the night sky and I watched in
silence as he lay there
hemmoraging to death on the
side of the highway
staring up into
that celestial witness
there was only one tiny
blip of light
too close to the city to
see any others
but he stared at that small
little light and saw salvation
in it's beady, off-white eye
'oh god oh god' he wailed
'save me if you ever saved
any of us'
and I stood there
careful to not ruin
my shoes in
the blood
and the police
arrived and the
emergency services
arrived and
all these other
lights crowded
and competed for
the vision of
this man
pumping hemoglobin
onto the concrete
but he stared into the eye
of god and he felt
destined for salvation
he felt peace amongst
the cold pavement and
white double lines that
held his scattered corpse
he died knowing where
he was going
and as his innards
got cold on the median
of southbound I-76
the American Airlines nonstop
from Atlanta got ready
for it's final descent

The birds flew south
early in August and
it meant harsh winter—
your father always
knew to watch the birds.
But young, and ignoring signs,
we stayed in shorts
until the first snow.
Even then, hopped
about in the cold
with fair warning
and wondered what
love could be found
amid the snow.
We watched together
as it melted in the little
fingers and notches
up your spine,
my rough hands careless
as they broke the boundaries
of your back.

The birds flew south early,
years later now, nature proving
herself yet again
as the cold came quick.
Your father was dead by then—
I had seen him buried
where winter could all but touch him.
Still, we thought of him all the same.
Still, the birds left all the same,
with him and without him.
Nature moves curiously and
passes in gray August fog
towards the thick, unseeing winter.

Amongst it once more,
I couldn't help but remember
the fear, steeped in passion,
as he caught us making love
that first time in the old shed
behind the farmhouse.

All alone tonight;
everyone everywhere else.
"Good riddance!" I spit,
"what use are they all anyway?"
It seems there isn't much use
for anyone at all, but that's alright,
that's alright,
nothing to get worked up about.
Instead just lay here,
try to enjoy the rarity of each moment,
passing by as faces on a train.
Do you remember Paris?
That was nice,
remember?
All of those pretty people
with their pretty words.
No one needs company when
you've got that.
You don't need company so long
as you have Paris.
It makes it alright to be alone.
But even now, it seems
the color is all drained
from the frame.
What was it she said?
I can't seem to remember
her face except in the photographs.
"Good riddance!" I spit,
"what use is it all anyway?"
And it seems there isn't much
use for anything anymore,
but that's alright,
that's alright.

the woman next to me
never said much
only
excuse me
or god bless you
when I sneezed
--twice in quick
succession--
30,000 feet up
sifting through clouds
with a casual ease

I was sitting window
on a small little jet
from the beach back to the city
no more than fifty people
but this woman
--let me tell you--
she was one in a million
slightly older
and wow did she
look amazing
while I was up
for the first time
from the abuse
I was flying away from

30,000 feet isolated
above the earth
with no one to talk to
just sifting slowly
through the clouds
I don't know if
it was the hangover
perhaps the altitude or
some other intangible
reason
but I'll be ****** if
I didn't fall in love
just for a little while
all the way
up there

So very many people speak
that so very little is ever said.
Words pour in from all around,
surrounding, inundating
those who dare listen.

The little overheard
through the din
is oft rathered to have
gone unheard after all.
It is so very unfortunate.
Here, my addition to it.

driving down the street
weaving through cars
and people and cars and people
the **** AC is broken
and the heat is oppressive
melting through reality
down to white lines
on asphalt
and all roads lead toward madness
windows down
the whole world
drags
and *****
in the summertime
some *******
speaks salvation through
tin can speakers
unexpected absolution
nineteen ninety-nine
for a limited time
and the heat makes it Christ
through the static
and the birds don’t sing
it's so **** hot
or maybe they just
want Christ too
the red nissan ahead
billowing with bumper stickers
and *******
brakes too fast
all these ******* people
all these ******* roads
and all roads lead toward madness
the whole world is in on it
sweating and spitting
suckling away at our high octane
addiction
3.69 a gallon
can you feel the buzz
Christ has left the airwaves
and now its life insurance
a happy guarantee
once your gone at least you’ll be
worth something
but probably nothing
on these roads toward madness
the trees bend under the weight
of the sun
stars explode
and no one notices
except the dead
staring forever upwards
and i’m almost there
almost there
men in black ties
woman with car seated children
screaming their own obscenities to the universe
kids blasting music to erase
their own depraved silence
the list of offenses
goes on and on
everyone on the road
got to be somewhere
got to do something
or else nowhere
nothing
with the sun bearing down
closer closer closer
burning our throats
tick ticking towards
that sold out salvation
act now or you’ll miss
1-800-holy-ghost
tick tick tick
the line is busy
the cars arent moving
the heat has gutted my soul
tick tick tick
the dead see it and maybe
the birds see it
but no one else sees it
tick tick tick
as we strugggle inches
down the street
so hot
so incredibly hot
stars explode
all roads lead toward madness
and its hot
Christ is gone again
all roads lead
Christ is gone
toward madness
gone.


tuez-les tous, dieu reconnaitra les siens

We would go on drives
to get away, to see where
it would take us. Flipped a coin
at each intersection; heads for left
tails for right.
We came through a small town,
took a left to a dead end, facing into
a grove of trees right on the bay.
And there, in a clearing through
the trees, there was a battered,
wooden park bench where
we could sit. It had part of
the back missing, but it was nice
to sit and look at the ocean.
It was such random luck that
led me there to that moment
with you that I find it hard to
believe I could ever
be that lucky again.

