misunderstanding flows, like beer on tap
and as we drink it down, pint after pint,
all reason is spilled onto the table,
wiped up by the ***** bar mop
that stinks of yesterdays brew

the proprietor of this establishment
stands at counter, smiling his knowing smile

that sadness in his eyes which can only come
from seeing pantomimes like this one play out before him
on every night of his long, long career

It does not matter
if you know
there is no time for this
just- this is all you have
this:
one second.

As snow flurries fall-
the thick memory
of winter, reminds us
that life is the long breath and
every single moment is so precious
I make sure to throw each away-
individually,
carelessly crushing them underfoot
impulsively,
as the small boy does
stepping on flowers beside the beaten path.

we are barren but not bare
to those who bother to stare
we are soaked in silent, sullen mist
but are simply happy to exist
in winter's cloaked passage of time

we speak softly in the fading light
of the fallen leaves, their plight
when strange souls plod on this sacred ground
we are careful to make no sound
save whimsical whispers in curious rhyme

Sometimes I only think I drink so I'm brave enough to talk to you.
To let the swallows burn some courage into me,
tell me what I'm too afraid to tell myself.
Let me feel what I'm too afraid to feel, too ashamed to admit.
Not that I'm raging, nor am I addicted.
(But I bet that's what they all say).

*** and coke is my drink of choice.
Feel that sunshine on the sand, the paradise of a paradox.
Funny how I've never actually been to a real beach,
with a real ocean,
but pretend it's the only place I ever want to be.

You make me ashamed of myself.
I don't want to be your mistress, your last call before the lights go on.
I've never promised myself anything less than everything.
What I want, I make for myself.
Not my parents, not my sister, not for you, not for God.
I give myself a reason to exist.
My raging hormones
(loneliness from only conversing with disordered populations)
shouldn't be an excuse to be a second choice,
the one you can claim if the current girl "doesn't work out".

My spit is all over these words,
I picture them more as a slam then a reading.
I want you to feel my truth,
feel my crumble as the walls come down but bombs still drop.

My space, my corner;
herein I find false comfort
and hollow hold
like the icy embrace of an apparition.

No cold kiss
from lovers lost
to Hades Gate
awakens my woeful resistance.

It is the shining darkness
that dragged me to my nest.
I am the burden of leaden wings
the sun does try to melt.

Perhapsingly on Sunday
If the bleak-end hacked for blood
I could take a spin in the old gorevette
Down to Blighton where the vibe is crude,
Where April rolls the coolest blunts
Dreading lilacs and their smoky crud
Of wishfulness. Beyond this extended ketaphor
Only reason spoils the mood.
Having none and wanting more -
A conceit started out so spicely, but finished far from good.
Oh well, I guess. The horror I suppose. The horror.