I know the store is closed yet
here I am walking the half-mile
from my place. An hour before
she had driven from her
house on the lake down
to my cluttered apartment and we
made senseless, loveless *** on the
kitchen counter. It was quick and
impersonal. My hand on her hip.
Hers in her hair. During we didn’t speak.
Afterwards, however, we shared
cheap and endless conversation.
I didn't want to know any of it.
About where she was working,
how her ex boyfriend used to beat her.
I made the decision then to never
invite her down again. The baggage
was too much. For a good amount
of time she sat there, describing her
new dog, how she felt weird going
out to the bars we used to frequent,
how she needed someone to get
her off of the market.
I told a joke or two then, easing
the tension, before I begged mercy
and excused myself to get
some eggs and milk.

And that is what
it was, wasn’t it?
Your heart for a year
of bad times.
you got the short end
of the stick on
that one it seems,
kiddo.
I didn’t mean it.
I walked in thinking
it would be a pretty
even trade;
your soul for mine.
I’m sorry it didn’t
work out so smoothly
for either of us.

been around the block
for too long
around and around
like a ****
carousel
like a ****
ceiling fan
going so fast
to nowhere
you couldn't
believe
the bars are closing
and the real men
headed home
to their real wives
and their real bed
in their real homes
maybe a kid
or two
if not
maybe a dog
to look after
yeah
yeah that looks nice
paint that picture
so pretty
and the ones left
are the ones
who slump sideways
in alleyways
or bow their heads
in prayer at
the bar
sun coming up
on the east horizon
as the doors lock
as the drink fades
as it all blurs
into a whirlwind
of time and luck
and missed opportunity
a tornado of everything
going so fast
to nowhere
you couldn't believe

kneeled on tile floor
there's no sense
of pride
anymore
the blood won't
stop
cough after
godforsaken cough
no idea where you are
and you come to realize
you don't even know
who
you are anymore
or how you got there
scared out of your mind
unable to move
praying someone
doesn't walk in
--wipe your
******* mouth, son,
you're a ******* disgrace--
look at me
all of this is wrong
but it doesn't stem the blood
try a sip of water
and your stomach
turns inside out
burning up your throat
torn by convulsions
broken down man
broken down and useless
and all you can bear to think
about as you
cough and cough again
wiping all that **** away
is just how badly
you need one more hit

She put out the cigarette
in the soft part of my leg,
twisting, folding, pressing
ash to puckered skin.
Her eyes never left mine—not for a
moment—no one said a word.
The hairs stood on ends.
The hands clenched in fists.
The cigarette ground from
flame into ash into skin
and the endless smoke
curled up around us,
bodies open and waiting
for a feeling that would not come.

walking across campus
late nights
brings a sort of cool
peace that spreads
through the body
except for the ankle
i turned the night before
drunk somewhere
with someone
doing something
i can't ever seem to stop
doing
the night appears to
be catching up with me
once and for all
and the limp
doesn't help
wish i'd stop drinking
but i can't find a reason
can't find an alternative
without worse consequence
the night is catching
up with me
it seems
and my mind is falling through
it seems
memory lapse and total collapse
don't seem too far off
where self control is a
ill-conceived notion
and these late nights
might be the only
clarity or peace
i get
this life is burying me
using bottles for shovels
and cigarette butts for dirt
i've been living it
too long
and the toll does get paid
eventually

and she was there
California wasn't for
her
--and neither
was he
apparently--
said she was there
two months before
she realized he didn't
love her
and another one
before she
caught the
other woman
and the next day
she was on a
flight back east
day after that
she was on my
doorstep

--"I know I should've
called but I figured I
might as well just
come by and see
you in person
I was hoping we could
stay together again
oh I've missed you
and oh I'm so very lonely
it'll only be for a little while
I'll cook for you and clean
for you and we can
make beautiful love
on the kitchen counter
like we used to"--

like a kid who runs away
with no regret
believing the grass is greener
only to return
teary eyed and pleading
three months later

the dilemmas love
places upon us are
amazingly difficult
as the heart and the
head battle for supremacy
and the pride you
hope to retain is
swallowed
by a love that
left you out to dry

