We went to a reading
You sat leaned back
With your arms crossed
sighing at every read line
aren't they just so pathetic
The person reading begins to cry
reading his own words
I press forward
and rest my elbows on my knees
and my chin on my hands
I can still hear you
in my peripheral audition
trashing
nodding
rubbing your eyes
with your thumb and index
with that smile
making a show
of your disappointment
You were once in his shoes
reading your own work
self-conscious and vulnerable
full of doubt
and hate
Then someone called you "good"
then another
and another
and now you're this
The breathing image of what it
means to be a Poet
and aren't you just so **** *poetic

This time
The breath in my shoulders
Was just air

Anything
I
Remember

But also the things I don't
Which actually
Weigh
Much
Much
More.

"You are allowed
One stupid question
So use it wisely
And would you kindly raise
Your hand if you don't
Understand and then politely
Leave my room

From what I can assume
This room thins out nearly
Yearly -
For Locke's Knowledge Theory
Grows weary on your minds, and
Time and time again I see
You, straight blank and ivory
Pages wilting, crumbling
Tearing to bits and pieces
But
Then I see!
Be it rare, a stare of a colorful
Sheet, lifted, gently gliding
For no writing could hold it down
And all else folds in around
It as it gleams of wisdom!
Of originality!
BREAKING THE MOLD
OF OLD WAYS OF THINKING
CHANGING THE EARTH
AND KNOWLEDGE SINKING!
AND ILL BE THE ONE
TO SEE THIS SON OR
DAUGHTER RISE UP TO CHANGE THE ORDER!
AH-HA!"

achem

"Yes, you there on the end!"

"What am I talking about you mention?
Brilliant, sir, what a wise
Way to use your one stupid question."

You've sworn
to live for poetry
but it is
poetry that
kills you

I was born
Ready.
But
I grew out of it.

A dime on the floor is dirtier
than a penny on the table
Another race that's only run
By who is young and
Who is able, and
It's hard to differentiate
Who is *******
in a stable
As all our backs are sore
And our losing legs are shameful, but

Let it not discourage thee, thou, or
You
There's a faster racer running
Passing, beating without shoes
There is no flag attached
No podium or pew
Just some blood
Some wood and ash
Running through and through

There is a sun
And it rises
And further,
The world still spins

We run around it for
Gold and prizes
But our own strength
will never win
it.

It's been a long time.

Fields of orange trees are torn
from their roots
to make room for
a thousand empty wooden boxes to be
planted in their place
There these empty boxes wait
longing
for the warmth of a family
To be furnished
And painted
And remembered
and
How it longs
To watch kids play
safely in its living room
To have the dog trample
through it's
neatly cared for lawn
To smell dads cooking
fill every square foot
To see moms face
when she finally returns
from a long day of work
To have love absorbed into its fibers
and stand out amongst the rest
To be decorated for the passing seasons
with other things besides
rust and snow
It dreams of these
things
It knows it could be more than
just a box
So there it sits
And sighs
And waits

It's been a long time.

You complain about the heat
I fan you until
I am sweating out every
ounce of my will
for you.
You complain that it's too cold.
I strip down
to bare skin and wrap
you until you are comfortable
and the smile on
my skin is a grayish-blue.
Your malcontent has drawn
me weary
My heart's marrow
drips out slowly
to feed you
and keep us alive
But what us
can there be
once it is all dried up
to nothing but bitter air?
I guess
I'll just have to wait
and see

Hot iron
Steaming tuition
Wrinkled self-esteem
Door slam in the face of
flattened suits on Mission

Curse the piety
and find another dress
shirt. Crippling anxiety
Inhale to break the stress the
pressure

Sweat stains rise and
morality falls
Break the silence on the
nightstands
Break the vows, break them
all

Look to the sky crying
Wanting pleading
Bargaining again
slowly begging to find hope
somewhere before the time
of dying

And there it was

A whisper

Not an earthquake or a
firestorm
No thunder claps
in fact

Just a whisper
Gently
in the wind it came
through

Speaking softly
speaking slowly

"I Am
With You."

she could never
look
into anyone's eyes
as deeply
as passionately
as she could
look
into
her own.

