My fingers brushed the remains of Castle Magner,
crumbled stone, overgrown, abandoned, wind blown.
Generation filled me through my feet that trod
on ancestral ground, swelled into my chest,
lived again in each breath.
As I left I turned to see the decaying tower through the trees,
the spirits beckoning, drawing back, whispering,
"Don't leave us,
don't leave."

Cut a fish, split it in half,
turn my time in for a bit of cash,
has my career path
swerved and crashed?
I don't know much about
anything,
I don't own much of
anything,
and my skill set is out dated,
no one wants to pay for poems,
they're over rated.
Put the pen down, grab a blade and,
slice up veggies, your hand, and salmon.
The perk of this job is there is always
more work to do.
If you finish at one store,
there are fifty more to go to.
They'll ship you out,
pay over time,
all they ask is your body, your mind,
and your future.
Can I suture the pieces of my creative
side, fix it up, write a poem that
doesn't ****,
**** it, I'll start off by posting
this ****.

We pull on blue nitrite gloves,
doctors paid in seeds and tea-candle light.
Our medical equipment has black and orange handles,
a serrated blade, a metal loop, a potato peeler.
Our patients wait boldly with no pain killers.
We plunge in our blades and saw
a lopsided circle with a jag,
then tear the whole piece up,
stringy brains follow.
This operation has no set procedure,
just simple pleasure,
a lost tradition
now remembered.

Her chest rose and fell as she slept,
the black sheets draped over her hips,
her arms folded over her face,
taking a nap in outer space.
I laid next to her,
awake and breathless.
The cat at our feet seemed unable
to grasp the importance of the moment.
Instead she spread her paws, yawned.
For the cat and my love
this is just a lazy evening, another nap,
for me
it is everything.

8 months later and we're  in the middle of October.
Trees shed leaves,
Halloween can be heard cackling a few weeks off.
Soon, you and I will be a young Leia and Han,
brought together across galaxies
to fall in love, to combat the reality
of a silent, frigid, deep space.
Is it too hasty to say 8 months will turn into 8 light years?
That your gravity will always pull me closer to your core?
That each month, week, day
has me wanting more?
I think not.
I think ours is intergalactic,
transdimensional, spanning space and time.
That in all other off shoots of our reality,
I end up as yours,
and you and up as mine.

Outside the bedroom window
a buzz saw screeches its grating song.
Leaf blowers roar out in an attempt
to accompany the shrill melody.
Minutes into the disharmonious duet
a rumbling bang joins in, trash cans
dancing out, filled with bottles
and pizza boxes.
I want to yell
Quiet! Let me be! Let me sleep!
but the world is awake,
singing its rattle and clang,
believing itself beautiful.
And maybe it is,
maybe it is,
but I am far too tired to listen.

She sits watching **** Bill,
concentrated, emotive.
She doesn't know
the angle of her nose,
the ***** of her lips,
her eye lashes flashing as she blinks,
make me slip deeper, deeper
into a place I never want to leave,
her heart, her arms, her life.

Love doesn't always triumph.
No matter how hard people try
it slips away or strangles them
or drives them crazy.
The fires fizzle out, the passion flies,
the love dies.
I know, I know,
I've seen it a million times,
with friends, with my parents, with myself.
It's scary as hell,
but with this one, this one,
oh it's something else!
If the flame gets low, why,
I'll chop down a forest,
I'll mine coal the rest of my life,
to keep fueling and fueling.
The odds seemed stacked against
romance lasting, resisting a pessimistic demise,
but this one makes it not matter,
shatters all expectations, opposes
those forces that tear, that rip,
that desperately wish to squish love
into a smudge on the pavement.
Yes, this one is something else
this one is a fairy tale

Ink spilled from the needle tip
that slipped under my skin.
I didn't think, I didn't think,
it sinks in every time she cries.
I only suffered pin ****** and laser burns,
to her it stings continually
and sometimes stabs, stabs, stabs-
On those nights I want to take a knife
to the defiled flesh and cut like hell,
dig out the pigment, remove the skin,
but I can't, I can only say I'm sorry.
What worthless words,
stupid, worthless words
that can't do anything to ease her hurt.
She hurts, she hurts,
I'm the worst.