at least I have the kitchen counter

how is it?
no matter
what happens
good or ill
no matter what
life
sends my way
I always end
up here
always here
how is it?
as the sun explodes
and my dogs die
my woman won't sleep
or talk
anymore
how is it
that as whiskey
drains to glass
and relationships
come and go
like thunderstorms
flashing
how is it?
life deals blow
after blow
and I sit here
turning the
other cheek and
typing
for christ's sake
typing
as if these words
meant something
other than nothing
I should be put to work
or death
these words
bring no food to the table
no clothes for my sister's
bruising back
nothing
only another few kilobytes
reduced from thought to ram
and then gone
quick relief
quick relief
then back to nothing
as life throws another left hook

the doctor places all the pills
close atop the medical bills
she always drinks the juice

death comes every morning
three quick knocks for warning
she ponders on her youth

family comes and then family goes
blurred in the window from winter snows
she understands the truth

death comes every morning
three quick knocks for warning
she didn't touch the juice


       knock.
              knock.
                     knock.
  

I've never seen such a sad
smile in my life

I slam the glass on the table,
it shatters. The simplicity of action
and consequence allows me a smile.
The bartender knows I am drunk.
I do not mind. I clean up the mess,
beg off forgiveness, order another.
He is skeptical but the tab is open
and the money is good. He has two
kids at home, he does not need to
babysit here as well. I am spilling
down my shirt but I don’t mind.
The drink is good. The TV is on
but it shows nothing. It is too late
to have anything worth any attention.
I should have left earlier, perhaps, but
there is a measure of freedom in being
at a bar alone. She is in bed. Someone
else’s if I am lucky, mine if I am not.
It has proven to be an even coin toss
these days. I look at no one.
I talk to no one. There are few others
in the bar. I finish the drink
and look up. The bartender
shakes his head. I scowl but
underneath I understand. I am
someone’s mess to clean up.
I do not mind. I stand.
Fingers gripping the table seeking
equilibrium. Take a look around,
and stumble toward a man I don’t
know, much larger than I. There are
a few things I decide to let slip that
I have heard about him and his mother.
He doesn’t appreciate my honesty.
I throw the first punch and none more.
I apologize for bleeding on the floor.
He splits the skin in the corner of my eye.
I laugh and another snaps my nose.
The concrete feels good against my
wet cheek and I decide this may not be
a terrible place to rest.

I was on the train and two
little boys were playing a
board game with these
little trinkets
they would roll the dice
and scream and scream
peals of laughter that
dashed and echoed
up and down the
cars of the train

I didn't mind the little kids
laughing and laughing
it had a nice sound as
I lost my thought out the window
into the wilderness
I didn't mind them
even though their father
--seated in the row
behind--
smacked them upside the
head a few times
nice and good
after that they were
quiet for awhile
and I saw a small
path cutting away
through the trees
and wondered where it led

then the kids started
telling secrets into
each others ears
and my vision zoomed
back in from the immensity
of the universe back
to the train car
where they'd lean in and
whisper profound
equations to life and
happiness and secrets of
an upmost importance
told strictly in the highest confidence
then scream and scream with laughter
only to stifle it hurriedly
with a quick glance to the
row behind them

he only shook his head
and smiled

Like the snow and the cold and the everything
piled upwards atop bare shoulders.
The absence of love buried deeper
in the chest than the hatred.
Hatred at least meant that
there was something to feel.

Leaning against the steps,
an early morning in January
as the snow and the cold
and the everything piled upwards,
I watched as you looked through me
and walked right on by.

All the memories feel so detached.
The time slips by and the things
you did to pass it feel as unreal as the
dreams that burn against the inside
of your skull when you awake.
It’s another day.
It’s another passing afternoon.
The reasons for everything you do
and everything you did blur and
dissipate and the emotion of it all
fades to background noise.
The hope of the future has become
the consequences of the past and
the context of the present.
Where have you been all of this time?
Where have you been while you were living?
Memory is as real as a good movie, captured
in pictures, or written down like a book
That you remember but can’t quite
recall the theme.
Time is unforgiving in its perseverance,

I sat there, on the balcony in the middle of winter,
worried about where you were, if you were ok.
I was worried about where I was, if I was ok.
I had no answers. You were gone
and I was in Hell
All of this has become a brutal mutilation of love.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep, anymore.
It was all tightened in my chest like a vice,
like a hand around the throat.
A brutal mutilation of love.
The poorest *******, you and I.
Entangled in a feeling we couldn't feel anymore.

I sat there, on the balcony,
worried about the sky falling down,
about the finality and futility of everything.
You were gone and I was in Hell.
I looked up, it was snowing.
I laughed at the irony and agony of it all.

