shirtless and drinking my six dollar sangria from a measuring cup.
never has the formula been so close to be solved. the exact moment when we can say we have made it.

twenty four onces in and my neighbor seems to be a little put off.
this same man comes outside once a day to ask me about college without even putting pants over his underwear so tonight I figure indifference is key.

Summer is a gross mess, even when your doing nothing you find yourself pouring sweat through your white button ups, you looked fine leaving and now that your here doing your best to sound interesting to girl at the bookstore you just look slightly sadder and fatter than before.

thirty six ounces and red teeth tell me that we have made it.

I wont let this dammed world take me,

she said I had lost it, maybe I was going crazy.

daring girl, I love the way the sun shines through her dress.

I think she has gone crazy, told me she was depressed.

how can nine months fade in a instant,
at what point two lovers grow distant.

this is not my love ballad, my plea for your time.
she asks if im doing well.

I can assure you love, I am doing fine.

Am I ever really grown? They say that you are a adult once you are no longer dependent. Yet since the growth of society we have be bred on dependency. As a child you depend on your mother or your father.
Yet how many these days can "live" without being dependent on money.
I do not say this as condescension but as fact, a fact I to am guilty of.

out of the day, born into the night.
out of the pain, breed in the fight.
drops of the rain, no sun in our sights.

let it go.

breath out in the midst, clearing of time.
hands on the wheel, miles of lines.
the voices still, but screaming inside.

For the weeks spent wondering, for the days spent pretending.
for all the lovers that had imagined, your love having a happy ending.

I find no solace in words, I found only confusion in my sound.
I see no point in reminiscing on what can not be spoken aloud.

July 4, 1994.

Why does it seem that men are scared of intelligent women.
of course this is a generalization.
She was going to work in the private sector, or maybe in state politics.
she was five two and everyone of those sixty two inches were gorgeous, she grew up dangerously close to the plaza and to Brookside and to all the quaint coffee houses and local eateries. men much more beautiful than myself had spent a pretty dollar showing her a good Saturday night.

I am sure the dinner was just as exciting as the movie, but antiquated action films and overpriced Italian food makes me uneasy. always will.

our hill was perfect and her dress moved in every way in which I pictured it would. I moved frail bits of hair away from her cheek and I kissed her mid sentence, we made moderately decent love and she left a blanket in my backseat.  

Poor plaza boys can never seem to keep their books out of the red.

ok my last attempt at really laying down a poem that has some depth, yet I feel by mentioning this i have already slightly failed.

I cant pretend that everything is always ok, yet I must try.
i cant pretend that life is always giving cause that is a lie.
I cannot say that losing you took alot away.
that you giving me nine months didnt bring some kind of change.
your long gone and moved on and im doing my best to do the same

girls twice as pretty as me say that im a fair lover
but even with them i still am not happy,
that five people in a week makes me feel more ******
that every night after five and i cant sleep and i still think
they are not you
and sure you probably had a reason,
yet i was the artist
the dream of owning a van
the idea that photography was a walking dead art form and now you hold the camera just to  take pictures of him
sure im bitter.
how many people in this world would desert you
tell you things with substance just to come apart like a cake that didnt sit well
nine months of I Love Yous just to tell me in the end that it wasnt how it seemed.
you left me with rent and broken sense of self and i forgave you for it, now i find it hard to forgive myself for being so forgiving.

I wont edit this cause i dont feel that it deserves the time.

imagine building this story in your mind, the story itself is not the most important part, more so the time spent on every detail. You imagine its October and you are sitting on the back ledge of your lovers apartment, feet dangling  between the railing, with a cigarette in your left hand and a cup of something warm in the right. Imagine making enough dialogue for short film.

Imagine flipping through the four pages that had just been printed, neatly double spaced in bold black print, now imagine taking those sharp cornered four pages, crumbeling them into a mishsappen ball and dropping it carlessly into the trash. **I Make It Tough to Write

with sticks on their back they charge into battle.
the world screaming behind them.

ringing of white noise.

my palms as myself before me and every face looking back already looks dead.

we had no stake in the world. chips of wood broken away to make a fire.

Pavlovian trained, fetching their food, dying before they could eat.

what a retched service they had done.

no option for them or us to turn away.

October 6/ 1941

How long must these words be sad, how long can your page be a domicile for the "broken and the lonely"

paint the walls a lively color, let the light break through the blinds into a room that was once filled with your ideas. back when there was much more to your story. "nothing much" was never your answer now its your sedentary lifestyle. the trails bend for you, the air stays crisp on top of the mountain. Maybe it's just time to make the climb.

I made my retreat back to the bedroom where she had been laying. Naked and on her side, her eyes saying some cool and provocative phrase. This did not happen to often so I could say I was a little taken back. After we had made love I layed naked on my side feeling I had made the wrong choice. I should have grabbed the letter that I was headed back for originally, layed it on her counter and walked out. She was trying to save the dying and I had written a letter of sympathy. The letter reads much colder now that she is on the deathbed.

I find that music can be disinhibitin.  Ill spend my life always searching for the next song, things that were lost but only for a short time. We are always looking for ways to express ourselves, music often without intention does that for us.

Today we gather in the places we stood before, or the ones that had birthed us stood. we are shadows to the times that have long since passed.  All I can do at this moment is try achieve as much as can. So because of this I grab wildly at moments that appear before me, whether they are good or bad. What else can I do? If I were not to take a chance on the random how will I ever find out on what I could of been missing. I can not say that I write poems more compulsively scribble down fragments of ideas in the split second they appear.

