What I do take,
makes tomorrow.
Goodbyes, do not happen,
until the next day.
Closed eyes.
Goodbyes.
Until next times.
Why sleep,
only to wake in analysis.
Red eyes; because sleep is
for death.
When your arms go numb,
you find release.
Dark circles.
Light moans.
Sleep deprivation.
Self deprecation.
REALationships.
A man stuck in the clouds,
because walking on solid ground,
will eventually become worn;
cracks form
and spread,
and that is time.
Time makes no mistake.
Time shows the etch lines,
sketched in a face.
The rings on a log.
The ***** jewel.
Words that still resonate.

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.

The body goes through changes.

The mind grows.

Eventually goes.

There is time spent knowing...

knowing about one's existence,

what love is,
what it isn't.

Feeling

With feet firmly planted on the ground,

it becomes frightful to think of being beneath it.

Food for the Earth, we are.

We populate our planet,

and we have come far.


We've documented man's evolution.

The evolution.
The enlightenment.
The ecosystem.

However, we forget about the gift we are given.

Spinning on an axis.

We're egocentric.

We put ego over eco.


We're contained.

Entomology, of sorts.

Maybe Darwin was right.

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.

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.

Today, I'm going to **** them with kindness.
I'll walk the streets with a skip in my step,
corners of my mouth arched, skin tough.
I will be rubber. I will not be glue.
I will avoid sticks and stones.
I will be Teflon.

Yesterday, I killed someone, with kindness.
I created art, in many ways, I created Hell.
A page filled with gestures may seem ageless, however,
a spectacular self-awareness occurs.
There is closure. There is completion.
Unlike the manipulation of one's face.
There too is completion, but closure is not
always certain. Some leave with last words
that linger. Some lift their arms to The Lord,
Lord hear their prayer. And others find
themselves at peace, living on in the hearts
and minds of others, loved or not.

Is a legacy more important to an Atheist?
That's speculative, I suppose. But if what they
say is true, and most CEO's are psychopaths,
then I would assume that it is. Monetary value
will always triumph over theoretical morality.
And I say that morals and ethics can be theory
to a man certain of his faith, because in the end,
sin can be absolved. Faith in a higher being, in
something bigger than yourself, often leaves
thought of peers as dismissible. For they have
their own demons to overcome.

How do you accept indifference in a system
that is above natural law? Omnipotence should
never be exposed to have a grey area, especially
when it is considered to be set in stone. Oxygen
and gravity aren't, but tell that to a man who
is falling and trying to catch his last breath.

Lastly, consider art.
As the creator, the mastermind hidden in
the clouds to let his work speak volumes.
The divine grace that is told in brush strokes,
in notes placed to play, to be presented.
That's a beauty that is foresaken.
Another key representation of something
seen but not seen.

Even a deaf man delivered notes he could not
hear, rivaled ones able, and challenged normality.
The difference between an artist, and
a person producing art, is that an artist
will use blood, whereas the latter
searches for a comparable color.

When I said, "I write,"
essentially what I meant is:
I wrote.
The proceeding lines,
and the breaks that follow,
have been thought out,
from the apathetic hollow

There is a place inside,
of me,
and you,
mind you,
that you know is darkened,
and sheltered.
There is a "Manson for Ransom"
that screams Helter Skelter.

Oh, persuasive wink!
Keeping one eye open,
holding promises known
to be broken.
Speculation runs fluent about
this perpetual black hole,
knowing the higher we rise,
the harder we fall.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
eyes green,
waiting.
Dilating.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
is what I called you.
God of Euphoria.
Mother's Milk.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
had a street
value,
of twenty-five
a pill.
I bought four,
and thankfully
the dollar bill,
was crisp enough to roll.

A different world together,
holding hands.
Greedy for the feeling of calm,
I would grasp tighter,
hand eventually crushing hand.
Morose disposition spirals through a cut straw.
A last straw; an unwanted kiss.

Hand holding hand is a symbolic image,
but don't confuse the inflection of these words.

This is about
the deteriorating hands.
This is about
the deteriorating nostrils.
Not so much about cheap thrills.
Not so much anything,
forgetting,
drugs ****.

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

Hand in hand.
A soul thought scorn.
Cradle: new life.
Paw extended: thorn.

Second coming, unknown.
Rapture, as blood shed.
Our savoir, left to die.
A martyr, unbeknownst, is dead.

Walk the test of sand.
As sea comes to part.
North Star brought guidance.
Envy thwarted heart.

Take into consideration that I've never
hurt an innocent man, but I've been known
to be less empathetic than most.
Counter that with an intuitive sense of *******,
calling it and speaking it, mind you, and you
will start to relish in the quiet nature of a
man that is fully invested in his environment.