I heard some neighbors
down the hall
talking about how
morale is low
and rent is high
but it can't be all bad
with wine in
my glass
and women
in and out my door
it can't be all bad
when they burst with
such a beautiful thrill
their anger
their slammed doors
their clenched fists
it can't be all bad
when they keep
me up all
hours of the night
with echoes of
love I never felt

morale is low
and the rent is high
they said
and maybe they're right
--the rent sure has me
by the throat--
but the wine still pours
night after night
the women still come and
the women sure as hell
still go
but that's the beauty of it
you can't hold on
too long
no no no
never too long
just glimpses at
a time
and all you can
really do is
just pour another glass
because it can't be all bad
can it?

money's gone
drunk as hell
woman's leaving
again
friends dead and gone
lovers lost
and lost
and lost
i write, but for what?
it brings no comfort
no coin
only cramped hands
and tired nights
writing is a fool's game
a cruel muse
a poison i continue to drink
and enjoy--
fool--
drink up
intoxication
grips my bones
and i don't know
how to get home
money's gone
drunk as hell
woman left
again
bottle's empty
again
a fool's game
no woman
drink
no money
drink
no more
the downward spiral
continues

In Spring, it is possible
to find God with only
slight attention to detail.
There is a park tucked
between the city blocks
and the green of the grass
breaks the slate pavement
and the jawline skyscrapers
like teeth, serrated edges
up against the blue.

In Winter, He can be found as well,
but it is not the same, he is not beautiful
in his pallid forms as he is across those
verdant leaves hanging.
It is much harder to notice,
and one must look closely
at the frost alongside the branch
shining in grim reflection atop the walk.
—if one can manage the cold and
the wind and the everything frozen
without hurrying too muchalong—
I find that Hell may indeed
be a cold, cruel place.

Perhaps they are both in tandem
with one another. Winter begets
Spring and back again.
I step back from both and let
them play their tug-of-war.
Build and destroy and build again.

So I sit in Spring,
and God is there dancing,
out in the wisps of light
that brim amongst the
petals and the great
wonderful things and
I laugh, feigning hope,
knowing so quickly how it will
freeze again.

Living in one place for
a long time tends to
complicate the memory.
Flashes and visions intervene
and overlap in the conscious.

There is the corner where
I first told you I loved you,
imitations of that anxiety flood
the nervous system and I am
that stumbling little boy again.
That time I left for the summer
and you cried, right there,
begging me to stay.
I look away now because I
remember how hard it was to leave.

Look back and there we are again,
a year later. You’re crying for
another reason.

And there you are,
yelling in that auditorium as
you hit me in the chest, tears streaming
down both of our cheeks.
I had class in that room all year,
replaying that hatred in your eyes,
over and over.

The bar we went on a date to.
I loved you there,
elegant in black, and I
hadn’t shaved and I knew
and you knew and everyone knew
I was the lucky one to
have been there at all.
Later, the same bar you threw
a drink in my face.

The same bar I watched
you with another man.

Memory is a curse when
stabilized by the tangibility
of location.
I am stuck in winding loops
of memories that will never
be made again.
Like walking the ruins
of a great civilization,
knowing something beautiful
and magnificent once took place
but now is nothing but
twisted remains and
dusted fragments of a life
that may have been
but no longer is
anymore.

In my apartment it is dark,
but even then it isn’t really;
the blink of the smoke alarm,
the light from the screen, illuminating
my desk as I type.
I see a bug crawl into a corner
and out of sight under this
synthetic brightness.

I am alone without him there,
but even then I am not really;
outside, cars pass by, encasing their inhabitants
in spheres of aluminum and cheap metal,
seven billion of us out there, all encased in little boxes.
The cars honk but I cannot hear them
through the walls.

In my apartment it is silent,
but even then it isn’t really;
I hear the whir of the air vent, coughing
out from underneath the table,
and the couple in the apartment above me,
yelling, fighting, always fighting.

They are in love,
but even then it isn’t really;
he beats her and she cooks breakfast,
each facing demons that they twist
and contort and call something it's not.
I see her as she comes down the steps
while I step out for a smoke.
I think she should leave him
but she doesn’t and I don't say.

In the flickering light of the stairwell
I see the results of love, I see the results of
her, too scared to be alone. It saddens me
to see her, although I do not know her.