I really cant say what it is about these girls that get me so indifferent.
maybe it is their presence. I am well to understand how ****** that is.
You would have to understand the mind of a long standing womanizer that never had the luck of women.
now, grown and accepted I do not find myself caring nearly as much as one would think.
the lovely blonde from forty minutes away spent the night last week but I couldnt recall the day and still have yet to find a way to accept that I have gotten this far without knowing her last name.
How is this the future that I had envisioned in school, wanting love from a lovely person just to push lovely people away once they showed themselves.
I guess there is not much to complain about, wine is six dollars a gallon and lee summit is only forty minutes away.

I like to be alone.

Such a simple phrase, yet it has been one of the hardest things for me to accept about myself.

I think about there lives and why they are not returning home until one in the early morning. what jobs they most hold that keep them out so late, what bar they spent that particularly chilly September night in. I am not judging my night may not have been any better.

except; mine was better, the faint and gentle repetition of my lover's breathing is like the soundtrack of the night, the song that you put on after a long day. My love moves in her sleep, and like a fish in a bigger ocean, I have learned to sway with her.

I have myself a interest in smooth edges, subtle features.
she wore a dress.
I lost my self in monday mixers and beautiful creatures.
I couldnt find my keys.
she loved my work, poets could make the best teachers.


we kissed outside of a bar beside a man much older.
his smoke in her face
beer makes the night warm and her body much colder.
share my desire to die slow.
I couldnt let go of my girlfriend but she still wanted space for me to holder.

my mistake,

How strange it seems that they are so informed.
Its odd the opinions they have.
There are those that think they understand life, without really living.
You can explain what you see, but the blind will not always understand.

Misinformed but so very interested, you think you know what your missing. Ill try to lend my hand, but you lack the ability to grasp. So people cant love unless they know there will be love given back.

three of us on the porch, glasses poured and cigarettes lit.
lip chatter towards talk of revolution in the streets and the welcoming breath to change.
two decks and both of them stacked against us. we are doing our best to be strong enough to distribute them out.

I was left with the smoke wiping right by the eye.
my hands were crossed and my foot shaking.
I would snap and yell into the air "what happened to the time?"
what had she been so cruel to me, she took all those who were by my side.
It was in the quiet that I begin to rattle my stagnant cage.

I remember when I was much better then I currently am.
Last summer was I opened up, let my self be taken from without feeling like I had lost much, to this day i would still say not much from that summer is missing.

She and the winter kicked my ***. There is reasons why people break, lose trust and forget to love.
You can’t always bounce back the same.
I remember when I wanted to be how I was in the winter.
This summer was supposed to open up to me. She would lay in my bed looking up at me. Good god how she was so pretty.
Parts of her were almost unrecognizable to me. She had fire in her eyes before me and I couldn’t look back with the same passion.
Instead I looked at the wall.
I remember when I used to be much better than I currently am.
I couldn’t please her or myself. I couldn’t find anytime to which it matters but she and several others were still there.
I looked at the water days before thinking how I didn’t have time for another person, and in the next hour I had sent for messages asking for some space in my queen sized.
Broken pieces cannot be fixed by other broken pieces and we cannot pretend that broken pieces are meant to carry out time like they are fixed.
The time never seems to go by fast enough,
I look forward to the day when I can remember who I was and accept what I have become.

the night is blanker then the streets on the early mornings leading to Christmas. Yet there in the hearts of children, the world is active. Hopes of a greater tomorrow beat on like that of a drunk on the door to the lady who just locked him out. eventually he will quit but they will never forgot what once was.

My friends remember their hopes, I never shut the door on mine.

Four pages of white water stained paper to start my night. I should of been in bed sleeping but the ******* drunk and incoherent shouting of my neighbors was like pounding the book agains my head. Is it pretentious to fill the boom with nonsense or is this suppose to build anticipation, as if buying the book and having to wait till I was off the high way was not enough. Am I suppose to fill these four pages with thought, does this author not realize that everyone thinks just as much as him but does not need to make up a world of two hundred pages to convey it. What else do you think these ***** can do besides fill space, but maybe these four pages are proof they can't. "Pretty **** good read" the guy behind the counter says.

Most love poems bore me, mostly in the same way as nature photography and pictures of my latte art does.
being hipster bores me, you cant get by these days with a side buzz and a fascination with the theremin with out getting yourself lumped in.
this all coming from the same girl that is wearing white converse with the classic red stripe right below her yoga's,
at least her boyfriend with the Eric Hosmer hair cut seems nice.  

anyways, I probably should not be so cruel. we all get hurt from time to time, I just wish there were more original was to express it.

sun breaks through bent slits in the room and streaks of light tell me I am missing my day.

a ring behind the ear, you check yet again it is only your mom reminding you your grandmothers birthday is in three days.

The next twelve minutes you'll spend in bed, twisting through covers asking  yourself if you really need this job more than a extra four hours of sleep.

I wish I was the person that got up at five, laced up their shoes and ran a moderate four miles, letting the beauty of the early morning lighting show them the gentle side to the world, i would follow that by a nice light roast in the Kuerig.

But that is just not possible, ive got about fifteen minutes till i have got to be anywhere and I am  deep into my third rem cycle, still smelling of the wine I drank over ice from the night before. ill never make it to the pretty side of the world when your stuck in high noon tide.

How good it feels to hold you.
At night we lay there with the world not affecting us in the slightest.
When others spend time with the screen, we spent time lost and not looking for a way back.
Ill fight you, you will lie to me. Make me think things that were never really true only to later change again.
But in the end I have confidence in you.
I have confidence in me. That is how I have made it through.