Although I know that you
are not as sad as I am
--I hesitate to call it
sadness so simply, it seems
to be more of a perspective
than an emotion--

Although I know that
you are not as eager
to embrace this sadness,
--Though some of it does
live in you, it is what attracted
me to you so fully--

Although I know that
you are striving away
from all of the nonsense
and sadness that has
welled up between us
these past years,
--That beautiful and
maddening sadness--

I hope that there are times,
you are alone,
--Sprawled across
you bed as I remember you--
or perhaps sitting in that
chair with your laptop ahead
of you, the one you used
--Oh, how many eternities
past now!-- to call me when
I was away from you.

I hope that there are times,
regardless of where you are,
that you stop and you think
and you dwell on that
ever-numbing sadness that
I see and you see, piling up
like glaciers of ice upon
your eager heart.

I hope you embrace that
sadness like an old friend,
and can listen to some of
the sad music we once
listened to, eternities past,
and perhaps find a way to
enjoy some of
our maddening sadness
yet again.

it's been a long year
and I don't think
you understand that
I'm going crazy
no matter how calm I seem
or how tough a wall I put up
I'm man enough
to admit I ****** up
but I really am going crazy
I can't even explain
everything that's
been running through
my head

you see
at some point
subconsciously
I decided to take a chance
one I never wanted
or planned on
but I didn't have much choice
the walls were cracking
and now
weeks later
I'm stuck between
my pride and some
short term feelings
I never asked for

you sat there and
cried that night
remember?
I don't know if it was
because of me or
embarrassment
but *******
I really thought
that the walls were
down
finally
at last
but it seems
we both have
a little too much pride
for our own good

doesn't really matter
much anyway
I guess
it's been a long year
one we're both eager to
be done with
just could've sworn I
saw those walls come down
yours and mine both
if only for a moment

probably just me
going crazy
again

The house is stone gray
Unpainted walls collage
The morning sun
Ugly and broken
Cracks permeate the tile floors
I lay
In lavished grace
Mattress on the floor
Strewn with stains and mistakes
Reveling in sweet
Disgust
While everything works around us
In order -- in line

From the mattress
A glance to the doorway
Reveals the woman
The alpha and omega
The reason to love life
And to hate it
She isnt unscathed by this
Ugliness
I have surrounded myself with
Bruises and cuts
Past fights
Her own demons to face
Nostrils red and inflamed
From short term relief
She's the queen
The everything
Amidst all of this nothing
No god. No government.
Only the cracked walls
The cockroaches
The rising sun
And her

This is my kingdom

I grab the handle
Of Maker's Mark
That slept with me
And start again anew

I taste the bitterness
like salt on your lips—
the sadness in your sweat
a single bead that slips with care
down the crescent of your cheek.
The small of your back
is arched and tight
and I read the tension in the
subtle protrusions of your vertebrate
as I climb them with a finger.

You are full of your own miseries,
you sad  and beautiful devil.
You are full of your loves
and your hates.
Your good deeds
and the shadow cast over
them by your mistakes.
I taste them each individually.
I read them in each notch of your spine.
I learn them in every movement and touch
of our solitary dance.

I fear I will be another
for someone else
to understand one day.

Unfortunately,
I have found myself
at the end of another
failed experiment.
SUBJECT 17 has yielded
no results substantial
in deviation relative to the others.
No exceeding qualities
or aspiring hopes,
only the same shallow devotions,
same tangible-driven emotion.
I have only managed to
catalyze tolerance in the
subjects toward my behavior,
with no noticeable steps
moving toward interest.

Give me one woman
who enjoys Hem like me.
One woman
who cares about literature,
or good music that provides
something deeper than the melody.
I've been looking for too long.
17 times I've given myself up for
the experiment, 17 times I've
stepped out on the limb.
However, the poet's life is not a life
of acceptance, interest, or accolade.
We are tolerated
by the subjects we surround
ourselves with,
until they grow tired
of our late nights spent
with attentions elsewhere.
Leaving us with ourselves,
until we realize that isn't
such a loathsome place
to be.

It creeps in through the windows
and through the vents. Through the eyes,
and through the tongues, and through
the ears, perhaps, but always
through the eyes and always the tongues.

It creeps in through the words and
the mouths they arise from,
—always in whisper,
right below the earlobe,
with warm, tickled breath—

It creeps in through you and the
death is cruel and the death is
fair and the death is always eternal.
The death is cold and it is calculated
but it is always full of passion,
pulsing in the veins till the very moment
the heart comes to a stop.

