Excuses are like *******
everybody's got one
and if you don't
then that's
very
very
weird

it's rained all week
grey drop
after grey drop
the city is crying
the bums rush to shelter
in doorways
and under bridges
the people sit with their feet up
in their comfy sweatpants
and hoodies
drinking warm cups of tea
the animals
are out in the wet
grinning
and howling at the moon
drinking up the tears
of the crying city

For as long as I can remember I have always been haunted by what I now refer to as "The Pressure". This hideous beast contains all that is wrong with the world - doubt, restlessness, greed, anger, love, hate. The Pressure is what makes me vibrate impatiently at the thought of standing in one place for another moment. The Pressure is cripples me with sly thoughts about rent and food. The titanic thick blackness waits just out of view at every turn - waiting to envelop me at any sign of vulnerability. The way your eyes vibrate within your skull and how your vision becomes nothing but a mess of colors and shapes in times of great rage - that's The Pressure.

The Pressure is not a purely malignant force - in today's world of ceaseless gray one would be a fool to assume that anything can be described by such flimsy words as "good" or "evil". The Pressure made me who I am today and even as these words leave my fingertips it is still shaping me. Molding me. The Pressure allows us to see the true nature of our structural fortitude. Perhaps - like the countless others in this world - I am sedimentary and thus destined to be crushed into more and more smaller pieces until I resemble sand. But maybe, just maybe I am a piece of coal just waiting to turn into a dazzling, unbreakable, diamond.

she had her lingering pale blue eyes
and long blonde hair
skin like paper
dotted here and there with freckles
She was the first
way back when
in the first grade
her name haunted that old farm house
she was the first

A friends sister
back in the sixth grade
she was two years older than me
and **** it
she carried it well
I'd sit next to her
on the sofa
waiting for my friend
to come down the stairs
so we could walk to school

The short brunette
who loved the Chicago Bears
watching that super bowl
in the rec room of my parents' house
truth or dare
a peck on the lips
my seventh grade conquest
bathed in nostalgia
I don't remember who won
I don't even remember who was playing

high school came
and brought with it
a new field of roses
some of them wilted
all of them perfect
I told her she would have made a great mother
and I meant it
my best friend's girl

The little church girl
little robin red cheeked
prom night photos
suits and dresses
and smiles and holding
crystallized in the flash of a Nikon

The girl with her guitar
and her poster
carpe that ******* diem
her upper teeth
came out below her curling lip
and when she smiled
a hint of gums
a hint of pearl
the one that time
placed out of reach
in some other place
with some other people

For one night
there was the blonde bombshell
she came to town once a year
like a hurricane
a natural disaster
that I stood outside waiting for
with my umbrella

The ones who were smarter than me
the ones who loved me
when I didn't
the ones who laughed
at my smart *** comments
the ones who were there
to pull me from
the flipped wreckage
of the silver hyundai accent that I miss so much
the ones who wouldn't take any of my ****
the one's I see walking by on the street
the one's I only see behind closed eyelids
the special love I have for all of them
all of them
my baby blue

My first rejection Email arrived today
during a rainy day at work
My phone vibrated once in my pocket
We are sorry to inform you
due to an influx of submissions
we will not be publishing your piece
we wish you luck in your future writing endeavors
the staff
of course,
me being me,
my first reaction was to be *******
a child not allowed that really sweet action figure
because
"We need food"
but after stewing on it a while
I realized
I need this
because it's not success which defines us
a lucky guy can succeed
it's how we respond to defeats
the big ones
the small ones
the oh my god why don't I just quit
failures
that they'll write in the book of judgement
long after we are just dust
trapped inside of a coffin

You said don't overthink this
and don't go writing me
any of those ******* love poems
because we both know this isn't love
I said,
you look nice with no shorts on
thanks,
you said
I said I love the way you look without those pesky denim shorts
you told me to stop being a smart ***
but let's be honest
we both knew
you were getting on that plane
and that I was going to write this poem anyways

Poets these days
take Bukowski and the Beats
much too seriously
I mean come on
Bukowski is great and all
for a selfish *******
and the if the Beats make your heart beat
well that's just swell
for a group of pretentious purple prosers
and don't point those fingers of outrage at me
my library too is full of them
all I'm saying is
the line between inspiration and imitation
is awfully thin