Find a seat
Shift positions
Drag your feet
Buy it
Buy it
Throw it away
Eat fries
Prepare for boredom
Roll your eyes
Yell at your kids
Yell at the desk clerk
Talk about work
Read a magazine
Pretend it's interesting
**** time
And more time
And even more time

Take off
Sleep through turbulence
Land

I growl
I lack grace
I smell bad
I take up space
"It's just big fur!" I will declare
When everyone knows
It's fat under there

Despite these things
(and others implied)
A beautiful girl
Stands by my side
I growl
She laughs
I get close
And she pets me
Could this be a girl
That actually gets me?

I sit and wonder what she sees in me
It seems she could have any grizzly!
Because of her I can decree
There's still hope
For a bear like me

It's there.
Some small
inconveinent
hindrance of curiosity
You see,
at night I like to lay
flat on my back
on the cement
and stare up at the night sky.
Make fun all you want
but this nonpareil view
of the stars
holds so much possibility,
so many endless and unexplainable
things
to ignore it is an insult to mankind
and your gift of consciousness!
So there I lay
trying to do my humanity
a favor
but my head
as oblong and mishapen as it were
with that flat spot
always rolls to the side
forcing a limited view
of the city!
Pfft! There is nothing to gain
from the working of other people!
I've tried building many
prosthetics for this problem,
Once,
I molded putty to my head
to make up for this tragic flaw
but it didn't work
and it looked terribly absurd.
So I suppose
as much as I imagine the universe
to be completely perfect,
the fact that earth is a part of it
makes it flawed
(which yes, I realize that includes myself)
Furthermore
as much as I like
to think of myself as perfect,
that flat spot will always be
the earth
of my head.

My car broke down

Across from the mechanic's shop,
I'm bowling a perfect
zero
with the bumpers up

My shoes get stolen

Barefoot in the tire lounge,
I chip my tooth on a gumball

the dentist pulled
the wrong teeth
he said it was my fault
so I apologize

I'm late for work

My boss is yelling
about something

I zone out

I don't explain myself

I get fired

I pack my box with nothing
but static air
filled with three-and-a-half
years

No one says goodbye
No one seems to notice

Except you

You call my name

You hug me
for the first time
ever

You even asked me
to call sometime

There's nothing else
I can do
but smile

and be smitten
from your laughing
at my new gold teeth

It's about 2:30 in the morning
there you stand
a janitor
weilding your gigantic
paintbrush
in a full jumpsuit
and a bald cap.
Nobody's around.
The mophead slaps the ground
you dance with it
Swirling it all
across the checkered tile
with such grace
and such beauty!
Soak
Swash
Squeeze
Repeat.
What magnificent art
Such extraordinary
masterpieces
being created
night after night
across this marble floor!
Why,
Michaelangelo would be
turning in his grave!
A shame though,
That the paint is clear
and it dries away in about
15-20 minutes
and no one will
ever see or know
the greatest art ever created
by you,
the unknown custodian,
the master of sanitations,
the mop artist.

We all left the Diner
waiting to talk
about how no one was talking
and how special you were
for being the only one to notice
and to find it funny
and to call it awkward
and to forget about the night
no one will remember
and you were a part of

You drive in
circles and circles and circles
in a stuffy car
constantly searching
for the best possible space.
Stopped and waiting
for person after person
who clearly find it acceptable
to walk in
the
middle
of
the
street
Gritted teeth
Fingers gripped, indenting the
cushioning of your steering wheel
You imagine your
parking angels laughing
at your ridiculous prayers
playing harps to
accompany your misery.
You felt as if you haven't
taken a breath in
quite some time
as your sweat-drenched collar
seems to be tightening.
Frustration is digging ulcers
as if you're ready to just
crash your car right
into the front of the store
and,

Finally

you just settle
for the space in the way back.
Nothing to exactly brag about
at your next dinner party.
Settling is a part of life you suppose.
The door slams and you lock it.
A few paces in
and
well,
you find yourself
surprisingly
enjoying
the long walk,
this scenic route.
You remember how nice it is
to actually be outdoors
and to see some clouds
and birds and empty
noiseless air.
You laugh a little to yourself
You slow your steps and breathe.
A car honks at you for standing
in the middle of the street.