It is love in the bathroom stalls.
It is love in the beat-down bars where the
beat-down people drink their lukewarm beer.
It is love in the truck bed on the side of
some unnamed, midnight mile down I-95.
It is love in the worst way.
It creeps in and it kills you,
and it kills you, and it kills you.
Each death a little different, but
death all the same.

In the morning there she is.
She’s making coffee, or in the shower,
or headed to work.
You’re looking for your pants,
or your shirt, or your wallet,
perhaps some combination of the three,

The whole time wondering
how the hell you’ll ever make it
out of this alive.

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

the sun was coming
up over the residential buildings
of west philadelphia
I couldn't remember where I was
or how I had gotten there
the bar almost a mile away
from my current location
I was sitting down
afraid of the tumultuous nothing
that clouded the last 6 hours
and the vague scent
of double whiskey's and coke
still on my breath
I couldn't recall how the
night had ended
the dulled flashes
of memory
were frustratingly brief
but no one was awake yet
and the city looked amazing
in the day's nascent glow

my head was ringing
an amazing ache
that spread rapidly downwards
from my skull
and I sat there
for a little while
contemplating the
emptiness
and what exactly I had
done with myself

one beautiful friday morning
on the steps of
Parker's barber shop
I was brought back to life
confused and alone
it was a terrible miracle
to still be alive
with no money in my wallet
as I began the long walk home

We were in middle school.
After the pre-algebra
exam we learned how
the body worked.
You took me into the
gymnasium and took that
left turn into the bathroom,
blew me
till your mother came
and picked you up
in her red sedan.

Then we were in high school,
and you ****** to fit in.
The drugs were
part of that too,
I suppose.
We weren't too close,
but I saw you
night after night,
making friends
in all the wrong ways.
Look how popular
you became.

Never went to college.
I don't know where
you ended up,
to be honest,
but you were a beautiful girl
with a beautiful spirit,
not like the shallow girls you
disguised yourself with.
There aren't many of you left
I'm afraid

I still think about you
and that day
after pre algebra.
--you got an A on that exam
I don't know if you remember--
Sad to think about.
I hope you're doing alright.
I hope life has you somewhere
the weather's warm,
and the sky is blue,
and the men are less
cruel than we were.

You were drawn to me
because I was a writer.
You didn't understand
that I write well
simply because I lie well.
Such is the art of storytelling.
I'm honestly sorry you had
to realize that
The hard way.

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

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

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.

you lay there
coming up with
excuses
everything that
went wrong
all the reasons
this ship was
going under
everything that
led us up to
where we are now
--which is
nowhere--
you talked about
how I was working
late and
how you'd been sick
so often
how I'd been drinking
so much
you said it wasn't any
one's fault
just mostly mine
and you didn't
blame me for it
you just hated me for it
but you still loved me
you made sure to
clarify that point
so you kept looking
for the iceberg
kept justifying
excuse after excuse
for why this ship
was sinking
you didn't realize
I put the holes
there myself
this was no titanic
there was no iceberg
no sum of
quantitative and
rational excuses
I
just
didn't
love you

lost at war
on linoleum floors
erratic and awake
convulsing
begging
sweet relief
licking the inside
of your thighs
sparks of existence
spiraling up your spine
into explosions of neural
activity
the irresistible pain
that corrodes you
writhing with an insect agony
as the flames creep
up your arms
she is a cruel mistress
but she is fair
hollowing out your veins
falling to the side
a hand strikes at the counter
in an effort to catch
blood leaks out of your forehead
with the linoleum tasteless
and apathetic
cheek pressed and aching
you're naked in
a bathroom
groping at skin
you can touch but
slowly begin to not feel
fingers fall off
and turn to dust
in the blur
of burning buildings
and the troops are
storming up the steps
fire shoots up your neck
stiff with involuntary
spasms of ecstasy
flickers of love
flutter across the
screen of your mind
subliminal messages
scar holes into your
brain tissue
you blink in and out
as two realities merge
and the troops
barge in with two bullets
to the skull
and one in the gut
the linoleum is cruel
warmed by the ether
slipping out of you
finding channels in the grooves
painting square lines
away from you
two of them grab
at your corpse
harsh calloused hands
hold limp flesh
and the human touch stings
in ******* revulsion
the linoleum is gone
lines dragged into your
cheek as your teeth
raindrop onto the fleeing floor
pitter patter pitter patter
then its pitch black sensations
touch feel taste
everything numb
cold

eyes open to reality
naked and cold
blurred lines in the tile
lost at war
on linoleum floors
as you roll over
and lose yourself
into the open toilet