BUT

What do I know, if I don't act.
Blame age?
Say that I'm young and I will learn from my mistakes?
Completely feasible, but it will only hinder development.
Blame yourself, I say.
Call yourself on your *******.
Know that your instinct should be followed through.
Get the feeling and act on it, however,
hold it in,
and everything goes to waste.
Your instinct becomes ****.

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.

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.

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.

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.

To speak in good taste:
My mouth is full,
but this food is delicious.
Since I prepared the meal,
could you wash the dishes?

It's on the tip of my tongue:
I know what I mean to say,
but consonants and vowels
are hard to place,
so give me some time.
This isn't a race.

It could always be worse:
Yes, it could be,
but spare the neurotic,
because hypotheticals,
are never exotic.

If there's a will,
there's a way:
Excuse the jaded ****,
who puts thought into thought,
and understands the
value of a buck.

But to speak freely,
and to lose my filter,
our differences are
commonplace.
I'm a flower
that withers.

And
at the end of the day,
who am I to say,
that my frustrations
differ from yours,
because we keep all of our truths
locked
behind closed doors.

Concerning man and what he makes,
other than scrupulous laws, is that time is of most importance. And as any morally ethical man will tell you, or not tell you, is that time is money.

Now because time nor money grows from trees, it is essential to value them
as entities of the Earth. Valued like trees and plants. Well, some plants. Usually not plants referred to as "tree."
Man made are the laws that produce
a moral oral. Remember, Lady Justice is blindfolded, not gagged.

Time does not exist.
Money is not real.
Only was real when measured in gold, but note the age of the dollar,
and see the change.
Hands on a clock were assembled with hands and a smock. Built in a factory that produces black clouds to join the natural white. When the white clouds drain, the different smells of ground enter the air, and sometimes you get mud, and sometimes that peculiar smell of blacktop on a warm summer's day enters the nostrils.

Whether man is suppose to steal the fruit of this land, or become nutrient for the fruit of this land will never be agreed upon, because of ego over Eco, but I'd like to think that that is a constant and everlasting reminder that this is a cohabitation. Maybe what is natural and taken from this Earth will always be plentiful. But maybe we will pile too much on our plate.

Contain too much in jars.

We can write.
Educate and enlighten.
Hope that ego
never destroys Eco.
Concerning man and
what he makes.

Writing in ink brings security.
Because my mistakes can never be erased.

A last minute worker on a mission.
Being a busy bee.
Talking a game too big for his ego.
Leading into a massive contradiction.
Wondering, what is the role of society?
Telling you to be everything you can be.
So you make up tall tales to excite.
But only left with excruciating anxiety.
A man that had it all verbally .
But nothing to show for his empty words.

He contemplates his next move.
Knowing that might even lead to procrastination.
"It always does," he says.
"But does it have to?" Asks his conscience.
Dumbfounded now, because he understands the right answers.
Coming from the back of his mind.
Creeping through.
So his work will get done.
And get him out of this bind.
"Thank you," he thinks.
"You're welcome," replies his conscience.
"Anytime."'

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.

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?

He has this nervous tick.
When a person is lying he will open his mouth.
Sometimes his jaw will hit the floor.
Sometimes words will come out.
And sometimes there are consequences,
if not only a sore jaw.

He is an affable man.
Many would say he's a good sport
and in good nature, even though he's not
athletic and has severe allergies.
Handshakes are important to him.
And he understands the appeal of a thumbs-up.
Hugs are reserved for holidays,
and tears were only had at funerals.
Sunglasses optional, but the only pair
he owns he keeps
in the jacket of his black suit.

Any man that has a tendency to speak too freely,
or too much, will have to learn to talk their way out of a potentially harmful situation.
The "Gift of Gab"did not die with the smock.
It evolved with the suit.
It became five words said in three.
It is in relation to political correctness.
It's knowing that government is not *******,
but many representatives are mentally challenged.

He tries to stay ahead of his mannerisms.
Raised eyebrow.
Twitching eye.
Clenched teeth.
But some things cannot be hid.
Like the vein in his forehead.
And of course his verbal diarrhea.
But he would rather expell insight
and opinion rather than hold
it in only to force it out later in privacy.

People involved in Fine Art are shot on site.
Possession of a canvas brings a life sentence.
The art departments are born from advertising.
False pretense is considered flexible.
When the program used is for the sole purpose
of manipulation you aren't expected to become angry. Government turns the clocks back, stretching time and truth,
with knowledge of a man who has done
the same, and was considered a master.

Metaphysics and a mustache,
he changed the world with a canvas,
and with an open mouth he expelled truth
and injustice to a contemporary audience.
He applied his paint with a poetic eye.
Soon he learned that you don't need
to start a fire to melt a clock.
All you need is a brush,
and sometimes a barren tree.

I killed myself.