you play the game for so long
it gets hard to stop
call it inertia
or competitive spirit
but you get so engrossed
in perfecting your skill set
your strategy
that it becomes you
all day
every day
you are stuck with your
guard up with
this game face
that won't let up
it's a ruthless
endeavor
and not always a
fun one
but you continue to play
and continue to get better
until you're on top
of the game
and everyone knows it
but it wears on you
and one day
you finally decide
to shut it all down
cut the losses and retire
all those years of hard work
the practiced lines
and polished smiles
the conquests and victories
decide to toss it all away
for an opportunity
at honesty
now it's almost like
you don't know how to act
but it's nice
not having to put
so much effort in
all day
every day
meet a girl
former opponent
see how things
work
without the rules of the
game to abide by
it's refreshing
this honesty
until you find out
from a friend of a friend
early one sunday evening
that the game never stops
whether you know it or not
and if you
stop playing
then you're just
losing
so here comes that game face

retirement wasn't for me
anyways

The visions blur like thick fog,
memories break into strobe-lit flashes.
The whole world exists in a flat line.
Troubled curiosity sits high in the throat
like a bad taste or a
hand around the neck.
You are ****** on the side of the road,
or the back of the bus on that
long ride home,
while the sunlight plays
judge/jury/executioner up on its
condescending throne, levying its light,
like punishment, upon you.

The world is a cruel place when
the late nights face the
early mornings eye to eye.

On the sidewalk you watch
cars pass, people pass,
the whole world moves in
that straight line forwards.
You bob your head in calm defeat.
On the bus the people don’t move,
but they appear to.
Mouths and lips and eyes and feet,
all containing no direction
except as the tires go.
You look at it all in quiet wonder.

There, with flash bang remembrance
and an intangible machine gun burst
drumming off your eyelids,
you lay on the pavement,
or against the window of the bus,
with memory a black din of noise and
half-formed images,
and wonder what it’s like to
be nothing at all.

all my teeth fell out the other day
and my tongue lost its taste
it was unsure how to handle itself
and grew numb and heavy
inside the remains of my mouth
speaking -- without much choice --
stopped being a priority
and my jaw hung loose
with the weight of words unsaid
i decided the best course of action
would be to become a writer
perhaps a poet
and maybe i could get the weight
out apart from conventional means
so i typed and typed
and deleted
and retyped -- such is the life of a
terrible writer, i'm sure you understand --
until i finally closed my eyes and knew
that i had found what i had always
needed to say
i wept tears of joy
for my discovery
and also ones of regret
for not being able to speak out
and preach to the world my sermon
i opened my eyes and peered into
the screen
mouth agape
overwhelmed with its own uselessness
i looked onto the screen
and found it blank
a mistake -- i knew --
had been made
clicking undo yielded no relief
there were no words
and it was then i realized the truth
the mistake was my own
words alone
do not carry weight
they are only conduits
through which emotion
translates itself from
the heart unto the brain
to give them power
is to take away from the act
men are scared of thunder
for it speaks a common language
but true fear lies in the lightning
i was a fool for becoming a writer
even more so a poet
but now, smiling -- toothless and swollen --
i will sit in silence

The eyes glowed as she nodded
into the apartment. She’s been out.
She comes and she goes
as Prufrock once lamented;
all of that banal nonsense.
She always has things to do,
she only stays the nights,
worn out and turned on.
She begs it all from me,
the self, the mind...
It is all I can to simply
bend the knee.
I concede as man has
conceded since the first in Eden.

I write late into the night,
but not when her footsteps
echo up the stairs.
Not when she nods in,
eyes glowing,
lips silent and pressed tight,
legs, ears, fingertips;
all of the above moving vividly.
I have nothing to
do but sit. I have nothing to
do but wait.

She drags her mess in
with beautiful disaster
and I with eager anticipation.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
but not this.
I am not even a writer anymore
but a servant, a vassal.
She comes and is gone by morning
and the mess is left,
and the page is empty,
and the door shuts silently
but it keeps me from going back to sleep
all the same.

The imagination is a terrible thing
When left to its own devices
Cruel and calculating
It flourishes in discontent
And swells to immensity
Awash in the madness of
The dark
I lay here
Two continents away
With rational thought
Deemed ineffective as you
Hold me close in fear's grip

You are the monster
Under the bed
I, the shaking child
Afraid to glance
For fear of fear's assertion
--Mutter prayers
Under closed eyes--
The mind wanders
Against better judgment
And in darkness
This imagination
Swells once again

Stay under the bed
Monster
Stay out of sight
You detestable
Delectable beast
Only with madness
Can you corrupt me
--Though I willingly
participate--
Already mad and
rotten to the core
Such emotion poured
Over shaky bones
And you
Devious beast
Play games with
Passing shadows
Keeping me on
Sanity's frail edge
Too afraid to stray
From comfort's reach
I can only watch
As you grin
With eager
Bloodstained smiles
And slip out of sight
Into endless darkness
Once again