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.

the sun had set
as the hours grew
and then diminished
as they tend to
i lay at the typewriter
pretending
late into the night
pitter pattering
fingers like rain
on the keyboard
in a room otherwise
dark and otherwise quiet
but realizing futility
staring at a blank page
and an empty bottle
i retired to my bed
and as i climbed in
the woman
eyes still closed
asked if i was done
and on hearing
my resigned sigh
she smiled
she smiled and
told me to
come to bed
it will all be alright
if the sun
rises again
tomorrow
she said
it'll be alright
she said
i guarantee it
so i laid next to her
and she rubbed my hand
and kissed my knuckles
as she tends to do
in bouts of affection
and i couldn't help but smile
the right woman
can be a miracle
in the darkest hours

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

stopped for a
smoke on a
bench outside
some gas station off I-75
with nowhere to go
I shot the breeze alone
watching the night grow
it was nice
surrounded by woods
somewhere in Tennessee

went inside
to buy another
pack as it got later
wondering which
poison to go with
and saw this big
hundred gallon
tank
toward the back
of the store
it had a single
lobster inside

I stopped
a brief second
of confusion
--why's there a
lobster here
anyways?--
I couldn't help
but smile
a fellow comrade
alone but not lonely
a stalwart of
the night

walked to the counter
went with wine
paid and walked
back out
to my bench
winking at my
new friend on the
way out

I'll be ****** if
he didn't wag a claw
right back

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

the past is a mess
for most people
mistakes and missteps
missed opportunities
and meaningless decisions
coagulate into a mass of
regret and indecision
at where you have came
and that separation from where
you want to be

the past is a pitiful thing
it can consume you
if you let it
it can tear you open
and bear those
terrible secrets
you buried
to the world

the past is a pitiful thing
it can let loose
the animal
that hides
deep under
the skin
clawing
at the insides
of your mind

the past is a pitiful thing
a cross on your back
that breaks you down
vertebrae by vertebrae
ball and chain
dragging you under
holding you
until you cannot breathe
anymore

the past is a pitiful thing
because you are there
and you will never
be in my
future
again

the past is a pitiful thing
eating me alive
bleeding me out
from underneath

the past
is a
pitiful
thing
I am consumed
piece by piece
as I add
another link
to the chain
another weight
to the cross
I slowly fall
under

Final descent into the city
in the middle of night.

Out on the horizon,
at the right distance,
there is no difference

between the streetlights
and the
stars.

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

It is love bug season again in Florida,
where they flock to the windshields
of the world to die by the dozens.
I wince at each small pop,
cringe at the light going out
as life comes and goes
so quickly, again again again...

Love like life is fickle,
love like life is cold--
even here in warm Florida summers--
Even here, where the bugs flock
at ninety miles an hour
down this dark stretch of I-75.
Coming to love, coming to live,
sweeping out into the street,
pop, pop, pop.
wrong place, wrong time.
again again again...

Walk up the street
and put a bullet in my brain,
right there, bang.
This is what we wanted!
Look at the excitement.
This is what we wanted.
See how it jumps up that barrel?
See how it pops and clicks?
Look at the excitement,
It's all for kicks. We're all for kicks.
A wonderful experience.
Splitting hairs into my left temporal lobe,
pushing through the dermis, squeezing
through the skull --oh, that tingles a little,
I must admit--
before finally sticking to
my primary auditory cortex.
My oh my, what a finish.
Anticlimactic, just as I deserve.
Appears that there is an
irony in everything I do.
I finally don't have to hear it anymore,
there's a bullet blocking me. Over and
over, but no more. No longer able to
hear you say those things you said
and my body collapses on the corner
where you told me you wanted me to die.
And I told you that what you were
would not happen again.
One promise I will keep.

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

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.

I write fiction because I realized
from a young age that
I was a splendid liar,
with these pretty little lies
I ******* all nice and tight.
Slowly they became bigger
as I became bigger
and they became ugly
as I became ugly,
and still they came,
with more momentum now.
They grew thorns, hurting the
people who believed them.
I put them on the paper
so they could look beautiful
again.
Still they were false.
Still they sat in my gut
like an unwanted child,
a weight I couldn't help
but carry.
So here, another lie
for me to tie.
See, see how pretty it is?