She passes without a word, and
as I come back inside I close the door,
shutting out the everything behind me.
I don’t think I mind so much
my fake darkness, my fake silence.
I don’t think I mind so much
being alone.

look at the
corpses
waiting to die
wanting?
they conspire
in dark corners
to eradicate themselves
build and build
just to burn it down
look at the corpses
praying for sleep
paying?
with the chemicals
that burn them
inside out
look at the corpses
look at the corpses
skipping around
in the sunlight
shooting up to
the stars
only to come home
to an empty reality
sin spread out
across the species
watch them jump
toward the grave
watch! watch!
the corpses
waiting to die
as interesting as
a flash of lightning
a quick curiosity
until they burns themselves
out to the nothingness
they once were

she sat across the bar from me
almost within reach
and throughout the night
we would catch each other's eye
sworn she smiled
once or twice
but then she left
and we had never
said a word
just a quick glance back
as the door shut behind her

good riddance
I'm glad she's gone
got to keep your distance
that moment was
more than enough
whoever she is
will share a small memory
with me forever
and that's just enough
anymore and it leads
to complications
and chaos
got to keep your distance
can't get too close
she knows it
--just like I do--
that's why we never
said a word

everything is
more beautiful
from far away

Perhaps I'm lying.
Perhaps I've been lying
this whole time.
Perhaps my apathy
manifests only as self defense;
as denial. How can one
understand the center of the
labyrinth from the outside? Or perhaps,
it is from the center of the maze that I stand,
unable to conceive of
the outside world. There is an
ambiguity in emotion
with lines blurring between
apathy and anger, between
love and hate. --as they seem
to come so terribly entwined--
So perhaps I am lying, not only
to you, but to myself, and in
consequence my soul is
stagnating and stalling out in an attempt
to break through toward the surface.
However, that's a chance I'm unsure if I can take
at this moment in time.
I don't think I mind it so much here,
stuck inside the labyrinth.

how do you tell
someone you regret breaking
their heart
when you actively
participated in the breaking
there's no nuances
or loopholes you can deflect to
you merely ruined
everything you had and could have had
and you're sitting on
a Thursday morning at three in the morning
breaking holes in walls because this
woman is crying herself to sleep
but soon she is gonna get up
soon she is going to get out
--if not already--
and there are so many men better than you
and there are so many men better for her than you
and you had your shot
you got lucky, punk
but how dare you throw that away
how dare you flip off fate
he gave you a break
and look at you
have the nerve to think you'll be ok
but you don't know
you've eaten the forbidden fruit
savored that impeccable truth
and now everything else
is just a miserable shadow
of the love you tossed out with
the morning trash

There are very many beautiful women
that I will never know
and very few beautiful women
that I will, but they never
stay long, seeing quickly how
low I am beneath them.
There are also some who are not
as beautiful and I will know them
equally as well,
if not better than the others.

More often than not there are more
of those than any other kind,
for I am ugly and luck
is often bitter toward me,
if not at least fair.

The ones I do not know
are always more beautiful
than the ones that I do.
Sometimes it saddens
me to think of things of
which I will never know;
the beautiful women
or the touch of the moon or the
pale white beaches of Greece.

More often than not I avoid
thinking on such things for long,
if at all, and I can
be content with my few,
fleeting beautiful women,
--who come to me when
luck has made a mistake
and leave again when it
is corrected--
and the few others who
are more like me
and can accept me as
their own.

with wine on white sheets
walk into the room
why is mommy asleep
on the floor
the yelling woke the
whole house but
He is nowhere to be found
the faucet is running
in the bath
but no one is in it
the water level approaches
overflow
but no one is in it
and He is nowhere to be found
don't be scared
don't be scared
chew on a thumb
go sleep with mommy
she knows what to do
in the morning she'll
make breakfast
and laugh
this bad joke
don't be scared
water spills over
on tile floors
don't be scared
don't be scared
with wine on white sheets
walked into the room
why won't mommy
wake up

I'm stuck
and my poetry
reflects it
life is getting
a little stagnant
and when you aren't
living well
you aren't
writing well
and it burns in my stomach
and aches in my head
because I know
how much there needs
to be said
how much I've got to
let out
before I lose it
and go mad
maybe already lost it
and its already gone
and this is only the
repercussion
only the consequence
I'm not sure
but I need
to figure out
a way to
create again
a way to
live again
before it's too late
and all of those
books
and poems
and *******
good for nothing
pages
go unread
and unwritten
and my name goes
unknown
sprinting headfirst
into the callous, crowded everything
of forever

one of those days
where the whole world
is inside
sad and self pitying
as the sky falls
and has been falling
for years it seems
but that's nothing new
whats new is this
cut on my arm
and the half smoked
cigarette
smoldering by the mattress
and whatever there was
to drink last night
stained in the carpet
as i look around
i already know
its one of those days
but i don't bother to
look outside
or do anything
besides close my eyes
there's enough
to deal with inside
apparently the sky is falling
but life
goes
on
so they say