A Tuesday. Fresh cut grass, the smell welcoming, as if to announce Spring and rebirth. Then you think of Hay Fever and laugh at the simplicity we hold for nature. Leave it. Don't branch off. Knock on wood.

I coughed on a stranger. It was unintentional. My apology was sincere, as was his vulgarity. Made me think: This ******* probably eats with his mouth open. Food flying. Spit soaring. An intentional imbecile. To be noted: If I see this man again, I will sneeze on him.

Fast food is absolutely disgusting, but there is an occasional craving. When you lift the top bun of a cheeseburger and it gets stuck to the cheese. That's all I have to say about that. The quality of the food has put us in a pickle.

I'm tired. I'm sure there is a mattress salesman close by to sell me a dream. What is my most comfortable thread count? Futon it is!

I haven't killed myself, yet, but I've died a long time ago.

But, dying and killing yourself
aren't one in the same.
The dead walk.
Ones who ****
idolize permanence.

People can see into the future.
Their future.
One with others.
One with others gone.

Time.
Is.
Man-made.
Happiness.
Is.
A.
Choice.

The bad day.
The awkward situation.
The birthday.
The ride home.
The next day.

Heart and mind decide.
Who we let into our world.
And what we read,
and who we are,
allows us to be intimate,
we excel by far.

What does that mean?
You're acting funny.
I'm not in the mood.
Are you ******* serious?
I've had enough!

In any close relationship,
fights will happen.
They always happen.
Start to finish.
Friendships seemed diminished.

I'm sorry.
Me too.
My fault.
No mine.
Friends?
Friends.

Every relationship we hold.
With men and women.
Define us.
And when you have friends,
it is your decision to be apart,
of their lives.
It takes nothing but heart.
So fear never strives.

Happiness.
Is.
A.
Choice.

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.

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.

Do you know what I mean?
You asked.
I told you I did.
Although, I did not expand.
I left the explanations up to you,
that night.
I left a window open,
to clear out the smoke.
As you cleared the air,
and through animated gestures,
you let your mind spill out
onto the proverbial canvas.
You called it negative space,
but that was your discomfort.
You rested your hands.
Do you know what I mean?
I wanted to rest my hands,
on top of yours,
I needed to know you were real.
Do you know what I mean?
My eyes never faltered.
If I blinked, you'd be gone,
and that I did not want.
All I wanted was you,
at that moment,
all I needed,
was you.
Do you know what I mean?
You started to pace.
My hands hit the table;
yours hit the air,
because idle hands
are devilish when kept by your side.
Disconcerting, felt mine,
hidden in the depths of my pockets.
Anxiety ridden,
I searched for change.
A penny to free my thoughts.
Only a paperclip, a button,
lint and other nothingness.
I surveyed the room,
looking for a moth
to hit the light.
Do you know what I mean?
I knew what you meant.
I know what you mean.
I told you I followed.
In a figurative sense,
I followed.
In a literal sense,
it was implied.
However, I kept that notion to myself.
Considering the following you have built.
I knew I would distance myself,
from that familiarity.
Do you know what I mean?
We are perceptive.
Acquaintances see this,
and thoughtfully they are left
to their own devices.
Because God-forbid someone becomes close.
No. No, that vulnerability is tangible.
It's nauseating.
Food for thought,
I'm sick,
you know.
I expel my insides.
Still surveying the room for a moth,
and I spot a butterfly.
Do you know what I mean?

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

When the emergency room
is at maximum occupancy,
the nurses will lay down
their clipboards and utensils,
clear their throats, and ask for
women and children
to approach the desk first.
To ensure proper care,
forms still must be completed promptly,
and as patiently as possible for the
patient to be processed.

There's the occasional backwards R.
But all is acceptable with a
signature by the X.
Adrenaline coursing
through veins may perhaps lead
the cause of instability,
some instances coarse skin.
A child with the heart of a lion,
shell of a turtle, will always overcome;
rest assured, an insured child,
prints their name with the
unmistakable yet
innocent backwards R still
knows that words are as powerful
as excruciating pain.
Sticks and stones and words alone
have been known to break through bone.

With the twitch of a finger
even Danny Torrance made
the word "Redrum" seem
like a word to reflect on,
if not only a feeling
of constant déjà vu.

Intensive care is a surgeon
not leaving a wristwatch
inside of a patient,
if not a cadaver
whose time ran out.

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.

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.

Tables have turned.
Seas have parted.
Cracks filled.
Edges filed.

Tempestuous weather
has been bestowed
upon the misanthrope.
Red, once white bandages,
cover up the cut throat.
Naivete is labeled onto
those who seek hope.

Never showing is worse
than time taking its course.
Hoping that a course
is precedent in the time
of a foreseeable corpse,
of course.