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Two pillows underneath your blanket
of soft brown hair.
Your hair is what I admired
most of you.
The way it would waterfall
about your frame,
silhouetting your features in
chocolate cascades.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
With your newest RM Drake,
and his short sweet eurekas.
You loved to read him aloud to me.
You would smile slightly in a
smile saved for when you
read one that particularly
struck you the way that
only good literature can.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Even though you never could
stomach what I read.
And I would get angry
because of the world's that
I wanted to show you
but knew that I couldn't.
You never shook hands with
Hem or Buk the way I wished
and wished that you would.
Sometimes your reading
was more honest.
Sometimes your emotion
was more true.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
I would sit across from you,
analyze and seek to
emulate every word
while you would read
and only feel it,
in a way I never could.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Now that I have lost you
it helps me to do it.
I still have the word and
I still have books and the
world's I was left to travel alone

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
I only hope one day
you may read this and
smile slightly in that way
that only you do.

You wake up every morning,
at 6:30, to go to the hospital
where you work with people
who deserve miracles but
sometimes don’t receive them.

I would sit on the steps of the
apartment complex across from
yours and watch as the light
in your bedroom would flicker on
and count the moments until you
emerged from that front door.

What a love is a love like that!

To imagine your movements there
as you fixed your coffee with
a slight amount of sugar,
in order to go about your day.

Oh, how I could smell it, how
I could feel the warmth as you
would smile up, over the mug
and upwards at me.

What a love is a love like that!

Weeks later I sit here.
I am on the same stoop,
looking upwards at your window.
It is almost time for your alarm to
go off. I remember it well.

I stand, turn the corner quickly
before temptation grabs me
and forces me to your door.
My newfound irrelevance has remained
a source of consternation for me.

As I walk home I wonder whether
someone else will walk you to the bus.
Perhaps, you are smiling at that
someone now, over the top of your
slightly sugared coffee.

I open the door to my house.
I can't think of anything else,
only stop and pray that one day
you will perform a miracle
for someone who doesn't
quite deserve it.

I remember the summer
of 2009. Before the world
turned itself inside out.
Before everything crashed
into everything else.
I remember the quaint
beach house my family
stayed at, with the pink
walls, and the room that
I snuck you into one night
before I left while everyone
else packed and slept for
the drive home. All the cute
shops down the street. The pier
where I would sneak beers
from the cooler of the vendor
selling them while you
distracted him. Bumming
cigarettes off of old men
for the two of us with the
wink of an eye.
You were beautiful.
You were everything
I’ve ever wanted in anyone
since. You kissed with a hint
of vanilla and tobacco and
heineken light that blended
so wonderfully I haven’t
tasted anything since.
You were beautiful.
I was sixteen.
Not much behind you,
but somehow worlds apart.
Now I am old. No longer sixteen.
No longer stealing beer
and cigarettes. I wonder
if you ever went back to
that beach. We were only
there for two weeks. Met
you four days late. Those ten
days were not enough. We would
sit under the pier at midnight,
you leaned against one of
the pilings, cigarette forgotten
in your hand, somehow always
touching mine. Oh, I remember
those two weeks, July, 2009.
Wonder if
you do,
too.

Seems like humanity
is down like the drain,
down like the economy,
down like those
poor god forsaken
children:
shot and placed
side by side.
Anchovies
for the devil;
just peel away and
swallow,
one by one by one.
It's all a feast for the vultures.
It's all something for the *****
and the freaks
to smirk at and get off to,
in the dark, alone with the
madness.
Can't go to the movies
Can't go to the schools.
Don't leave your house,
ladies and gentleman,
it's a jungle out there
and the lions are the *******.
God, **** it all.

It's a sorrowful thing;
the madness,
the ****.
I spit in frustration.

What a wonderful world
What a ******* world
What a wonderful ****

Alright, calm down,
take it easy.
Can't you see?
The birds chirp,
that's nice.
The families laugh,
that's nice
Can't you see
everyone smiling?
that's nice
All of everything is nice
and wonderful again.
Almost lost it there
for a second,
can't even remember
why.

The bliss of a society
blessed with
short term memory.

Only until the next lion,
the next ****,
comes through
with a semi automatic
and plasters the walls
of an elementary school
cafeteria with the blooded
paint of our nation's potential.

The jungle always wins.

Love is merely walking around
and feeling good about everything
and everywhere that you happen on.
The rest is façade and embellishment,
meant to blush the cheeks of young children.
If you’ve found one to sit with you
on the park benches, silent and smiling,
then there is love there. If you have found
it then there is love in the branches
and the grass and the sun and the
quiet looks you share as you
experience it all in your togetherness.