She has big dreams
filled with London and New York,
acting, musicals, on stage, spot light,
and she's chasing them down,
a huntress in a red dress,
they don't have a chance.
She gets what she wants,
no one can resist her,
all the guys and girls are dying to kiss her.
She could have anyone by simply
beckoning with her finger.
When she steps in a room
it's all eyes on her, but her eyes on me.
Oh God can't she see
that the whole world's in love with all that she does?
Her touch is electricity
shocking me back from a life of complacency,
the voltage between us charging
both our batteries.
All the others who want her,
who might try and ****** her,
they don't really matter.
She can leave for three months,
be set on by handsome men and gorgeous women,
but they can't do what I can if she gives me the chance.
I can dance to her beat,
I keep up in the sheets,
I love her in the bedroom,
on stage, in the streets,
I love her, I love her,
and it's so hard to believe,
but she,
she,
she loves
me?

If you can't whistle it
it isn't a song.*
Wise words once emanating
from false teeth
and a liquorice addiction.
He took tooth picks to flick
the grit from beneath nails,
inhaled just before a snore.
One war, two dogs, three sons,
and a wife that shaved his face
when he was in a coma.
He was a little late on the draw,
always saying things out of context,
then he'd wink at me, crack a grin,
fall asleep before the conversation ended.
I like to think that he is just
snoozing away, drifted off in the middle of a talk,
and someday he'll start up with a grunt
as if nothing ever happened.

My heart is a watering can
with patched up holes.
There is rust around its edges
but it's full to the brim.
I've poured it out
over dry dirt;
nothing ever sprouted
save a few shoots that soon shriveled.
I refilled it each time, trying a new.
Finally, I've tipped it,
sprinkling over my love for you,
and to my deepest delight
a garden grew.

I miss you in the morning
when the sun peaks through the blinds,
I miss you in the afternoon
when I'm working all the time,
I miss you in the evening
when I close my weary eyes.
All I want is to tell you I love you,
to hold you through the night.

She whispered to the metal gears
and machine parts.
An incantation fell
from her glossy lips.
Each long held L
and calming O,
every soft, vibrating V,
and gentle E,
plopped onto the cogs,
slipped into the cracks.
Suddenly, the machine melted,
the grey steel becoming red muscle,
the whole contraption
wrapped up in blood vessels.
No longer rusted, my heart surged,
turned human once again.

I don't really think there is a hell,
but if I'm somehow wildly wrong
and a firey pit awaits all sinners,
I hope we are standing in line together.
I heard the line to Hell lasts forever;
we would have eternity to delve
into each other, meld ourselves
bit by bit till we were locked
                       in a kiss-

a symbol for love in a place full of hate.

Cap and tassel,
diploma,
freedom from academia.
A swift, ****** birth
as I'm shoved through to real life,
supposedly born grown,
a bright smile and a firm hand shake,
along with a list of accomplishments.
I have none, my resume made
completely of Diablo Rock Gym
and Chipotle.
Great.
Maybe I can still fail a class,
tell the professor I copied
my A paper, get expelled
and start all over!
Or fade away quick,
sink fast before anyone notices.
I'll slide into some forgotten swamp,
survive on worms,
and my own words,
                                    my own words,
             my            own                 wo,
my                   own            w
                                 my                      own
                                               my          ow
                   my
            m                                                   y
   m
               .

Like a plague they spread
out through the valley,
the shining field consumed
by war machines and beasts
lead by a vile horde,
half-human, cruel grins and shouts
as bile falls from their mouths

The rich scent of bacon
drifts through my window
as I read "The Advancement of Learning."
Curious over Cicero.
Ah Bacon, bacon, both have me stop,
pause,
one in slight confusion,
one in awe.

Transient. Just passing through.
Flit from here to            there.
A split second shade you catch
in your periphery.
The kind that has you shaking
your head.
Don't worry, I'm see-through,
I can't affect you.
Go back to your tv show or book or whatever.
I'll contort, distort, crinkle up into radio static
so you can hear me faintly
between commercials...

A day to celebrate myself feels strange,
a quiet resistance to believing that this year
isn't cigarette nights and one last drink,
isn't getting so faded it disappears.
Attention on me, I didn't do anything,
only stayed alive for twenty three years, so what?
Somehow a girl thinks I'm charming,
I'm in peewee and she's hitting in the major leagues.
A day to celebrate myself,
but I'm no longer burnt out, silent, drowning Dan,
I'm someone else.

I fall in love everyday
it's staying in love
I haven't figured out yet
.
.
.

I don't know about all this
it feels an awful lot like a trap
a pit covered with leaves
eternal peace dangling above it
when I reach it the ground gives
and I'll fall, expect to hit an end,
but end up much worse,
back in the city.

