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.

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

I work next to a lake,
which spreads out from the base
of a mountain.
Everyday the stony guards
reflect off it's surface,
the trees motionless in the breezeless
landscape.
I never hear the birds,
nor the occasional fish splash,
too occupied by my dash,
the clicks, keyboards, spread sheets,
plugging away at the base of a mountain,
filling the frame
above my desk

With each breath I exhale
a wish for you.
Every movement taken
is done so with an ache
to feel your hands on mine.
My body knows how much
I yearn for you,
instinctively relaxed by your scent,
clinging to your sweatshirt,

or aroused by the sound
of your silky words
being pulled playfully off your lips.
My hips twist in my sleep,
trying to find you under the covers,
to grind gently against you,
gain subtle reassurance that you
are resting, protected, nestled in,
that it's me you hold
to your heart within.

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

the street was my mattress
the sky my sheets,
dreaming of a car roaring
and squishing me
but for all my honesty
still death I cheat
I want to leave.
please Reaper, please
ride your midnight stead
scythe over shoulder
dead flame and worn teeth
grab hold my shoulder
split the earth
pull me under
split the earth
let me sleep

There's nothing that I'd like more
than seeing your face on the billboards,
knowing that you made it some how,
and found a way to get out.
'Cause to me you are always so much more
than what people give you credit for

If 50 percent of people
can make a mistake
about something so
wonderous and beautiful
then I don't want
to be told the odds
for
me...

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

I think plants live in slow mo
when we walk by
it's just a shimmer
like the last tendrils of a ghost
lazily dissipating in the night

In this place
chopping so much your hand cramps,
so you have to hold it by the wok
for five minutes before it unclenches,
is something to by proud of.

In this place
college students scoop and cook
to pay for school,
or pay off school,
instead of applying what they learned,
which cost them more than money.

In this place
the line never sleeps,
you are Pavlov's dogs
trained to a bell.
And if you are unlucky enough
to be put in the kitchen,
you'll find it worse than Hell.

Got a better perspective
as you puked on
the floor

I long to find
the one who I can say,
"I love the sound of you"
and hear them sing back,
"I love the sound of us"

That hideous
brownish
smoke.
Oh it makes me
choke to think
of it sinking
into your lungs

I want a denim vest,
ripped at the sleeves,
grim patches and buttons.
So I searched through the thrift shops.
Everything was too large, or too tight,
or cut in a style thatt was not quite right.
In the isles were old ladies
who probably bought the clothes
donated by dead friends.
In a corner, marked off for books,
stood Ginsberg, bespectacled and urging,
"You are not a locomotive!"

But I chugged on by,
all steam and whistles,
neck a bristle with eerie misease
that Ginsberg is dead,
like the old ladies' friends,
and I can only find denim
with sleeves.

Staring straight in the the center
of a rose,
aroma drawing me closer,
the petals spread,
catching the light,
delight brightening my face.
The sight, the scent, are not enough,
I lean in
to have a taste.

mumbled words induce a trance
a sullen glance at annoyance
then decide on smoky existence

Little frog shot glass
sits staring through me
brought her book
and plans to return it
with a little love from the past
alas, I'm a dreg
hedging in old organic emotions
with sharp edges
whiskey, cigarettes
panic over a manic thought
so instead I'll put the book
in a box
send it to her through the mail
keep my hands to myself
write a little note, place inside
where it may fall from the shelf
with pencil scrapes spelling out
"Sorry I was greedy
and you thought you needed me
but I'm like the dead bodies
in these pages, cover me up
close my eyes, drape a blanket
over me and leave me
faceless."

It hangs from my shoulders,
not torturous, but not forgiving,
my camping chair groans
under our combined weight
in the evening,
quite the opposite of merriment
it is never fleeting
a constant cloak
partially soaked with choked words,
a strikingly dissonant chord
accompanied by a melody
"It's high time to hit the road again
it's high time you leave."

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

on the cusp of being Vegas bound
with a car full of old friends, howling like hounds
yet somehow it hangs heavy on my heart
as if this is the last time that things will feel
almost like the used to back in highschool
and ever after the sounds of our laughter
will fade further and further
as we drift apart
like leaves resting
on water

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 looked back now
you would see
all the times you
lost faith in me
Forgetting the flowers
wishes, warm dreams
spent wrapped in my arms
Only spotlighting the
things that went wrong

And when you left
it stung your heart
burned your head
but you told yourself
it's for the best

There is one thing you didn't know
That I would get better
I would get better
I would get better
but I wouldn't come back

Here I am better
here I am better
here I am better
but I'm not coming back

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

She said she wanted to take me line dancing
down town with a couple of folks
I said yes but wanted to say
"Don't you go an' get too involved now
'cause I'm packing my bags, on my way out
and you might just wind-up a' really  hatin' me"

the last few nights
will lay etched in memory
not because they were
overly special or
out of this world
but they are the end
of an era I didn't think
would cease to be

when, if ever, will I see
the faces that laughed
and sang along tonight?
will some of them press on
through the ages
or pass away with time?

my throat seems plugged
unable to open up
and say those final words
that lay solemn in the night
...
"Goodbye my friends,

goodbye"

Ice and hail have pounded their songs
deep into the earth
men have brought fire and axes
torn into the rock with picks
no thanks given
no compassion shown
to the land that bore them
yet the soil will live on
long after they are gone
grow over their towers and bridges
crumble their walls
slowly until not even the animals
will remember their calls
till the trees stand tall
roots buried, gaining sustenance
from their fall

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

In all honesty
I forgot I had
a
               dad.

All these people spilling,
letting themselves slosh over the sides,
tossing back courage,
tongues slipping secrets with a flourish,
nonchalant, letting things fly.

My lid, usually ******* on tight,
loosens slightly,
but not enough,
not like the rest.
I play things close to the chest.
Y'all don't need to know about me.
y'all don't need to hear my things.
I've got dead friends,
I've got self-inflicted scars,
I've got self-hatred, loathing, lies, wounds,
but I share them crucially.
Don't try and rouse it from me,
if I share,
I care,
otherwise,
beware.

Grandpa left me his keyboard
I left it in the corner for years
when late this very night
my spine grew chill with fright
for the keys clacked
of their own accord
as if wanting to be heard
then my spine did thaw and a smile bloom
for this phantom wasn't bringing doom
It was just a reminder from 'ol Grandpa
to let music fill the room

Zoned in traffic,
alone with the greatest hits of the 90s,
going 25 when I want to be going 90.
It's a two way repeat most days of the week,
and an unfulfilling repeat at that.
Back-tracking would hardly remedy.

Peddling into old things.

Now that I
really sit
and think
about it,
that was the
most heart
felt thing
anyone has
done for me
in a long long long
                                   time