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.

they say when you
get into the role
it can consume you
drive you crazy
blur the
lines between you
and who you're supposed to be
some roles you never get out of
--they say--
some masks stay on
more and more
it gets harder to tell
while you fight desperately
to remember who sits
at the core of all of these façades
and characters
scratch and claw at
the masks to tear them off
but only skin breaks
and the blood seems to be yours
that mask's still there
still won't come off
time goes on
there's no
you anymore
everything you are is altered
like a warped
chemical reaction

been wearing masks
for years now
fighting with the truth and the
role's I chose to take on
been acting
for years now
and can no
longer tell which
one is
fake
and which one is
really me
anymore

I think I could be a good writer
if I stopped and focused
for a period of time
if I could withdraw
from the streetlights
and the biting cold
that burns the veins
I try sometimes
to put out something
that someone may find
worthy of something
not sure what
but I try
and the words
sputter and choke
and all you see
on the page
is spittle
and small drawls
of a *****
waning man
who
not even twenty
can't keep to the course
he wants to walk
instead
dragged willingly off
by the women that
would eat his skin
and internals
laugh
in depravity
with teeth and tongue
much too sharp
I dont notice
another drink
another drink
I don't notice
all I see is legs
almighty
legs and
smiles that could
break satan's heart
another drink
another drink
I don't see anything
but the feeling
cuts through
the nothingness
of intoxication
and curls the neck
into tense relief
such leg
such smile
I am a sitting duck
ready and willing
such teeth
such tongue
they feast on me
like dogs to bone
can't focus
epic poems
escape
my tendered hands
inches from closure
as the teeth
and tongue
and leg and smile
pull me back
another drink
another drink
what was
I talking about
again?

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.

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.

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

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

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

she slept with a lot of
men she had said
most she didn't remember
and didn't care to
love is a complex useless
ugly thing
she had said
but ***?
*** is beautifully simple
absolute physical pleasure
in the purest and dirtiest
ways at the same time
--she loved how ***** it was
said that *** was meant to be
rough and savage--
I slept with her too
a few times and
I can't lie
she knew
her way around
and she made me
more than a little nervous
but I was young
and confident
and eager to please
so I ****** her
and a week or so later
I did again
and soon I agreed
when she said
*** can be perfect
and simple
when left there
and I agreed when she said
it's only love that makes
such an ugly mess of things
and when you have
both love and ***
one normally ruins
the other

but I grew up
and moved away
never had contact
with her
met multiple women
but I was never nervous
like I was with her
I never found that
simplicity

I'll never forget
that *****
and her
utilitarian
****** philosophy
with her ***** but
somehow beautiful mind
and ***** but somehow
beautiful body
I've fallen in and
out of love since
those days
--mostly out--
so it seems that
I only continue to
prove her right
wherever she is

there is no good love
anymore
all these little treacheries
scabbed wounds
scar and bleed and
the love is lost
in the hemoglobin

there's no good love
anymore
the drink and the
drive leave you
****** and forgotten
on the side of the motel room
picking at the scabs again

there's no good love anymore
all these little treacheries
like needles in the arm
or bullets in the brain
the act is drawn out
and overplayed
the women are all torn up
and ******* and
thrown out
they sit in leg crossed
anger in the corners
bitter and apathetic

there is no good love
anymore
to **** is to ****
everyone's running away
from something
the act is drawn out
the treacheries are
bleeding us all dry
and then you're hung
up like the carcass
in the butcher's freezer

there's no good
love anymore
no good no good

as I reach toward twenty
its hard to see past it
don't see much
don't see much past 2 o'clock
no sir no sir
got an exam
then it's the long flight
back home to momma
back home to all those
chirping birds
kicking and screaming
how I love
to tear them apart
how I love
smooth
muffled moves in the dark
cannot wait
mouth watered in anticipation
that sweet love comes quick
cheap and easy
it's the sour one
worth working for
the one that
doesn't talk as much
cold and hard
can't crack that shell
no sir no sir
but it's the challenge
that almighty game
predator and prey
--never know which one's you
till you're chewed up
or ******* up--
no choice
if you don't
you're the sucker
you gotta play it
gotta make the moves
but watch out
she's got claws
like razorblades
and they won't let go
they won't let go
no sir no sir

on some rainy mornings
as a kid
i used to sneak out
through my bedroom window
into the
pouring rain
and walk three houses down
there was a tire
swing there
and i would sit
and get drenched
just to watch the wet
slippery sunrise
come up over the river
behind our houses
it used to make me smile
to see the
colors reflect
on the water
and in the early hours
of the morning
as i swung and spun
on that tire swing
i would never know
why
i had really walked
out there
until i was much older
and much harder to please
after the neighbors
had moved
and the tire swing
had gone
i realized
with no little amount
of nostalgia
that on some rainy mornings
as a kid
i was happy
if the weather permitted

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.

