she tells me:
no other boy
has met the bar
that you set in the past.

she tells me:
now that you
know that your
ego will fatten off it.

I shrug it off.
It's like accepting
compliments on a symphony
from a man who's been deaf
his whole life

My most monstrous fear that eats at me
(like a mechanic devours his rare, ****** steak)
is that one day I'll wake up and be normal
(normal as mothers publicly yelling at ADD sons)
that I'll lose my gifts, or any real form of expression
(like the misguided lawyer working on Thanksgiving)
that I'll be another faceless statistic in a fat, thick crowd
(normal as ignoring the gifts we've each inherited)

you left sinkholes
in my head
large enough
to ensnare my
wildest, unfiltered
dreams. they're
now trapped in my
mind and lost in the
grey matter.

ashes to serotonin
norepinephrine to dust
ex nihilo nihil fit

Sometimes I feel like I'm in a
little
glass box with words on the outside
that read:
"In Case of Emergency, Break Glass"

That vision of beauty will come
weeping
and break the glass; temporary freeing
me; Enthusiastically
I calm the sadness built in her heart

But alas, after the winds have calmed,
Serenity
My dear will place me back into my little
Glass Box;
And there I will patiently await her return.

to the icelandic girl asleep
on my couch

i find you beautiful and
fascinating in a way i've
never found a american
girl. i find myself lacking
words, to speak to you or
to write about it. enigmatic,
it seems.

and it seems i'm far too
american for your tastes
it's written all over my ego
and fears, prescriptions and
words. you can tell. i can tell
i am of no romantic interest to
you.

but your smile?
makes frozen glaciers
forcefully crash
down

this will sound more offensive than I mean it.
knowing that, read at your own risk.

I do not need a big brother as
witness to my life from the sky.
I do not need a ominous figure
watching my every movement.
I am not vain enough to care
about some deity watching me
like a television set, like a rat in
a cage with three trillion others.
I do not need to feel connected to
something higher than myself,
something higher than you, love.
I do not need to shake hands with God,
for I have met love in all her forms.
and in that, I found my religion.

good luck with online dating
i'm eternally painfully, patiently waiting.

i stopped in the crosswalk to light a cigarette
then continued on my way down the street
the cars were of no threat to running me over;
they've been still in the streets all day, a traffic
blockade of holiday proportions

and as i stare through every windshield into the
warmth and luxury of the car's interior, I see nothing
but looks of misery, boredom, a sense of stagnant souls

and i began to laugh and smile like it's my ******* birthday
and i smoke my cigarette and become the only thing traveling
down this four way mall highway full of automobiles and people

they roll down their tinted windows and pelt me with their trash,
their negativity, their wasted times, their  immobility and weight
and i begin to laugh harder, my smile lines stretching towards heaven.

merry christmas, shoppers!
merry christmas, chumps!

there's a hippie girl waiting for me
in a coffee shop a few blocks up the road.
she has no idea im not coming.

it's fun pretending to be someone else entirely
assuming a new role, backstory, character development
it's like being an actor, except there's no camera capturing
my performance, no crew writing my perfect li[n]es.

so there's a hippie girl in a coffee shop,
and i'll meet her there in a few minutes
and she'll believe that she's met the real me.

meanwhile, that coward can be found hiding.
don't ask where- I'm still looking for him myself.

occupy your mind
be aware of your soul
and take care of your heart
only after these three things:
help those loved ones close
to you with the same problems.

maybe if we preached this
in churches and schools,
we'd have less greed,
less corruption,
a real sense of humanity
and a sense of brotherhood.

maybe we wouldn't need to
numb ourselves with botox,
a bigger television set, and
the feeling that we have a bigger
**** than our neighbors.

maybe we could all just progress,
advance, evolve, and invent. such
a bright future! such great dreams
and hope!

no, if they read this
(they won't by the way)
if they read this,
the people who could change
this system,
they would say i'm a socialist
twenty year old, who was too
educated in the university or
wasted it by smoking dope or
that i was a hippie and needed
to get a ******* job like your sell
out fathers did. repeat their mistaken
histories! get back in line! back into
the system son! who the **** did you
think you were? Hemingway? Voltaire?
they never ******* changed anything either.
words never ran a country or built a bridge.
your hands would be better used for tilling the land.
if you won't stop we'll have to remove you from those keys
by force. he's not moving. get ready men. take aim now soldiers.
fire.

intoxicated again.
holding in alcohol.
vomiting words.

we'll die from the medication.
i'm following your footsteps.
running the race you've already
won by five years, easy.

alcohol again.
vomiting intoxication.
holding in words.

but, the fact that police are now
kicking, beating, arresting and bullying
american citizens who wish to make a
change only strengthens the fact that we
really need a ******* change, doesn't it?

or am i the only sane one left?
because that's a scarier thought.