Divorce
It electrified
my impulses, demolished
my beliefs, left me
face down in bed, stark naked.
I can't go home anymore.

Give
I lived in your rib,
felt each breath you took with me.
You blew out a cloud.
"Sing some sorrow ocean blues.
We can drown holding hands, love."

Take**
She thought of me
as LSD, I changed her world
with guaranteed leave.
Absorbed me through her tongue tip,
expelled me with every spit.

Irish, a little girl,
escapes out a window
into a downpour.
She laughs with her hands up,
trying to catch each drop,
until her mom bursts out,
yelling, pulling her back.
The courtyard is still
except the rain
and muffled shouts,
"Why do you do this, Irish?
Why do you do this to me?"

home from work
(I guess it's home now)
everything is still with my music up
I can't hear the sirens or engines
revving and roaring ever on and on
feels strange to not move
to not have something to do
but think and think
deeper and deeper
prying until I find
just how little
I am

search through the fog
brought on by bottles filled
with poison or potion
lay yourself to rest
beneath the frozen ground
bow down to death
an unlikely friend
take the rotting hand
leave this land far behind
far
far
behind

The living room is invaded
I've barricaded myself in the bathroom
yellow light my only savior
from the doom of interacting

The barking dog, disappearing, driving,
ashes, Eddie, Jake,
divorce, holes in souls, constellations,
I don't know, I am Arturo Bandini,
I am the sweatshirt that hugged her arms,
Stolen sweatshirt, smokey sweatshirt,
apologies, broken necklace,
whatever

it all occurs way too quickly,
moments flicker with every
little death, every time I fall asleep,
between shifts is an eternal rift,
gobbling down searing green numbers
that stare from  the oven,
as if whispering, "your times 'a coming,"
when I  next wake up
will I be forty-five?
will I even be alive--

So I slow mo time flow by
getting my mind blown,
each second feeling vital,
their veins pulsing with a solution,
an intangible answer,
I have only to ask
the right question...

jeans soaked through,
clinging to skin and sweat
beaded, dripping past my brow,
grey slosh seeped into shoes
that won't be dry by morning,
when I cram them back on,
trudging, soon after dawn,
to resume the routine,
prep unbelievable amounts of food,
clean never ending stacks of dishes,
growing suspicious that this is it,
life after school,
just grinding myself to bits,
so when I finally get a day off,
all I want to do is sit, and pretend  
I don't exist.

being human is strange,
out of everything
I could have manifested as,
a sand grain, a water drop, a rock,
who would have guessed
I'd be projected into this brain,
which sometimes lets me fly,
but usually gets me stuck...

money makes me ugly,
as soon as I catch extra
you can see me at the smoke shop,
blowing it by buyin' packs of cigarettes
smoking two a pop,
drinking heinous amounts,
getting dangerous when I go out,
reckless intentions demolish
my apprehension for self harm,
not razors but walls,
not looking for a savior or even
interacting with all a y'all,
just sitting in the shower using
too much water while I finish off a bottle,
full throttle toward self destruction,
trying to not function,
I don't even want the promise
of resurection, distant on purpose,
so I'll close this with an apology
to everybody and me,
I'm sorry
I'm sorry

I like 40's
you like 40's
we should drink 40's together
40's ounces of malt liquor
a couple sips and I be feeling better
once I got one down let's crack another
let's drink some 40's together

There's comfort in crashing
or so you said,
I've crashed and burned
and risen up again,
but I like rock bottom
just as much as floating on clouds,
being in the pits is easy
no reason to get out,
I've lost myself

spiritful sprites exploded color
off in the distance,
a forty in my hand, a roof top
under my feet,
each new rocket was greet,
with a whoop or holler,
as circumstance would have it,
each new rocket also made my heart
feel smaller,
like every explosion chipped away
piece after piece,
and the only one to scrounge them
back up was,
me

The screen gleams sending out
blinding beams, Zach is in the shower,
forty minutes now and I've been back,
once,
twice,
three times,
he responded and I went outside,
an empty peach and beat
couch seat,
welcoming my silent musings
as they wander off,
I'll cough and spew,
a few words, a few verbs,
a few kicks to the curb,
then bounce back,
It's okay,
I promise,
relax,
I promise,
but you promised not to
die

I stopped smoking ****,
thinking that it was at fault
for the empty swirling,
I felt
like I wanted to curl into a ball
at my feet, and disappear
I haven't gotten drunk in weeks,
hoping it was alcohol that
elongated my funk and stole
crows feet from eye corners,
I quit all substances that could
make my mind turn in on itself,
I thought it would help,
make the world clear,
but that empty swirling is
still
here.