Everywhere I look I see
my old women, moving on.
They are happy in love --perhaps
unhappy-- but nonetheless
without any thought or worry
to the well being of my soul.
I see them in photographs. I see
them in sweet glimpses as we pass
on separate sides of the street.
I see them with their children, and
their loved ones, and their everything
that they once gave to me. I sometimes
envy the lives I have pushed away. Sometimes
I stay late at the typewriter, pushing keys
into the memory of old flames and burnt
bridges. The vultures stare at me,
at what I have become, and their
cackling laughter can be heard
the whole world over. The road
I have chosen is not a
glorious one.
They have won. They have
their money and their love, and
that’s all they ever wanted. I could
not give it to them. I hurt them all
in order to hurt myself-- perhaps
to save myself-- but they are gone
regardless, and I am left in
what is left.
The ***** are quick, the nights
are long, and the love is
missing. But the words are there,
omnipresent, keeping me aligned
with what I’m here to do, and
who I’m here to do it with; myself.
There is no alternative. There is no
happy in love. There is ink and there
is paper.
The road I have chosen
is not a glorious one.

Memory tilts the senses,
like a bad night, or a good drink.
The places we go change around us,
forming consistently thickening walls
of cognitive remembrance.
At the bar there is the table where
I sat the first time, with people I just met,
and faces I soon forgot. They are there still,
at the bar, as am I, painted in landscape,
watercolors across canvas.

I danced with you there, same bar,
and you looked up at me with wet,
sparkling eyes and laughed as I made a fool
out of myself for you. We are there as real
as I feel anything, still tainted with the emotion
of that moment.

Drunk, we fought, and the cold taste of that
***** water as it cascaded down my face
is as painful then as it is laughable now.
My friends were shocked and they clowned
me as you stormed off. I didn’t chase you
though I should have.

Memory tilts the senses.
Altering the perception and
introducing bias to the most
casual of environments.
I cannot walk the town in which
I have lived without seeing you.
It cannot be good for the soul to
live in one place too long.
Inevitably, experiences blur together
until there is no place safe from recognition.
It isn’t good. The walls of memory close in and the
prison cell shrinks around us, suffocating us,
forcing us to walk the long way home just to
avoid the restaurant where we went on
our first date.

she bites the soft skin
in the nape
of his neck
her back arched
in ecstasy

who is it?
I don't know
I don't
know

She stares into
his eyes
pulls her hand
through his hair
down his jawline

who is it?
I don't know
I don't *******
know

it might as well
be everyone
if it isn't me

into the trees
the grass
the whole world
around us

you could see it
if you cared to look
though I don't suppose
you do

love is a poisonous
thing
I understand your
hesitation

it is killing off the flowers
and the
animals are all off
away in hiding
I understand your hesitation

but it bleeds out
now
faster now than ever
before

flowing freely
into the leaves
of the trees
and the blades
of the grass

the reds and the browns
the oranges and the yellows
screaming out against the green
fighting and flailing to stay afloat
as weather sweeps it all away
shouting into the nothingness
of the coming winter that

I am falling in love

you could see it
if you cared to look

either way
the love is bleeding out

and autumn has arrived

seems the dam is
breaking down
at last
breaking down
all of the effort
the years of work
that keep it together
tossed aside
but only for tonight

these
walls
are
crumbling
down

but only for tonight

this is all you'll see
a few clumsy lines
--you never know which
one's are about you
well
these are--
and if you read this
like I know you will
here's to hoping you find
something worth
salvaging in this
wreckage
in the mess I continue
to make with
every step I take

these walls are
crashing down
but only for tonight
only for tonight

Florida,
when it was known to me,
was a long land of strip malls and palm trees.
A long land of asphalt roadways and people
waiting on something
they pretended was not death.
The cast-aways of a culture that could not
strap their useless to a tree and leave them.

You could hear them in the grocery stores,
the thin lines of sweat beaded together
to crouch in the wrinkles of their flesh.
You could watch them in traffic,
sifting to the side like *******,
collecting itself and slowing down to naught.