I sit on park benches late at night,
under streetlights,
seeing ghosts of that love,
passing about through the
branches and the trees and
between the legs of the young couple
striding past me,
walking their dog back home.

you were merely
a passing fancy
a nice bouquet
in the front
window
of a flower shop
I enjoyed you
I employed you
while you
were fresh
while you were new
but wilting is inevitable
even the freshest flower
turns to dust
eventually

and that good side
you told yourself
that you saw in me?
a magnificent lie

so please stop
with the poems
keep me out of it
I don't need the attention

I'm not here to be
your friend
I'm not here to be
a good guy

I'm sorry

they do not relent
impossible to
catch a break
I cannot keep up
they sneak in
through windows and vents
observe every move
with eyes like birds of prey
they sneak in
hidden behind
smiles and short dresses
faking love in the shallow
hours of the morning
talons caress
the edges of my back
as the grip tightens
ripping through flesh
before departing
--full from such feast--
while I lay unnecessary and asleep

they are the vulture circling
waiting for the ****
they are the eagle
tearing out my liver
prometheus on the rock
day after day
they do not relent
they do not
relent

that role you play
--sarcastic, apathetic,
confident--
I know it quite well
and you are
a fine
actress
no doubt
but I believe
it is more of an act
than you'd
like to let on
I see the turmoil
that simmers
underneath
don't think that I don't
I've played both
sides of this story
over and over and over
I know how it ends
and no matter how
I want to change it
it is the same
and eventually
I will go on to
play it again
on some other stage
so will you
just wish it wouldn't
come to that
why not cut
the film?
**** the act?

think about it

I know you'd rather not
but it isn't as hard as
you have come to believe
I'm not quite anyone else
you've been around
whether past or present
I think you know that too
if you'd let yourself
realize it
but an actress is
an actress
and you are
who you are
just wish it wouldn't
come to that
I can play my games
and you can play yours
with whoever and whenever
we want
--though you still have trouble with
that first rule I tried to teach you--
but doesn't that seem stale
to you?
hasn't that all been
acted out enough?

think about it

you laid there and read bukowski
with me for chrissake
you have no idea how
mind-blowing that was to me
even if it was still part
of the act
I thought you were insane
and I think I'm burnt out
with this whole acting
business
it's been years
don't feel like keeping
the games going
any longer

think about it

if not
the act continues

I crushed a fly
against my computer
screen. the smudge
it left was not worth
the effort it took
to
**** it.

so it goes

The young women show up
at this old man's door
with their legs ripe
and long and their
skirts short, so short,
and framed against
those forever legs with
the bronze, sun-kissed
amber of skin that tastes
of the sweet, clean salt of sweat
in Summer warmth.

They knock a few times in
quiet, tentative rap with
slender, thin knuckles
before moving quickly
away toward the stairs
--No, this was a bad idea,
I should have never came--
Blushing furiously as I crack
open the door with a slight ****.

I am ugly in crazed eyes and
stained shorts and no shirt
and broken air conditioner
leaves me standing in thick sweat,
but it is the old dirt-sweat
of an old dirt man,
and it tastes stale and sour
as it drips downward
from my temples.
She smiles,
shy and honest enough
for me to want her right
there where she stands,
asks if she can come in.

My place is a wreck and
she doesn't mind
as I apologize for it,
but I feel terribly for it
and wish she was gone,
the wine is almost
finished but we drink it down
even though it is warm
and the glasses sweating
within our hands.

Copulation comes easier
than conversation and
so she is silent atop my lap
except for the nothing whisper
of *** in my ear, the breathed
moan of lust in the dark rooms.
--Baby, you're beautiful,
oh, oh, you're beautiful--
and I don't much have the heart
to correct her but it
appalls me that
she could think so
knowing myself as I do,
most likely she is
only acting anyway,
so I don't think much of it
except to nod and flip her
over and she is all
legs and *** and ****
but she is self conscious
and won't let them
out of her black-lace bra
and I let her have her insecurities.
Instead, I'm with those endless legs
like golden honey and so sweet
and smooth and burning
with that inner heat of womanhood
and Lord, doesn't it
just feel good to be
young again?

If only for a second
within those eyes
and arms and
legs
legs
legs.

perched on the curb
like a pigeon
on a telephone wire
clutching a cigarette
watching
the remnants of the rain
wash down the gutter
there's nothing like
that post rain morning
with the air
heavy and thick
a weeping sunrise
peeks through
scattered showers
and thunderstorms
those early mornings
like noah
after the flood
the world seems
wet
and new
clean
simple innocent
until the people wake up
and the illusions fade
into that nine to five reality
with their car horns
and scattered conversation
dont know what they missed
what they ruined
sighing
i walk back inside
away from a world left wanting

There was a homeless man
across from me in the park.
He walked over, knees crooked,
hanging upright onto a cane.
His beard was wild and unkempt.
His hair nearing baldness.
The jeans he wore were worn,
with the fabric torn and eroded,
washed in color around the ankle.
He spared me a glance as he rummaged
through the trashcan beside us.
Women and children laughed and dance,
oblivious to the man’s pilgrimage.
He found a half drank mocha latte that I had
seen cast away minutes before, and I watched
as he cracked a shy, crooked smile at the find.
He sat, and eyed me as he gulped it down.
Only for a few seconds did he sit,
accompanying me in silence. Then he arose,
placing the cup carefully back into the waste,
and walked off toward the street.
Off toward some other feast,
some other treasure,
his cane dragging his feet onward,
step by weary step.
Life can be beautiful in the little things,
if you allow it.