I hear the woman underneath me.
She’s sore, tired.
Worn out from some
other man, I’m sure.
She croons in my ear.
Make love to me, she whispers,
take it easy, nice and slow.
Not too much, not too much.

And the man at the bar next to mine,
talking to the bartender,
cautiously ordering a drink.
Can’t have too much, he says,
can’t get too drunk, he says.
Not too much, not too much.

It seems everyone is taking
it slow these days. Too much
caution for this shotgun
existence. Too much fear. You can
smell it on them like cigarette stench
from a guilty smoker.
Everyone is rolling up their windows,
staying indoors, under the covers.
No one lives much anymore.
Not too much, not too much.

I down my drink at the bar and
break the man’s nose.
He doesn’t fight back when
he gets up. I spit and walk out.
Home to the woman and
she’s crooning in my ear.
Not too much, not too much.
I am violent and rough and she hates me,
I can see it. Still, when it’s over she leans
towards me and asks if I love her.
She says it with hurt eyes.
“Well, do you!?” she cries.

Not too much, not too much.

poetry is dead
in the venues we
are accustomed
there is no
beat
sitting on stage
preaching
the madness
no
romantics
in stony silence
as the pages turn
we have no
present day
poets
that still
believe in
the written word
and the effect
a
line
break
can
have
on a reader
no
no more
no one wants
to settle behind
the scenes
rockstar lifestyles
don't present themselves
to the typists
beating their keyboards
as they do
their wives
but that's how it goes
these are for me
anyways
not you
this is the purging
of every sinful thought
I create
you don't know the
half of it
probably none
at all
but that's how it goes
these lines
all this poetry
isn't made
for kindles
and smart phones
no more
typewriters
or weekly readings
only me
dark in my room
poisoning
the text box
and shivering
guiltily as i
write
one
more
line

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.

we used to take the kayak
down the river
behind our house
to play tricks in
the mud of the *******
and with more grace than I
thought achievable
you would cartwheel
past the highway bridge
that served as boundary
set by our parents
and you would laugh
and I would laugh
and the whole
******* world
would laugh till
dinner time
when we'd trudge in
mud swept and weary
smiling and happy

now
I can't touch the ****** kayak
it's overgrown with vegetation
and nest to dead reptiles
while older
but still graceless
I stand on our dock
thinking about childhood
seems rushed
like watching from
one of those cars
on the bridge flashing by
looking down and
then backwards
at two kids playing in mud
you're moving into real life
and me
dragged not far behind

I don't even know if you
still remember
that horrible *******
or those endless family dinners
but I do
and somehow
we both made it
you always three
and a half
steps ahead
of me
so thank you
maybe you weren't so bad
after all

where did this come from
knew you were going to go
crazy eventually
but it seems like
that ship is long sailed
pressure builds from
all sides
family falling apart
thousand miles away
stuck in a place
you can't stand
four more years
it seems
if you can make it
--shut up
it's just youth
it's just growing up--
tell yourself these things
like your father would say
--don't be a *****
man up--
and you did
you never used to be so
**** crazy
but all dams break
eventually
so it seems
just unfortunately taking
it out on
all the wrong people

you spend your whole life
being the tough guy
holding that water back
but crack after crack
now it's an onslaught
of new problems and
old memories you thought
you'd forgotten
unfortunately taking it out on all
the wrong people
arguments and frustration
could really just use a
shoulder to lean on
you're getting older
and what can you show for it
a lot of words you cleverly
break up on the page
to assume some sort of plan
but there's no plan
there's only you
and apparently
you're going crazy
can't do things right
anymore
stuck questioning and
second guessing
who do you turn to?
you're new to this
you're trying to hold tight
but it still
manages to all **** up

it's driving you crazy

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.

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

Tall, white birch trees,
tight-rolled cigarettes leave
tobacco stains to drop dotted
lines across the evening pavement.

The raindrops outpace the autumn leaves
in long, cold daggers of not-quite-snow
that rip the bandage off the topsoil and loam,
that beat the earth into its seasonal death.
The weather is cold and the world is dying,
the moth has made its home
beneath the lampshade.
‘It is enough to get by,’ someone shouts
into their unhappiness, ‘It must be enough.’

Another leaf falls, lies flat.

Tall, white birch trees,
pale and blistered fingers
reaching for leaves that fall
away from them again
each year.