It was not a happy place.
the sun reflecting in painted posters
and painted smiles, convincing those
who were not there.
Cold drove them down en masse,
large four-lane-highway flocks of them,
with winter adverts that lingered on
snowed-in, New England cable televisions,
telling of a thing that did not exist.

Florida,
when it was known to me,
was a land of dark, high-waisted palms
lining roads thick with *******,
asphalt glowing in its heat-induced mirage.
everything seeming off, distant,
everything somewhere else.

You could walk along the pavement,
feeling your feet echo upward from your
shoe-soles, watching the white-haired movement
of traffic, and almost remember
everything the world had ever thrown away.

I have this vision.
It is of myself, pretentious enough,
in a lone clay-brick mesa out amongst
the red, plateaued deserts of Babylon.
The air is burnt and stale with heat,
and there is a nonexistent breeze that
barely cuts through that
open wound of a window upon which
hangs from itself one white, translucent curtain.

There is a typewriter in the corner,
by the window. Also a chair.
Upon this of which I sit, looking outwards.
The scalding oppression of the heat,
the smacking taste of dust in the
dregs of late summer,
burning holes in my senses as they
numb themselves from the climate.
One cannot think of anything else
when the body is under such complete
submission by the force of nature.

So I write, in that chair there by the window,
with its lone, white shade almost
shimmering in the air.
I write about the dust,
and the heat,
and the endless plains of ochre,
simply because nothing else can
exist amongst the total
subjugation of the senses.

I was comfortable in bed,
Sunday morning’s as a kid
in the blooming heat
of a late Spring morning.
I could hear the phone ring
and my mother move slowly
to answer.
Muffled conversation beget
an anguished cry and
hustled words of consolation.
I couldn’t make it out from the noise.

I didn’t quite care because of
the hangover aches that
wracked the young limbs in
atrophy of the body and of the soul,
instead keeping eyes closed from
the light in the window and rolled
into a drifting sleep.
It wasn’t until I re-awoke
and staggered to the kitchen
that I saw her shaking her head,
crying slightly atop the kitchen counter.
A quick glance upwards with
tears renewed in strength.

Death need only come in quick,
effortless seconds upon a blackout night.
Hell need only come in a phone call
and a mother’s terrified explanation.

late night
in the dead of summer
alone
with my sisters cat
she has gone
to California
big hopes
and bigger dreams
but left the cat
for me
and mother is gone
and father is sick
or crazy
or both
and the women
i love
or used to love
or never did
but should have
are gone
and that is hardest
for lonely nights
in the dead of summer
are best
cured with a cold drink
and a colder woman
all gone
and i am alone with
the cat
who jumps at every
sound
every shadow
i try to write
and hope to ease the loneliness
or the boredom
or the madness
stretching and shaping
within
but the words leave me
like everything else
and my thoughts are empty
as my glass on the stand
which falls and
clatters as i reach for
a drink
now even the cat
has gone

There is a beauty in this,
though it may be hard to see.
There is a beauty in this,
somewhere.
In some angle of light
refracted across
this shattered mirror reflection
of something that used to exists
but does no longer.
There is a beauty in this.
We laugh as we were,
smiling through a fog
of uncertainty.
The company is adequate,
the type where silence is
comfortable instead of awkward.
Perhaps we even cry, when warranted.
These moments of passion that blend
the colors and burst through
the frame. All else appears
to fade, if only you'd look
close enough. And I would not
mind a narrowing of the vision.
The bigger picture has
dulled in color and left me
numb to the detail. That is what this is,
a step closer toward the mirror, a look
closer at the brushstroke;
there is a beauty in this
if only you'd look close enough.

I met you
Late one night
The bar was closing
Visions blurred
We sat on the curb
And I shared my cigarette
As we drank
And fell headfirst
Deeper down the rabbit
Hole
The street light flickered
And you told me
In your vibrant soprano
That life was paradise

I didn't know what you meant
And I laughed my way to the
Apartment I was occupying
To sleep amongst the masses
Forgot about you

You were sweet
And I never saw you again
Never understood
What you had said
I moved houses
Moved on
Thinking how
My life was hell