I always wanted a
woman who challenged
me intellectually
sure I loved
the other challenges
physical
emotional
those games I played
and won
but there was no
purpose there
no passion
it was the act
and not the art
so these women
grew stale and unchanging
he faces were different
the names varied slightly
but the game was the same
--as they say in the marine town
near where I grew up,
you catch a shark
the same way
you catch a carp--

so I grew tired of fishing
and soon stopped altogether
my friends thought I was mad
they thought anyone would starve
with such a blow to their diet
but I decided to fast
at least for a short while
before I could make
the perfect catch
one that would
be more than simply
hook line and sinker

I hated that there was
no art anymore
courtship and chivalry
gave way to
a mechanized equation
of cheap *** and conversation
it was the industrial revolution
of the romantic world
put your heart on
the conveyer belt
let your body
take the bruises
all you had to do
was push a button
pull a lever
all these girls were the same
all these fish were the same
whether they were carp or shark
I had to get away
from the factory
from all the convenient ***
and convenient company
acts that were merely
shadows of
that almighty art
I needed a release
something to
break the pattern
I needed a way to get
back to the art
something that would
end the game for good
I needed a way out

I needed you

In dreams, you are back again;
deadbeat dog-days of a heat
that left us trapped with nothing
but the dry-cough staleness
of early afternoon.
The sweat evaporates as it falls
in unmoved puddles beneath you.
The horizon past the windowsill
holds faint outlines of a breeze
that never comes,
of a promise left unfulfilled.

In dreams, you are there again.
Wrapped in my shirt, too big
and loose at the shoulder.
You are knee-bent by the edge of the bed,
pulling hands through hair;
making love with your little movements,
heavy with the suffocation of
a hundred degrees pressing down
on the pretty, brown complexions
of skin taut against your temples.
Air-conditioning, out again,
gasping against the windowsill.

In dreams, you leave the phone to ring.
Your mother wants you home,
your father wants me dead,
we only want to be cold again
It can be a hard thing to find in the heat,
happiness.

In dreams, framed by the sun-soaked
sheets of the bed, thin and damp,
you almost smile. Dark eyes
lightening at the edges.

In dreams, we keep the shower
on all-the-way cold
through long, dry afternoons—
thinking of rain.

i wake up
in the morning
crooked on the mattress
all turned around
black eye
swollen jaw
reminiscent
of a night i
refuse to remember
bless the small graces
of the subconscious
the brain is burning
in it's sockets
consequence of a chemical
i swore
to be rid of
what a life i live
counting down to
senility
and death
speeding up the clock
with forty creek and rat poison
sticking a knife in my stomach
to call it a good time
can't get the taste out of my mouth
like rust and vinegar
can't open my jaw
the night
retreats
victorious and grinning
it has claimed me
once more
this cycle is tiring
the hull can't hold
ship soon sunk
the whole world greyed
by a sunrise i can't see
and a life i seem to have
lost control of
the edge has gone
the sharpness in the contrast
no vivid blues
when i see the sky
no no no
only grey
cold and unwelcome
each morning
you wake
and it seems a little worse
the body can't keep
this up forever
that's what your doctor said
that's what your woman begged
but there is comfort
familiarity
in the blurred sacrifice
of terrible numbness
and as i awake
every morning
i almost see the golds and greens
but a little color
goes each time
and now there is only grey

You were a silhouette
in red from the taillights.
We were lost on the side
of the highway.
It was cold and we were smoking,
exhaling gingerly into the winter night.
There's something gorgeous
about you there,
underneath the lamp of the
streetlight and tinted red.
You smoked with the cigarette
high between your fingers,
almost to the nail,
holding it tight and kissing it
to your lips with a grace
I haven't been witness to since.
Your hands got cold
and you grabbed mine,
pushing them into the
pockets of my winter coat.
It has never again been more
ok to be cold, there against
the car.
It has never again been more
ok to be lost.

its all just waiting to fall
it's a castle built on sand
waiting for high tide
it's all tipped toward the precipice
you sit in your chair
and you don't understand
how close the madness is
it looms in every temptation
places bets on every fight
pulls at you
drags you under
the girl is gone
the money is gone
not that it was ever here
but the madness looms
closer now closer now
let that tide wash you
into the sea
let it fall
it says
let it all come undone
she's gone she's gone
she's never coming back
think about it
all those other guys
think
their hands their breath
their teeth
she's never coming back
but I'm here, my friend
I'm here
you can't sleep
you're pulling out your hair
up every night
staring holes into
the plaster
but I'm here, my friend
consuming you
ripping open every atom
of your being
screaming
balling up in your fists
until one night you're
drunk and
you're crazed with
it all
and you'll be everything
you never wanted to be
standing alone in the room
spinning without movement
eyes wide and bleary
someone walks in
asks what's wrong
what will you say?
what will you do?

you deserve this

There had been a clearing in thick
of the old forest behind our houses
where we nailed pieces of wood,
stolen from neighbors yards,
to a nearby oak tree and climbing
up, up, up, about twenty feet,
to the lowest of the branches,
looked out over the gray roofing
of the houses and could see
the world from our secret perch,
feeling it then but not quite
yet understanding;

it would be better to have
never come down.

There she was.
Anger etched in
her silhouette,
framed by the doorway.
You see, women get all
upset at once,
like the crashing of a dam,
like the pulling of a trigger.
And there you are;
half-asleep in bed,
drunk in the back of the cab.
The pin’s been pulled and
there she goes.

Anger has always
been a source of
amazement for me,
especially in the women
I have known.
You never know what
will be the final strike.
She deals with you.
She deals with your drugs
and your drunkenness,
all the fits of highs and lows,
all the impossible arguments.
There she is; that beautiful women
that will still pet
your head and hold your hair
late at night after you’re sick
from the drug or the drink,
or some other, unspoken demon.