You once called me a
"hit and run"
and that might be true
but if it is,
then You're a 747
plummeting from the heavens
ready and willing to destroy
everything in Your path

oh sure, they'll tell you in passing
"expect a few sideffects, headaches,
nausea, suicidal thoughts, increased
urination. nothing too worrisome."

what they don't stress is the thinness
that those headaches stretch your mind
out to. or that they never go away. that you're
running to the bathroom twice every ten
minutes, once to ***, and once for the need to
almost *****.

but these are whiny words
in a pharmaceutical world.
even i can see that.
****, bathroom break.

the best part of being near-sighted
is the way street lights shimmer
late at night.

looking out my bedroom window
abandoning my glasses and lenses
and watching the lights pulse and
dance.

it's a simple pleasure I've done my whole life.
it's also a great metaphor for my ignorance.

My writing is best at night.

Everyone else is comfortable and safe in bed.
I delve into the chaos and madness in my psyche.
I reach deep into my soul to find what treasures lie there.
I find a way to express it through words.

I hope to share these treasures with others.
Others who would not judge or misinterpret my soul.
Others who would instead critique my expression and techniques.

what a pointless life i lead.
pretend poems online.
pretend people in life.
pretentious people who
believe they've personified
my soul.

It's hard sometimes.
pretending i mean.
pretending not to want
you. pretending not to
care. pretending my pride
is priceless and my person
is pure and my possessions
aren't petty and my posture
is perfect. It's hard to pretend
sometimes. when perfection is in
your face. and she's not pointed at you.

pathetic.

The drugs need me only
slightly less than
i, them.

i am the forgotten son.
cast down from the kingdom,
kicked out of the family name,
removed from patriarchal figures

all my fathers now revoke
the names they'd given me.

i am the forgotten son.
my loud words resonate in
none of the senses of my fathers.

i am truly the son, forsaken.
thank god.

I'm sleep deprived
Lost in my lies
and hypnotized
Love in your eyes.

the guitar yells at me for not picking him up
the bass hides in the closet, feeling neglected
the drums are hollow and dull now, forgotten
the voice has left my throat, hiding somewhere
the poem disappeared under the weight of words
the paint evaporated much quicker than dried
the thoughts vacated before they ever moved in
the words were lost before even I was founded
the the the the the the the the the the the the the
the art is abandoned by those who can't follow
the lost sounds, ideas, pictures, and madness.

i'll wait for you in libraries
hiding out with all the other
dead romantic writers and
their sorrowful, longing words

i'll wait for you in the night
wandering the dark streets
looking though empty avenues
for any glimpse of your soul

i'll wait for you in a flower shop
in the middle of downtown Portland
where you pick out any combination
of flowers, and still be more pleasant

where do you wait for me, love?

She has the strangest
case of
nyctophobia. The Night
sends her into a hurried
hurried mess, eager to
greet again the sun

Stay with me for the night!
Be my lover for the night!

and you consider
and you surrender

because you have a fear of
The Sun. Ante Meridiem.
so give in!
        fear controls your body
and she controls your fear

stop me if you've heard this one before.
actually, don't. don't stop me at all.
let me fall. let me slide down from
my lofty position in my own ego
let me be a common beggar to
my own self. I'm sick of my own
need to be superior or elevated.
let the mountain of myself topple
into the great abyss below.
in it's place, help me build a
massive tower to you. I'll haul
up all my humbleness and respect,
my love and my gratitude.
let that stand instead.
I'll just be at the bottom,
casually smoking a cigarette
and waiting for you to notice.

it's 1:57 am on a friday
night. needless to say im
the only soul awake in
the middle of the university.

twenty-six thousand people
walk right past where i am
sitting. every. day. the nurses
musicians, writers, and lawyers,
the drunks, art students, hippies
and boring people.

but right now, it is only myself
and the dead leaves. the cool wind
blowing around us. peaceful. silence.

the oddest thing?
                                                                          i'm only not lonely here.

You know,
when you open
up to her
Inspiration comes
running at you. Throwing
herself at
you.
almost.

We drown,
in each other
in the ink of pens
the glow of the screen
the lines of the paper
the vibrations in sound
you can find us there
eternally breathing
each other
in

but don't try too hard to find us
a little privacy please!

I find myself consistently missing her
not that I'll let her know that haha.
And while I refuse the idea of being some lovesick poet
writing poems dealing with loneliness and lovelessness,
I still cannot help but miss those freckles and that curly hair
her occasional glance my way, but never hearing
the words i desired, which i suppose is why im still caught up
i'll dedicate these words to her now
in lieu of plethora of moments i could have done this sooner.

I had a poem prettymuch written about myself.
However, I'm not nearly that narcissistic.
so instead here's a few things I like:
I like coffee,
Evenings,
Music,
And you.