Eyes closed,
a young man close by
exclaims, "Fresh to death!"
Rotting flesh, covered
by a Maker's Mark,
or a Target,
never something seen Beneficial.
It's not like we could ever
Shop Rite.

But as this young man
exclaims a new age adage,
I close my eyes,
and hope and pray
that he's right.

"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.

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.

Image based, and
position placed,
to keep society spaced,
image of peace erased.

Individuals put in groups,
separated by bodies,
as Congress lobbies,
preparing forbidden fruits.

People told to turn a blind eye.
Focused on the one atop the pyramid.
"Spend greenbacks, don't sigh!"
These are government truths!
Not a marketable lie!

Human soul for sale;
morals thrown out to no avail.
Industry infiltrates and states:
Conformity: You'll win, not fail.

The room: never aired out.
Smoke hung high, creating its own atmosphere.

Pun intended.

Box of cigars sitting on the coffee table, always within reach.
Glass ashtray to smother your butts, when a forearm wasn't intended.
Burning flesh, each circle telling its own story of a mistake.

That's why I prefer long sleeves.
They hide my stories
about Grandfather's house.

I'm a grown child.
Twenty-five, in a little while.
A quarter century.
I believe, we are all children,
at this age.
At thirty.
Forty.

We seek fulfillment.
And, I suppose,
when we have children,
it will implement this unknown,
Intensity.
We live for intensity.
We suffer by convenience.

Remember, having a child,
does not make you grown.
Simply seen, is child with child.
The biggest responsibility,
in life, is life.

Where are you without knowledge?
What are you able to pass on?
An idividual mark is small.
A blip on the radar.
Insignificant,
when you're a grown
child.

It takes three days to pick up a habit.*

How sound this is, I'm not sure,
because some habits seem as inconsequential
as a statement regarding time and vice.
It makes one wonder how long it takes
to believe a statement to be true.
Possibly as long as
a *** of coffee to be brewed.

Surely the amount of time will
vary by the weight of the statement.
But even a measurement is prone to
be thrown off by unforeseen additions.
Eight cups of water, and four scoops of grinds,
you're bound to have a little too much or
a little less than expected.
It becomes harder to tell
when dealing with a slow drip.
Brewing coffee may be completely divisible
when dealing with a recipe, but
hardly unequivocal when
the time comes to measure up.
This follows suit with patrons
and their proclivity.

Only in fiction is the coffee shop patron enigmatic.
Only in fiction can the patron enjoy a cigarette indoors.

Men and women wake and
head to their cubicles,
coffee in hand,
five days a week.
By the third day
a habit has formed,
and maybe that is why
acceptance is had midweek
and why the first day of the
nine-to-five seems so everlasting,
if not inscrutable.

He writes good.
Well, using "twenty dollar words," anyone
can coin a phrase.
Call me a ****, as I finish the intended word,
and browse said book to find the meaning.

He writes good.
Well, knowing how to place a period
is rather elementary.
But let me learn you something.

He writes good.
Well, tension is told in fragments.
No? Well. Okay.

He writes good.
Well, a minimalist knows
that every word
counts.

He writes good.
Well, to be a realist,
you must know that
coincidence differs from irony.
Step onto an elevator.
Is it coincidence that every building,
is missing the thirteenth floor?
Or is it ironic that superstition
has laid the blueprint?

He writes...well,
he writes.

Passing by suburban street signs.

They have simple messages to follow,

which is quite nice when I think about it.

As opposed to my concrete jungle:

tow zone; no parking zone; drug free school zone...

yes zone, my city is zoned.

It’s a grid that has an agenda,

to separate by market value.

Homes side by side to show self-worth,

not unlike the suburban structures.

Pre-packaged balsa wood ready for new families,

as dad puts in the new mailbox,

with dollar sign next to the address.

Impeccable lawns; fresh paint; no furniture

yes empty, the houses are meaningless.

It’s a show for other homeowners.

Reality happens behind closed doors,

in cities and suburbs.

I’m just following the street signs,

maybe I can find one that is for the public,

symbols or words.

It doesn’t matter, just as long as it isn’t a facade,

or an endless journey; a mirage.

The story I've been telling is becoming less close to the chest.
Curious nature is that of a private man openly speaking tragedy.
Delivered with an uncomfortable smirk, because humility is foreign.
At this time, respectively.

It began with short sentences. Small worked because it was never enough to give insight into
the whole picture. Of course there was source material. Coincidences occasionally, but my sources were
always kept hidden. My skeletons, some would say.

Then the sentences became longer, if not, the paragraphs would.
Every now and then a hand cramp would delay the process, but
the mind kept going. What else did it have to do, but think?

But back to misplacing a humble way.
As soon as you state that you are,
you have become a contradiction,
a liar,
a cheat,
a thief,
the **** of the Earth.

But what do I know?

I'm only trying to be humble.