Night owl
on the prowl
for nights untold
under the moon
I feel at home
peaceful and calm
It listens like no other
to the shrieks and howls
and cast no stone filled gaze
I'm a night owl
and I don't always know
what prey I'm looking for
but that doesn't mean
I'm not out hunting

You ******
you absolute ******* *****
I mean seriously
how much of a ****** are you?
silent to your friends
silent to the parentals
silent to yourself
except for in times of strife
(as if you know real strife)
you just want to be nice,
right,
correct,
for the girls you string along
you feel for all of them
which is why
you are afraid of everything
afraid of committing
afraid of hurting
afraid of loving
you love them
almost as much
as the self loathing
which runs through your veins

The sun in the air is a pinprick
And heaven is leaking through
Birds shot forth as arrows
Rip through divine scenes
Of colorful vibrance
With their songs
Infecting my idle tongue
With rhythms of untold tomorrows
Living inside of the holy kaleidoscope
Shaken in an infinite snow globe
The time is melting down the brick of city walls
To pool in the streets
Like gasoline rainbows
Clipped winged angels eating Eden
Without any notion of good and evil
Black and white
Reality flickers like static
And I am a man
Lost in the sanctity
Of a wonderfully calm
Vast sea

this had been it
the big showdown
a test of gamble
and wit
and *****
and steel
the test which separates the men from the boys
which separates the fight from the flight
so what's it going to be?

Tim called me to let me know he was outside
Tim being my Dad
my Dad who I see so much of myself in
My Dad who I haven't always said the kindest things about
he came upstairs
I let him in
I had just cleaned the apartment
he said
let's see why the school hasn't sent me a bill
I said
there is no bill to send
and there never will be
now brace yourself
the bomb will go off in 3...
2...
1....
then nothing
just acceptance
acceptance which took me aback
because I hadn't expected it
or the side of support it came with
half of a year
I spent
no
wasted
fretting over this moment
and that's all it was
a moment
nothing too special
but the weight which fell from me
made all the difference to my disposition
the time of lies is over
the time to be
the real
Harry J Baxter is here

I love the way she pretends to buy my lies
love the way she smirks and nods her head along
to the beat of the stories
that I pull out of my ***
I love the way she pretends they smell like roses
I met you a while ago
but I'm a silent observer
so I pitched my tent from a distance
I like the way you are the anti to my venom
and when I walk through a field of snakes
you know how to make it all better
and we both love the line from that one favorite song I have
"love can make suicide seem so cool"
but you told me I'd have to **** you
because you would probably mess it up yourself
and the way you laughed when I said i couldn't do it
then there was that one time
where I didn't have the courage to tell you
that you make my depression
seem kinda alright
or that I would have followed you
wherever you went
if you just held a dog treat in your hand
and whistled,
"here boy!"
my tail wags when you walk through that door
and when you walk out that door
I'm sure it's going to be forever
and that scares the ever loving **** out of me
so don't be a stranger
because if you do
I'm probably going to **** on the carpet
and claw the leather off the reclining sofa

a man stands in an empty lobby of his apartment building
the night had hit its stride and was walking tall
in front of the closed doors of the elevator his finger falters
lingering just as the red display reads: 4F
he is confronted with a decision
up or down?
above him lies his apartment, his home
his girlfriend of many years
conversation about his day and the promise of a meal
then television and watered down beer
endless talking about the rent and what the new girl did at work
talks about relationships and the ever-looming future
what comes next?
the man pulls out his phone absently checking the time
below him are the basement apartments
and the apartment of the girl he met last week
when the trash chute was clogged so he had to go all the way downstairs
the girl who lives alone with barely any furniture and no heat
the girl whose brown hair always bears the sign of a good morning
tangled and askew
the girl whose thrift store clothing clings to the contorts of her body
so effortlessly
the girl who had once said
feel free to come over sometime. We’d have a lot of fun
I can keep a secret if you can
he pulls out his phone and checks the time again
he is late
his finger presses firmly against the up arrow
the elevator chugging to life
he fixes his shirt as the doors open with their familiar bell
the man enters the elevator and presses the button for his floor
and goes home

You spend lone enough waiting tables
or washing cars
or standing behind a register
and you feel a part of you
that played thumb wars and jump rope
die just a little
yeah I know the plight of the proletariat is cliched
but that doesn't mean it's not there
you feel the disdain grow
and even more so
you get hungry
and no ham 'n cheese can fix that
hunger nor nutrition
but for any small sign that all of the toiling
might just pay off.
Well if I go another day without eating that meal
I might just crack
drive my car into oncoming traffic
take as many suckers with me
then they might remember my name

He wakes up before the sun
Park benches and alleyways
cardboard boxes and piles of coats
he has nests all over the city
strategically placed
near the corner shop
fast food places
and liquor stores
on a good day
he can buy three
twenty-two ounces of Budweiser
so that by night time
he can forget himself
forget you
forget me
forget his home
a damp concrete floor
and a shirt pocket
filled with loose cigarettes
He wakes up before the sun
until the day comes
when he won't