Until, in one beautiful moment,
that incredible anger
bursts out like New Years fireworks.
You’re taking blows
to the chin and to the
heart and to the soul.
Her eyes blaze with a
hatred, mouth tight and
cheeks reddened from the yelling,
her hair falls into her face
and she angrily swats it back
behind her ear.
She’s a terrible monstrosity.
A beautiful, terrible monstrosity.
And all you can do is watch in awe
as the culmination of everything
you will never be is spelled
out before you.

There you are; in the back of a cab,
half-asleep on the bed,
drunk on the edge of the bathtub,
and you can do nothing but watch,
slack-jawed and scared,
as that almighty anger,
spilling forth from that
almighty woman,
breaks every single bone.

i met her at the bar
we had been introduced
by mutual friends
and soon we were back at
my apartment
and i could feel the weight
in my chest
every time she smiled
or laughed in that reserved soprano
she had a beautiful voice
and we lay in bed
and talked and kissed
and over everything else
enjoyed the night
but soon she turned to me
and i asked what was the matter
she was scared she told me
because she knew me
she said
because i wasn't a good man
she said
because i was tall and strong
and old
and talk such bad language
and have been with many women
they are all ******
i told her
***** and ugly and meaningless ******
compared to you
but she didn't believe it
'i am another of your ******'
she had said
'to be ****** and forgotten'
no no no
i promise
but she wouldn't be convinced
and i didn't know how to fix it
i pleaded with her
no no no
she wouldn't stop
another one of my ******
just another one
though she was far from it
and i lay next to her
getting farther and farther away
unable to do anything
as my terrible and unwanted past
reared its terrible and unwanted head
and ruined love
once again

They flit like pages or old ghosts
through the dark spaces of your mind,
front to back like a laundry lists of good
memories gilded and soured
both-- by time and retrospect.
They come in little images like behind
the big, blue trash cans on the playground
where Marie kissed you
and you ran away.
The leather seats of
her father's car where McKinley
undressed herself that first time,
belt buckle taut against you hip.

All of them like snapshots
blending upward and forward
toward you until the recent,
fresh and inflamed as if the skin
of some rotten, festered wound.
How you see her here,
sitting there across the
edge of the bed
a million miles away.  
She is salvation if only you can grab her,
but you cannot anymore.
See her in dark hair, tied loosely
back behind her.
See her in anger at the turn of her lip,
sweet flesh-- even as the words sour.
See her in reflections of light
softening her eye against the welling tear
she dares to fall.

Torn-out pages of scripture.
Sad beautiful ghosts that,
if not dead, are far
from here--

And what ought love to do
from a thousand miles
but die.

The night we left the dance and,
drunk, lay in heat across forbidden beds.
A tangle of suit jacket and black cloth,
kissing secrets in our thick
darkness-dream, a tightening shadow,
something like arms
that never quite held you up
but— knowing they never will—
wrapped around you all the same.

Thin straps of a dress
slide to pale arms and sitting,
shivering, and saying nothing,
except perhaps an offered smile
as I pulled my jacket to your shoulders.

How beautiful the world might
be if it was you!
Your little shoulders, your little sounds,
dark eyes alight with excitement,
dark hair as it falls then in front
of a face too solemn for twenty—
only to be brushed away again.

We are raised to fall in love. We are wired
to find someone, something, to make us happy.
We are told that it cannot be done alone. Hand flat
against my thigh. Neck crooked, arched in the broken
bone agony of release. Round rings of red inflammation litter
the surface area making up the forearms where ember
once touched skin. Each stroke of the canvas sizzling
into life with a calm hiss. Whites of sallow eyes are
juxtaposed by the dark rings around them before shutting
themselves to darkness. Another stroke, another hiss.
Head tilted back and our body is not our own. Her face is mine.
Our face is our own twisted in slack-jawed ecstasy.
Another, another. Clenched hands stretch lifetimes
across paneled floors. Remember the first time.
There in the laundry room. Pierced skin. Burnt flesh.
Remember the pain. Another, another. The *******
revulsion of knowing it is never going to end. The feeling
of emptiness. The feeling of never being whole again.
Another. Knowing that the body is only the conduit.
The surface area on which to catalyze reaction.
Where we end and we begin. It is all one body. Our hand.
Yes. Our neck. Yes. Our face. Our forearm. Our needle.
It is all one body. Another, another, we need another.
Melted into one. We twist and moan and **** and
bleed and bite and destroy another and another
and another. We are all the same. No longer feel
the cigarette, twisted and held in cauterized flesh.
Quickly. Each ******, each stroke a beautiful painting.
Colors blur the walls of vision and we are all the same and we
are all the same and we are all the same. Another.
We are raised to fall in love. We are raised to fall in love.
Another, another. We are all the same. Where do we end.
We are all the same. We are raised to fall in love.
Where do we begin. We are wired to find external happiness.
The needle in the haystack. Where do we begin.
There is a disconnect between the ideal and that first,
****** ******. There, in the laundry room, needle in my
arm and inside a girl I don’t remember.
Each stroke paints a perfect picture. Her face is mine.
Remember the first. Remember the last.
We are all the same. There is
no end. There is no beginning.
We are all the same.
We are raised to fall in love.
There is a disconnect.
Each ****** ******,
each whispered hiss.
Oblivion.

