I tried to tell him
but he wouldn’t listen,
keeps on missing
the common sense
we were all given.

He’s got a big mouth
and thick fists
matched by his dim wits,
so, pretty boy ***** is
too big for his lacey britches.

Ruffled some rough feathers
now the big birds are chirping
ready to put a hurt on
this **** that keeps skirting
certain responsibilities.

He can talk a big game,
float lazily on a name,
but when the gang
comes back around again;

He won’t be taking a swim
with his shimmering
salmon friends,
or be fitted for
the new cement style
on the ocean floor.

In fact, he will be lucky if
those redwood chips
aren’t made red with
crimson drips,

and I might try to save him
but I am seriously starting
to prefer avoiding
the whole human herd.

Open the cuts on my soul again//
to make sure the pain hurts the way I remember it//
Darling it's all I have left//
You a̶r̶e̶  were my addiction//

I tried to erase y̶o̶u̶  it but I just//
scratched the vinyl & carved your name on the walls//
so I'd never forget but//
always need//

What a lovely night
with just the right
amount of light
to illuminate
my fellow poet.

A little heft
below his chest;

A smile left.
I take several breaths
as he speaks
to me
spiritually.

Brother of
diverging
philosophies,

sweet words spoken,
given as a token
of his scholarly
artistry.

I listen,
grateful
for my grateful dead
looking
gentle ginger
gentile jesus.

There is a recurring
and intensifying
awkward tension
in my chest.

I do not mention
it to any one,
only clench
and cringe
in a minor state
of anxiousness.

It seems to be followed
by a shoulder to neck
ache
that flows along
a bone I broke
a very long,
long time ago.

There is cluster of warm discomfort
that expands from my chest,
in relation to the stress
from car issues,
a flare up forced
by the sound of something
making crunching noises.

It passes quickly
as I realize
that my car is fine.

Is the tension
a product of
my exhausted mind,
cause I am totally fine
in the morning to come?

I get my daily
workout fun in
and everything
seems cool.

Until, I feel that
familiar ache.

Maybe, I should take
a couple day’s break
from the gym.

But I hate to waste
a good workout day.

So, despite the stress
and inconsistent pain
I still workout,
and that night
it comes back again.

I will not write
this poem’s end
and I hope
reality does not
take note
and finish it for me.

I will not always love myself
I do not, and cannot
In a world like this
With a body like mine
That dips and rises like a mountain range
With its too-dark veins
A stark and unflattering contrast
To my moonrise skin
The rivers and tributaries that swim
It is not always as beautiful
As an awakening earth
This hair like mud
Eyes like mud
Barren soil that cannot always
Yield great harvest
I will not always bear fruit
This body, small and easily crushed underfoot
Do we always love the bug?
That breaks beneath our heel?
Body of mine that does not sing for me
Voice of mine that cracks and breaks
I will not always crave to hear the echo
But ...
But.
I know that though I will weep
On mornings where I do not glow inside the sun
In all the ways I am so desperate to
On mornings where his palm on my stomach
Is the soft tether that keeps me dreaming
On mornings where his kisses
Are the only warmth I want to bask in
I know that he loves me
That he loves this body
Moreso the battlefield beneath
And sometimes, mostly, always,
That is enough.

So I’m in the room, surrounded by vivid individuals,
with all their vibrant lives, with all the things they have to say,
and I’m in the room, but half removed, a blue-bland thing,
a flat, one-dimensional thing with fuzzy unholding edges.
And I think to myself, I’m going to end up so alone
because I am such a no-person, such a flat, empty space
of a person, such a flimsy, hollowed out sort of thing.
And in this room, if one person was to simply disappear
and not disturb the balance, then surely it would be me,
the non-person who lacks all substance, who is simply not integral
enough to leave behind some long-lasting, uncloseable void.
So I go into the other room and try to make myself whole
by becoming useful but still I’m that bland, hollow thing,
still am I that name-checked no-person with nothing to say.
And so I go outside to escape myself and the long, sad, empty inevitable
and I look at the lightless sky and think to myself in the cold:
I could unpick the thread of myself from existence
and all that would be left are two small indents
to be smoothed away with the sweep of a hand.
It hurts, so I look up to the sky and dream of the island
until I’m full of tears and then I mangle my no-person face
into a smile and go back to the room, and really,
I’m living okay. I’m living okay, I’m reminded,
because there’s nothing to be sad about today,
nothing you could possibly be worried about today,
you sad, empty-headed little no-person.