Well then
Let's hear it
But Please

Please
Don't say my eyes
Or anything else
Are like the stars

Are they ***** of hot gas -
Hydrogen and helium - exploding
in nuclear fusion reactions?
Is this to what you compare?

You blindly mold prose
To things you do not
Understand

Surely there is beauty in a star
But not the kind you mean
You are letting Nature and God
Do all the work for you

And Please
Don't compare my hair
To a river flowing-
Or my voice to a Summer's
Day

Yes I'm aware that the moon
Is glowing but
My skin being a cold rock
Face
Is without flattery

Real me in like Shakespeare's
Mistress
Not the same ten words
In a different dress

Not

Large vague concepts
Attached to my exterior

For it is only the exterior from
Which your words are forming


But your poems have a lot of Instagram likes so what do I know, really

The sign clearly reads
NO SCAVENGING
I don't wanna hafta 'rest ya
Just don't let me catchya 'gain
understood?
Yes?
You mean yes, sir
That's betta
Now this here a nice community
folks here don't wanna hafta
look out they windows
and see some homeless man
diggin' through they cans
cause here in the good ol'
U-S-uhv-A
We have good laws that
make sure
People who have nothin'
don't try and take things
that other people don't want

People sit alone
outdoors
and stare into
their phone

Let it not be mistaken
they are not losers
or weirdos
clearly they are on their
device, they are important
they are not lonely.

They have a whole world
that cares about them
in that phone
they are busy
they sit alone
but are not lonely.

I would much rather see
a person, sitting there staring
at the everything and nothing
around them

enjoying the fear
enjoying the judgement
enjoying the loneliness

But, at the same time,
here I am
sitting in this
quiet, crowded courtyard
writing this on my phone

Isn't that the role
of the 'poet'?

To observe problems
they're entangled in

To be all theory
and no action

To hope that your writing
will reach everyone else
in the world
except yourself?

We've been through
some tough times
You & I
I've been chewed
and pulled
and burned
and twisted
and covered
All my arteries
tangle up in knots
as you form
me into something
different
You try and
cut me loose
but I always come back
stronger
thicker
in your face
down your spine
so
you drown me
and tie me
and push me aside
see
I've known you
since I was
just a root
You may think that
I do not get the hint
but really
it is my life
to be so
attached
to you.

I heard poet's have to
be the world's observers
So here I am
Trying to be a good poet
Observing things.

I walk

Through the park
Picturing the poetry
of my surroundings

The day is whatever
Flowers, Bees, Wheelbarrows
Sure, that's all fine
I will leave it for others
to express with their words

I keep walking

I see a man
mowing the grass
Humbly dressed in an
Orange vest
wiping off his life dreams
with the sleeves of his shirt
Grass sticks to his forehead

I keep walking

An older man
but not old
sits alone at a park bench
His face is buried
into the infinite
comforting darkness
of his hands
Tears break free from the cracks

I keep walking

I see a woman
She is not with me
She is happy

I keep walking

I see a kid
playing baseball
He looks sharply at his parents
every second
Dad is on his cell phone
Mom sleeps on her lit cigarette in the minivan
At least they showed up

I keep walking

Down by the lake
I see my reflection
I see myself
Aged
Scared
Alone
A good poet observes things

The reflection is in my bathroom mirror
There was no park
I didn't actually observe these things
I lay flat on my back
My skin sweats against the tile
I grasp the empty
Orange bottle
close to my chest
I try to observe more things
before it's too late
So I can be a good poet
So I can be remembered

I observe the flickering lightbulb that
I should have changed
I observe the towels that
she hated
and don't match the shower curtain
I observe my cold sweat
mixing with the warmth of my tears
A good poet observes things
The light bulb burns out

There are enough people
drowning themselves
and their loved ones
in alcohol

There are enough words
being used as cement
to bring others down
in their punctured
life raft

There are enough thoughts
constantly sinking
everything in
useless negativity
until no
positive thoughts
can breathe

There are enough
black holes in the universe,
for you to choose
to become one