Now tell me a little about yourself.

the ghosts of past poets peruse my prose.
"alliteration?, that was a cheap opening"
these shadows seep into my soul, showing
me the ways to silence the sirens inside;
through letters in words in lines in stanzas
through poems through syntax through imagery.

they led me down the road to a radio tower.
they let me go up it, to shout these words into
every ear of every man everywhere everywhen.

the ghosts, vanished
the people, terrified
the tower, toppled
the I? i am still
finding out.
where it is
that I
fell
to.

I dreamt of your face last night
I can't help it. You seep in through
my open window and crawl through
my blankets, up to my head and stay
there. but only until I awaken in morning.

it's not easy to be a poet, infatuated.

I dreamt of your face tomorrow night.
I can't help it. You're in the eight or nine
inches of my skull that were supposed to
be mine alone. and worse, I don't want you
to leave that place. stay in my head, bed, and
dreams.

it's not easy to be a man, infatuated.

a cocktail of fear,
self loathing, and ego
swirled into the mist
of love, lust, and longing.
this mixture bleeds into
his words, which bleed out
of his heart, and fall into
places no one sees; pages,
places, and mediums such
as these.

"enough of those poems.
you'll never move on just
writing the same sad verse
overandoverandover again.
jesus, this one is even more
pathetic than the last. whatever chris."

Bukowski once said
that real loneliness
doesn't mean being
alone
And my god if being
surrounded by 26,000 strangers
doesn't make me brutally understand that.

it read sixty-five miles
per hour on our way out
of town. My heart was happy
and so was I, (the two are
so rarely spinning in sync.)

it read zero when we reached
the next town and let our feet
move us instead. I can't tell you
how fast we traveled then but my
heart was running faster than the
most technical speedometer could
hope to even guess.

the drive home was forty-five, much
slower and with much purpose. and
as the familiar lights came into view
I realized that I wanted nothing more
than to be 30 miles backwards, in
the unfamiliar town, and stay there
with you
longer.

My old friend has just gone mad
seems his sanity was all he had
little white pills kept his sickness at bay
and now I'm unsure if he'll live through the day.

twas a matter of time before he lost his mind
he's searched everywhere but can't seem to find
anything that makes him feel alive inside
and I'll awake tomorrow to find that he's died.

it's a tragic event
and all time spent
trying to make this life count
will surely seem to barely amount
to anything quantitative

and so in this poem i pray
my old friend will live another day
if for no other reason than to *** a cigarette.

I've become a dull knife.
unable to slice or pierce the thinnest material.
Now merely a dud of a firecracker,
Where I used to be a explosion tearing apart the night sky.

A tired metaphor, that merely wants to sleep until the day my soul reawakens.

its like a race.
i refuse to stop running.
my side is burnt.
my feet are blistering.
my lungs have given up.
miles ago.

its like a race.
i refuse to stop running.
there is no finish line imaginable.
no trophy i can see.
no crowd to cheer me on.

its like a race.
i refuse to stop running.
until my muscles give out.
and i fall to the ground asleep.
i become the poster child for
masochism everywhere.

I woke up on the bus today.
for the first time in two months
I actually felt awake, alive, atlast.

So my little orange bottle plummets
from my third story window, into the
gutter, and out of my head.

I'll face my problems myself, thanks.
starting with this poem.
ending with this person.

A big blue building.
With little blue people inside.
Blue workers rushing to please blue managers.
Falling into place naturally and poetically like soldier ants,
but feeling the pain of a harsh, corporate America.

When I live this place,
only then will I be human again.
only then will I be happy again.

ever get the feeling you're
repeating yourself?

my life operates on a two
week cycle with her

Longing for two days
Silence for ten
Consolation for two days.

ever get the feeling you're
repeating yourself?

my life is an endless hell
of Deja, Deja, Deja
vu.

I want you for a night,
I want to drink a red wine with you,
even though I would have preferred *****.
I want to drink and feel alive with you for the night,
a night of passion and long, long hair.

I want to wake up early, uncharacteristically.
next to you.
I would find a piano
and hand you your guitar,
We would make music in the afternoon.
And in the night?
Do it again.

burn what emotions were
left
i don't want them and
neither
do
you

so burn it! and let it catch
wind. let the ashes take flight
and sail away over
foreign territories. they'll land
and slowly be absolved to the earth.
the ashes will be fuel, to drive the planet
forward.

burn it all. i don't want it.
i don't want these feelings
this emotion, this anoesis.
i just want to go numb, again.

And so the world changed.
With people vicariously living through the 'net.
No longer would people spend 300+ hours writing a novel,
Instead they would write you an article telling you the 10 best ways to focus on character develop.
People couldn't focus long enough to bake a cake,
but could tell you the top 8 secrets to a dazzling icing.
People wouldn't touch an instrument to create music,
but instead would read about the three tricks to get good at guitar in a week.

People would talktalktalktalktalktalktalk and writewritewritewritewritewrite about life.

But no one could live it any more.