Until I wrote this
And remembered
Years have passed
And I'm sure you've
Moved on
Towards some
Greater paradise
But I'm still here
Trying to see what you saw
In between the lines
Of the living and the dead

they'll put up a statue for
the dead long buried
in graves gray as any other
under grass as green
as any other
they'll say some nice words
it will be nice
to hear

stop by once a year
to remember
bring a flower or two
wilted as any other
and the memories
fading fast as any other
maybe it'll help
bury the regret
next to them
under the time
under the
justifications and
military commendations
under the drink
six feet of everything
piling up

they'll put up a statue
it'll be nice to see
won't it?
yea I think it will be
real nice commemoration
consolation
real nice
they'll say some nice words
make sure everyone's a hero
it'll be nice to hear
but they're still as
dead
as any other

It's not meant to be sane.
It isn't meant to be calm,
or rational, or easy.
It's meant to burn.
It's meant to burst out of you
like that yell you can't contain,
like that levy splitting at the seams.
Your mind is the concrete;
holding back,
double checking.
Your mind is that safety net
keeping you from falling.
But it isn't meant to be sane,
or calm, or easy.
So fall. Go ahead,
let it burn you.
Let it tear you apart, let it
rip you to shreds.
Let it break you down
in the licking fires of
passion. Let it destroy you.
Let it engulf you in that flame.
Let it burn you,
so that from the ashes,
love may be free at last.
Because it's not meant to be sane.
It isn't meant to be calm, or easy,
or painless.

So go ahead, let it burn you.

when I was young
I wanted to fall in love
wanted to feel something
special with someone
and to be a rock star
and to travel the world
but now reality
has punched me in the gut
and dragged me through
the twelfth round
I have come to a different
truth
I wake up every morning
to the same sun
but I **** women to not
feel a thing
I demoted from
rock star
to poet,
and moved to
Philadelphia
from Florida
and hate it
here

you're sitting
on the other side
of the bed
watching me write
but we're worlds away
forever apart
it's sad
you hardly ever
look in my
direction
anymore
for fear
of something
maybe one of those
chemical
reactions
in your brain
I'm sure.
I'm sure.
one of those doors
that should be left shut
I'm sure.
I'm sure.
emotions
were never
your strong
suit
--mine either
I suppose--

you're sitting
on the other side
of the bed
but I can't even
reach out my hand

holding
your hand
kicking
our toes into the sand
sun long set
darkness enfolds the beach
a sort of calm has paused
our flow of time

as the moon rises
and the waves crash
their whispered secrets
ceaselessly
into the shore
i realize ive wasted
too much time
looking
for all the wrong things

love isnt a colossal force
calling young men to war
between head and heart
but small, subtle
it lies in the grains of sand
sifting through our feet
it exists in the warmth
caused by our bodies
gently touching
on a cold night
such as this

i faintly hear it
from the waves
feel it
on the breeze
and see it
in your soft brown eyes
looking upwards
at me
at the stars
at everything and nothing

as our gazes collide
your warm smile sends shivers
down my spine
and it begins
to make

sense

Introspection is a hazardous
endeavor. If you pick too much
at the cracks in your character
you are likely to pull them apart
and underneath is everything
you hate about yourself, out in
the open now, rearing its ugly
head for all to witness. Yet here
I am, picking at the cracks. I am
pulling down the walls and I am
breaking all of the locks that bind
my character to the role that I have
played too well and too long. The
method acting needs an end. I am not
who I portray and I am not who I prefer,
but who I have grown to hate,
and that rotting of my person has become
a detriment not only to myself but to
all that are in contact with me. It is time
to cut the tree back down to the trunk
and get rid of the *******, the foliage
that covers up the bare, naked truth.
I am not who I pretend to be. I am not
who I prefer to be. I have twisted into
a creature that I hate, simply because you
hate and simply because you hurt. And
that is unacceptable. So the act must end,
and the man must begin, I am only scared
that if you hate the man underneath the act,
then there will be no other face to take the blame,
and nowhere else to hide.
But something's got to give.

I think I'd like to write something once
that isn't bent and weighed down
with sand.
See where it sits and pours,
over and upward and outward
away from me.
A career of sand.
The grains sit and fill-in
spaces between the keys,
eating up the page
and the words, and the years,
and the tips of callous fingers:
all of it sand.


Textures sift between hands,
a warm roughness beneath
un-blanketed backs.
Turn it over in the picture frame.
A memory that won’t part from
the foreground,
won’t erase itself from the
desert it mires in.

