…
It’s good.
Until, everything starts to change once again.
And then I fall into my yearly routine.
Only when the leaves die…

I rest my head
Only for a moment
To gain some piece of mind
But a warning would have been nice
As reality slips away
And my cycles begin
Do you know that feeling?
The one you get in the pit of your stomach
The feeling of excitement and love
Well that took over
I see the cause of this feeling
And I walk toward it
With each step I start to feel complete
If one person can make you contemplate change...
Does that signify lust or love?
That moment I knew I was ready
To learn and appreciate everything I could
At least that's what I thought...

Because when I opened my eyes;
to see a bright sky;
I knew I couldn't have what I wanted.

So I sit at the table with a cup of coffee;
thinking of a way to accept this.

If I thought about you,
would you think about me?
If I give
and you take,
could I ever expect you to give?
Why,
when I'm
with you
I feel I can live,
but time progresses,
and words dissipate;
the need for words
seem less provoked.

You're insufferable.
The humor in this
is what I've become
at my own expense.
This shadow
clinging onto
a discontent
disposition.

Delusions
deemed
deeply drastic during
decomposition,
decidedly.

I decided.
Lights turn on.
Light bulbs flash.
Shadows dissipate.
The same as our words,
decidedly.

My hand rested perfectly,

on your chest.

I made time with your heartbeat.

Rhythmically intertwined, you settled.

For me.



The small of your back.

The hesitation in your breath.

You became lucid.

Your ***** was wet.

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.

In a few words,
I could do so much.

Now here comes the tricky part:
What to write.
What to express.
Thoughts that collide,
as I get them off my chest.

Not knowing whether to rhyme,
or to keep open structure.
A free verse;
open, then converse.
Many ideas to disperse.

Shakespearean sonnet please!
Something to state on bent knees.
Beautiful words I create.
I ams what I ams.
I sees what I sees.

In a few words,
I could do so much.
Maybe enlighten a few souls,
with words and such.
But this isn't my only outlet.
This isn't my crutch.

She's coy and passive, but I don't underestimate her.
A statement would be to say that she's methodical.
A bolder statement would be to say that this is all
premeditated.

Why be terse when my words are plentiful?
After all, the coffee you hold
was bought by me with a motive.
I did not buy you a coffee,
but your conversation.

An empty cup speaks
two volumes.
Some left to be discarded.
The others wait
for change.

New,
without you,
once lost,
once blue,
I learned how to commit;
let me elaborate:

Words reliably true

Paradoxical in every sense,
because leaving is not facing
a problem, as problems
seem to be everlasting;
however, commitment works
in both ways.
Committing to solitude
is held with less regard
the same way
the kernels in a popcorn bag
are thrown away,
the same as the ends of a loaf,
and broth of a soup,
and sometimes it is
missing the sun for a day's time.

But it will be there again.
It will be found again.

Children know not,
what love is,
yet.

Just as their parents,
did not,
when they were small.

It is something passed along,
generation to generation,
to use, exceedingly,
when old.


Such a foreign concept,
when not taught.
And yet, when learned,
it is a power.

A force that can overthrow,
ignorance.

Love is impressionable.
Love is always justified.
And love, can
sometimes be malicious.

It is passion. It is security. It is an honest belief.

What is love?

It is a wall between two cities,
the rocking chair in the corner of the room,
and the recipe book shelved.

It is the wine glasses,
the lover’s warm breath on your neck,
and a locked bedroom door.

It is a book,
the men following footsteps,
and the flash before detonation.

It is strained vocal chords,
the incessant ringing of a phone,
and frown lines etched in a face.

It is the sirens announcing defeat,
the tears that become screams,
and doors being kicked from their frames.

But, one thing love is not,
love is not a heart.

Love can never be a heart.

Love is a key.
Love is changed locks.
Love is a blown bulb.
Love is the smell of rain.
Love is a river overflowing.
Love is a torrential downpour.
Love is the ups and downs.
The good and the bad.
The old and the new.

But one thing love can never be…

It can never be a heart.

This is a poem.
And there was a tree.
And a person underneath.
Gravity happened.
An apple fell.
It rolled on the ground.
Many things roll.
Like a ball on a smooth surface.
That was a comparison.
Poems work best with relation.
Some people love.
Some people fear.
That is enough for some.
Black and white is simple.
Some like complexity.
Metaphors.
Obscurity.
And in the end.
I guess what every author wants.
Is someone to take the time and read.
If only from beginning to end.
This is the end of the poem.

It must be this third cup
of coffee that has me on
edge. But not to confuse
anxiety for indigestion.
I'm sick to my ******* stomach.

Maybe you could be a little sweeter?

I said, maybe you could pass the sweetener.

I'm not one to stir the ***,
but I need something fresh.
This is stale, and the grinds
taste like pennies.
My spit is red.

The best part of waking up,
is having a *** to **** in,
to have a glass half full,
but who is the fool?

The fool is the man,
that runs out of coffee filters,
and uses toilet paper,
instead.

I drink my coffee black.
It's an absolute.
Why mix cream?
When I don't believe,
everything is so black,
and white.

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.

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.

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.

Slow down there, buddy.
Getting ahead of yourself
And all
Is
Of no help to us
Or you.

You might throw your back out.
If not
We can make that happen.

I told her.

I told her,
I loved her.
I told her,
we couldn't
speak,
to
one another.

I watched her lips move.
As she told me she didn’t love me.
I watched each syllable leave her precious lips.
She looked into my eyes.
But…

But I kept my eyes glued to her lips.
I wanted to hang onto every word,
knowing that when her lips were not parted,
our fate was sealed.

Hating yourself
was familiar to us,
but I wanted
more.