Here we come, happiness.

her smile used to
cut through this dull
melancholy with ease
now it flickers and fails
she's not the same
lethargic like a toy
needing to be wound up
she used to be beautiful
carried herself tall and confident
weightless
now her back is broken
over the weight of the world
lethargic like a toy
needing to be wound up
lethargic like a toy
that I can't wind up
what did I do wrong
she used to be beautiful
she used to be happy
now she sees through
an empty glass
now she lives through
a dimming lens
and doesn't seem to
smile anymore

trapped in old memories
and teases of a future
that exists only in
the deepest of sleep
trapped in the torture
of a poison that boils
in the blood
and sends shivers
down the length of
my spine
you lay on the bed
with unloving eyes
and unfeeling hands
even as they caress
my neck and down
my jawline
you plant your thumb
on my lower lip
and there is a flicker
of an old life
passing before my eyes
but you remove your hand
until the smoldering remnant
of a doused flame
is gone from the tip
of my tongue

it's sad how desperate we
all become
for a taste of
that poison

the radio echoes
noiselessly
off lives lost
too soon
dreams left
for dead
people die everyday
I only blink
move on
perhaps turn
up the volume
staring at
blank pages
they burn and twist
taunting
while the words
won't come out
and the women
won't go out
they scorn
the piano player
while dancing to
the music
it makes
no sense
no music
no women
they dance and dance
each with their own
set of teeth
of claws
only hope
to make it out alive
the door opens
and the door closes
it won't stay shut
the piano player
scorned in the corner
while the women
dance and dance
and laugh
while all dreams
bring paradise just
out of reach
while the dead
still die
still die
and the words won't come out
the music cuts off
and the women still dance
as if there was
no sound
to begin with
no sound
no sense
no music
no women
only blank pages
burning and twisting
and the piano player
scorned in the corner
and the words won't come out
the words won't come out
anymore

these bones are
growing heavy
can't hardly
walk up the
stairs anymore
only a matter of time
before they break
and I fall
down
step after step
can't lift my
arms
can't get up
anymore
as the vultures
circle above
and the sharks
smell blood
swoop in
add insult to injury
unable to move
listening
as the world falls apart
step after step
the women
move on and around
money gone
memories leaving
so heavy
can't get up anymore
the women get me the worst
laughing and laughing
burning knives into my back
they have been waiting
for this
for me to fall apart
they knew it was
only a matter of time
they plotted and schemed
behind their
smiles
they jumped
from the
sinking ship
so slowly drowned
unable to swim
just smell that blood
in the water
here they come
here they come
as everyone laughs
and I do nothing

my bones have grown heavy
and I cannot get up

across from me
I see something
it is blurry
and sometimes
changes
but I want it
it is beautiful
I know
I feel it in
my bones
I used to know
what it was
but its definition
is lost on me now
however I know
I need it
it sends me shivers
that it's so close
but what is this
beautiful thing?
why is it here?
across from me
but never coming
any closer
then suddenly
there's
a finger across
my cheek
a thumb edging
the corner of my mouth
I think wiping away
a small dab of mustard

love exists

you come home
drunk
from some business
event where
that waitress ate up
every word you said
--and best believe she had
a body that could ****--
but no
you made sure to make
it home
some things are more
important than that urge
that thirst that threatens
to take control
no
some things are more important
so you came home
drunk
but alone
and there she is
that beautiful
wonderful woman
the one that you
flipped off mother nature
and denied temptation
for
there she is
god you love her
she is everything you
think you need
but you're drunk so
what do you know
anyways
should've took the advice
your friends gave you
and brought that waitress
home instead
instead your drunk
and you think you're
in love
but what do
you know
anyways

Do you remember
the days when you used to
believe in things that were
deeper than the surface?
Days that would hold you
in eager, edge-of-seat anticipation
as you awaited their arrival?
Do you remember?

Hell, you barely even
remember yesterday anymore.
The lines have crossed and
twisted in so many ways you’re
pulling strings just to sort yourself out.
Think about it, there on that pier,
overlooking the ocean in
all of it’s eternity.

You were 15.
Meeting a young girl with
cigarettes in her mouth but still
kissed with a taste of evergreen.
It was one o’clock in the morning
and that Tybee breeze held you
rigid even in the warmth
of a July summer night.

Think about the glory in those days.
Think about the love.
The love that filled those
dreaming eyes, praying,
for someone to come
and to know you as their own.
I think you forgot those nights,
those days, those dreams.
Please,
find them once again.

The problem with poetry
and it's iterations within our
generation is that we have
grown soft as writers.
We are so worried about
if she thinks about us, or
whether he really loved us.
Or if our hearts will ever be
fixed again. It is disgusting.
Have some spine, comrades!
**** yourself a ****** on the
floor of the cheap motel.
Drink the bourbon out the bottle
until you puke your mother's
homemade meatloaf into
the kitchen sink. Hell, do
whatever needs to be done,
let's just stop with the
dramatic, self righteous ****.
She ****** someone else
because he was better, he
doesn't love you because
he doesn't have to. Your
heart was never broken.
Have a drink with me and
let's go out, give ourselves
something real to write about.

I was writing at the desk by the bed
when she started talking.
She told me that she couldn’t sleep,
told me she wasn’t comfortable here.
She told me that she was just going to leave.