The shower-head of time
refusing to scour the hands,
backs, fingertips, a keyboard
against an empty page.
All of it sand–
lone and level,
far as the eye can see.

the couch isn't
as comfortable as
you remember
your eyes begin
the process of opening
but you force them shut
dare not
move a muscle for fear of
mental collapse
your head
on the anvil while
smith swings hammer
continuously
one
after
another
no rest for the weary
no rest
you lay there in the morning
is it even morning?
palms sweaty
sick as a dog
with nowhere to go
the bar closed too early and
seems it will never open
another drink
another drink
keep em coming jack
don't let this old dog down
its only the 12th and
I've got two weeks to die
two weeks
can't seem to pull
that trigger fast enough

the window was open
and upon
looking out
into that
chill
post winter air
with the last
of the post winter
snow on the ground
with spring
waiting to erupt
i saw
the devil and god
work out their
differences
i saw the
stars all bursting
as one
i saw the heavens
and the earth
and everything between
open up and felt
reality burst forth in
color and beauty and love
so many brilliant things
passing before my eyes
amazing and breath taking
i had to pause a moment
had to look away
upon my gazes return
i saw that post winter
snow again
waiting for spring
and i saw you
almighty in your elegance

with all else forgotten
i stared in awe

A turbid river with little current,
a roughened stone half-submerged
and softening in the stream.
There is a contradicting
endlessness to things,
even as everything ebbs
toward nonexistence.
The staid trunk of the oak tree
sits solid on the hillside and
its rings measure the infinite.

Memories that linger are both
yesterday and forever ago.
A turbid river with little current,
a stone sinking in the mud and eroding.
The shadows shift slightly
to the left
forever.

The end of long a long trip,
the endless handshake of time,
candlewax pooling in a tin as
the flame burns out.

She walked in small steps—
always behind when you walked with her
as if a big deal to be moving at all.
As if she’d never gotten the motion
down quite right.
She’d been in Lexington
longer than she’d tell.
Had gotten to know someone
she never met.
Had taken a long black strike through
the page.

“A couple years,” she told you;
her feet shuffled up and narrow
in nervous white slips.
You’d be in the park or
sometimes out by the horses
waiting for her by the fence,
unconcerned. She was always
wanting to be out by the horses,
or in the park. She’d never go
back to your apartment, not right away.

“A couple years,” she would tell you,
“just long enough to hate it here.”
The type of thing people
say about a place to joke around,
but her lips never curled when she
was done joking it.
Some eyes don’t ever open up,
you would think.
You would think you knew
everything there is to know.
Prided yourself on it.

“Oh boy, she’s got some crazy in her,”
You would tell the guys, “Just enough to
swing around and have some fun.”
All the while she’s walking behind you,
those small staccato steps.
White shoes and her navy long coat
tucked tight around
her elbows in right angles.
“Only been in Kentucky a couple years,”
you would carry on, “Hadn’t even been
over on campus until a few months ago.”
All the while she’s walking behind you,
head down, eyes low and closed up
barn doors at midnight.
Maybe you’d take her to the park
around sunset, spinning her around
in the light just to coax a smile
up to the surface. Or to the horses that
always seemed to like her more than
they liked you.

And always her walking
just those few steps behind you—
even now.

It is an image of a man.
Behind him, a shadow stretched long and thick—
like tar. Like shoulder blades. Like a feeling you could lay in.
The shadow is a well, a pit, a grave.
The shadow is a hole the artist forgot to fill.
The image is a sadness, dark and shoulder-width. 

The image is a child at the beach,
a toy plastic shovel in his hand.
The image is his brown cap with the strap and
the gold embossed letters “Lowry Park Zoo,”
the sand from the shovel flying forever
backwards without a glance—
tiny diamonds caught by the wind and small hands,
flowering downward into great mountains. 

The image is a child in a hole shoulder-width,
sand in a landslide behind him,
resting for only a moment before cascading back
into the shadow again. 

The image is a false progress.
The child is an old man, the beach a graveyard.
Watch the shovel. Watch the sand as diamonds as dirt as time.
Watch the wind. Watch the crooked hands.
Watch it trickle down again, again. The child is an old man. 
The sand is a hole. The shadow is a sadness.
Do they lay in it?

The image is a regression.
In off-pitch impressions I wonder the comforts of the grave—
satin in the coffin. The feeling when there is none.
Do they lay in it?

The image is a man. 
The image is a shoulder-width sadness. 
The image is a boy and an old man laying in the same shadow. 
The image is a hole I forgot to fill.