I drove today, down black and yellow
snakes, houses lined the banks
of the concrete river the snake
slithered into,
children played and parents watched,
I was revving and gunning and lost,
not on the streets, in sheets that smelled like someone
far behind me, in eye water and lilacs,
or two lips,
Then I parked the car,
shut the door,
and fell to a puddle on my
bedroom floor,
I am great, I am hollow,
I am wretched, I am hollow,
Let me evaporate
Let me evaporate,
please,
Let me evaporate

My greatest worry is that
no one will ever love me
I try to tell myself that
it's over rated
Some where in my bones
I swear it's been fated
that I'll sleep alone on the couch
till the day my lungs give out

I clutch at every act of kindness
afraid they will see my spineless
self-conscious
I'm haunted by things that aren't dead
just floating in my head
I guess I've said
what I came to say
Now it's back to another day
of being just
O
K

I'm a valley, green and fertile
but the floods are coming down
from the mountains that
rest at the top of my lungs
I can't get out of my skin
my own shadow is so hard to run from
The waters that start pouring down
remind me of when I was something to someone
That feeling, yeah
That feeling, yeah
it's what kept me breathing, yeah
now I steal from the silver screen
or make it up in my dreams
but sometimes I have to open my eyes
and see the lovely lady next to me
was just a pillow
and the warmth was all mine
cool it down with a forty and luke warm meal
What's the deal, what's the deal
I guess I hate to feel
this isn't even a poem just a storm of my emotion
just loathsome self pity
my words are ******
and my attitude is worse
I always think I'm dying
so throw me in a hearse
and forget about this verse
it's the pits
it's the ****
it's nothing worth remembering
just like me
just like me

I think I'd do pretty well
as a functioning drunk
I wouldn't have too much
wouldn't take it too far
wouldn't drive a car
I'm content with the bus
I like seeing all the faces
even though no one
looks up from their phone screen
I'm good at pretending
we all connect somehow
like we were all friends
in some other time and place
I'm more friendly
when I'm not sober
feel closer to happy
I don't mind being a bit shabby
maybe I'll go buy a beer
maybe I'll go buy a bottle
maybe I'll just go

Bukowski gets me
ham on rye with a little bit
of wanting to be nothing
cheap wine in a trashed hotel
a permanent spell on my
self control
all this time I thought I loved me
but I'm sinking
everything I write is a repeat
**** my novel dreams
**** my poetic schemes
I think it's time to sleep
for about five years
so I can wake up with no fears
and disappear
like each season

The air in my bedroom is blue,
I float through it, a stark vessel
tussling against the dark hue
desperate to nestle into sheets,
or clouds,
or weary dreams filled
with a dark street,
a slammed foot,
and a hair's breadth
from turning a deer into dead meat,
resulting in a crash,
leaving a dead me;
Only to awake shaken,
recollecting a statement
from my grandma's dementia ridden mind
"I always see it with you,
it's always right behind..."
then I sit up with a sigh
and a shrug,
and open up to the blue air,
at least whatever it is
will always be there,
will always...
care

Tomorrow will be three weeks
since tobacco flowed past my teeth
*******, I'm stunned
although I'm now addicted to coffee

In class today Luis read his story
it blew us all away
a tale about an old man
living in a LA barrio
who used to believe in change
used to march for a cause
It got everyone right in the heart
and in the hearts of all their ancestors
The story was so full of culture
that even us whities felt it
That's when it hit
when I realized why my writing
never grabs people on such a deep level
I have no culture, I'm a jumble of whiteness
too far removed from Europe to have
any trace of my forefathers
I have no customary meals
I have no language diversity
no traditions at all really
Except smoking **** in the suburbs
and snorting coke in bathrooms
it's meaningless
and the culture I think I have is stolen
appropriated
My roots have been torn out
of whatever snow covered ground
they once belonged to
I feel empty, I feel like part of nothing
and Luis' ******* writing
made me feel like part of something
that I'm really not even close to
I loved it
I hated it
I wanted to rip it to bits
I wanted to read it ten times in a row
He made me want to give up
He made me hang my head in shame
I got home and put flame
to my last short story
I'm a cultureless swine
I'm boring
I'm boring
I'm
boring

Loneliness rests in my chest
garbed in drab grey
breathing salt water into my blood