“Are you serious?” I said,
“Get the Hell out then.”

She told me it wasn’t like it
mattered to me either way anyway.
I turned back to the desk and
she turned her back to me
in a sign of dignified protest.

I couldn’t write after that.
They always find a way
to ruin the writing,
something they do,
something they say.
I was ******* she had
said anything at all.

“You know, why do you
gotta always pick fights?
Why can’t you just sleep
like a normal person?”

She told me I was an *******,
told me I didn’t appreciate her.
I closed the lid on the computer,
turned to stare at her;
She was putting on her shirt
and then her shoes, her coat.

“You really gonna just leave then?”

She said yes and told me
I was an *******, again,
I must not have heard her
the other time.

The door slammed with
an angry crack and afterwards
I turned back to the desk,
reopened the laptop and
wrote this poem in peace and quiet.

You sit next to me,
most unwillingly,
and I can't help but stare.
You have remade yourself;
a group of working parts
of which I am not apart.
Same beautiful woman.
Same beautiful pride,
with that air of regality
that leaves everyone else
pondering their inferiority.
However, now there
is something new.
An awe inspiring anger
that flushes your cheeks
and clenches your fingers.
You are gorgeous when you're angry.
You have this face that you put on;
a flare in your eyes and a
compression of your lips.
You would never let yourself
come down from this ledge.
--even though if you jumped
I would catch you, I promise--
You have remade yourself
into a new whole and
I have received my eviction notice.
But I know it's not as simple
as you allow it to be,
I can see the digs in the edge
of your thumbnails
where you bite into them with
your index finger.
Signs of stress
to anyone enough to know.
I see it in your flippancy.
You are not a reckless person, always
careful, calculating risk and reward,
but you've thrown
caution to the wind, it seems.
Perhaps an act of revenge,
perhaps of retribution,
it doesn't make a difference.
I only watch in wonder of the woman
I escorted out of my life, as
she sits next to me
unspeaking, unfeeling.
And I've never felt farther
in my life.

its safe
thats the best
explanation
safety first
and such
fun too-- perhaps
--this game is one
to be admired
and perfected
a heavy gambler
I have a lot going
on this game
of mine
i must play
keep the guard
up at
all times
play to win
regardless of the
consequences
this life is one of choice
but this game must
be seen through
to it's close
whatever that might be
got a lot going on this one
a lot of practice
and failures
but the guard is good
and the game goes on
as it must
except with you
you come in
with your smile
like silk
and subtle
the game must go on
but the rules seem to change
when you play
you come over
touch like fire
look into my eyes
with something
i can no longer see
or feel
maybe i can
but there's a lot
of weight on
this game
i have to win
for my sake
or sanity
touch like fire
it burns
softly
subtly
i've let my guard down
now all bets are off

i can feel love
again

I talked to you last night for the first time in a long time.
It felt good to hear you again.
When we go so long without contact,
my imagination grows awry with
conceptions of you.
A flurry of ideas that burn
through me like gasoline.
All this time apart, I forget that I know you.
I forget there was a time when the walls
between us crashed down and we lay
amongst the wreckage like lovers at the
end of the world.

It felt good to hear you again.
I could feel your beautiful pride in every word.
You phrase each sentence carefully,
never letting me forget who the culprit here is.
I broke your heart.
A full year of suffering, you told me,
after that first break.
I remember the unreachable highs
that came between the inescapable lows
better than you, but that is to be expected.
You burn with that unbreakable anger.

It felt good to hear you again.
It grounded me against all of the
delusions going on around us.
I was scared to think your apathy
had grown from a wish into reality.
You never said you still cared,
you would never allow it,
but I know the way you phrase your
words so that the true meanings can pass by
your pride without causing offense to it.

I talked to you last night for the first time in a long time.
It felt good to hear you again.
Over a year now since that first strike,
and here we are still,
trading blows in the trenches.

It felt good to remember
what I was fighting for again.

here is a story for you:
a man grew up
got old
got married
got divorced
never fell in love
never went to jail
never skipped work
never got too drunk
had a stable
mental health record
and wrote perfectly bland
poetry for a sweet fee
to feed his two children
until he put a bullet 'tween
his brain and theirs
one boring summer evening

its been a long time
since i've seen you
and perhaps thats
for the best
it feels like
forever ago
when we would
lay in bed
laughing
over something
stupid i had said
perhaps you laughed
out of pity
some extreme
sense of kindness
but i doubt it
it was never
really you
to be kind
anyway

the past
is an amazing thing
and memories
linger long after
feelings fade
perhaps that is
a blessing
you were never
one for sentiment
anyway

and i admired you for it
i saw things in you
you never did
and never will
but perhaps that is
for the best
you may die
and i might too
probably first
and to think
i may never
get a chance
to see your face
with some feeling
instead of just memory
is hard to swallow
but perhaps that is
for the best
you were never good
with goodbyes
anyway

I saw you on the plane.
The small crook of your neck turned
outward and resting along the
shoulder-line of another man.
How many lives will it take to shake
your phantoms from my spine?

We made eye contact disembarking and,
awash with turbulent shadows of
an old unyielding guilt, I said nothing.
There is a regret that exists,
deeper and more exacting within the shells
of lives we shake off and carry behind us—
tin cans attached to the wedding car
we will never drive.