Not all monsters have bodies
no,
some monsters are whispers in the middle of the night
the whispers which never stop
they come rising up from the pit of your stomach
the back of your neck
and the lungs in your chest
these monstrous whispers
creeping in from open window
on full moon nights
they say the things
which we know aren’t right
but we believe anyway
these voices
they say things
like you are not good enough
just give up
know when enough is enough
they laugh in moments of silence
come creeping in with self-doubt
not a whimper
not a shout
just a sense of stillness when the lights go out
keeping you up at night on the edge of a knife
too exhausted
to keep up the fight
you worry
how long will these monsters have their foothold
in the panicked pounding of my eardrums?
these monsters which spit on self-love
and lick their gums at the sight
of a broken down frown
of a person wound too tight
but these monsters don’t have bodies
arms legs claws and fangs
these monsters are just voices
all you have to do is drown them out

He wanted to write
as a way of expression
and rejection
a stage to vent
everything which threatened
his tranquil, lazy life,
he was fine going unknown,
hungry,
broke,
broken,
a man watching from the shadows
looking for somebody worthwhile
somebody he could talk to
and enjoy looking at
maybe he was unrealistic
maybe was one huge *******,
a typical womanizer,
just another guy,
but he wanted to write,
he wanted to write about her

She walked past him
heading west on broad
as he walked east
skinny and twisted
head high
chest out
like a vector he followed
his stained smile
his flashing eyes
looking directly at her
like he expected something
have a nice day
he said
she kept on walking,
thinking to herself,
*what the **** was that guy's problem

I eat pizza too much
Like three days a week
Pizza pizza pizza
But in all honesty
I'd choose you over a slice
Any day of the week

He's a renaissance man
a lover of jazz
and swing
and old **** kicking
pub anthems
He lives by his own code
and outside of the law
hopping trains
and leaving his mark
all over the country
a renaissance man
he drinks Irish whiskey
straight from the bottle
and smokes like a chimney
a closet romantic
the closest thing to a knight
he loves women
because they could love him
and he would protect them
from the bitter winter winds
A renaissance man
just living
in the wrong place
in the wrong time

there is a valley between us
the distance between my was
and you are
my want
versus your need
it's all the same
it's all just one more drink
one more moment spent
between the breaths of our cigarette
shared beneath a waning half moon
at night the monsters pour out of the closets of boys across the land
and maybe they look like you
maybe it doesn't matter
girls are shaving their vaginas in the bathroom mirror
as the tv chuckles wildly
as I meander from dark empty to room
to dark empty room
hossanah on high judging the judges of yahew
as they drive tent stakes into the sternum of evil
I write to write to write to **** to **** to ******* to **** to manipulate this conversation
into a direction which ends with you stroking my pulsing ego
you aren't a muse
you aren't some special being
you are just mine
floating around in a head full
of my selfish thoughts about my selfless need to make you
my selfless thought
I'm a bullshitter
and you are a **** eater

A night is only as meaningful
as the stars which surround the moon
in a room full of beating hearts -
isn't it funny how just one rhythm
can sync with you so completely?
"She just gets me"
How every once in a while
you see that face,
a customer at work, a stranger passing by,
which lets you know
that things could be better tomorrow
that makes today not such a lost cause
They call it love at first sight
but I think it's more like
we are all pieces of the great cosmic jigsaw puzzle
wandering around - lost
looking for the people
which bring us closer
to being whole

"Did you ever think
that maybe you have a problem?"
no
never
they aren't actually problems
if you can't see them right?
but so what if I did?
who doesn't?
my problems are  jars
filled with pennies
sitting forgotten on a shelf
without them
I would be without me
with one hand they break me
only to put me back together
but I'm never what I was
something new missing each time
always changing
eroded by waves of white fury
grinding me down
to dust
My problem
is that I have no problem
with my problems

My father
left my mother
waiting on a promise
but no more
pretty anniversary vacations
only divorce lawyers
and yelling
bitter compromises
drawing sobs from my mother
on the first Christmas Eve that you weren't here

I was eighteen when it happened
so It didn't hit me quite so hard
as my thirteen year old brother
but it did hit me
not a haymaker
but a series of sharp jabs
to the cerebellum
and it makes me mad
thinking back to all
the comparisons between us
and it makes me
absolutely ******* furious
that try as I might
I still love you
But don't call me son
because you divorced us
and I appreciate your monetary lifeboats
but I would make it without them
besides I think of it
as compensation for what you did to my head

Mother dearest's pain
flowing through open vessels
to the salt of lovers
and I've been falling in love ever since
every pretty faced girl
who ever looked as if she'd frowned
became angelic saviors
in my eyes
something to protect
and love forever
But I can't love every
cute girl I see
forever
I know that
and I love them too much to hurt them
to be honest I think you
stole the hope of me
ever understanding what real love is
I just want to save every girl
whose cheeks are scarred with forgotten tears
but I can't
so I revert to a one night stand
fueled by futility and whiskey and ****** beer
never allowing myself to give
that old poison that we like to call Love
I carry a cross
made of sins of the father

I'm not Shakespeare, not some romantic poet clad in flowers and doves
I'm no Fitzgerald, a dapper socialite at home with the intellectuals and aristocrats
I'd like to be Hemingway, a man in all senses of the word, guided by a certain wit and drive
Hell, I'd even take Bukowski, or Kerouac, drug addled and safe in the strength of my arrogance
I'm not your favorite department store
no recognizable brand
no jewelry
My love is not measured in the moments quenched with awe
no symphonies or trips to the opera house
In a dime store I trudge through the aisles of shelves
rummaging through the lost and found of people long forgotten and dead
I find a necklace, shells strung together on a piece of fishing line and I think of you
young and happy with a bucket and a *****
so curious as to the motion of the ocean, you slowly approach
only to run away - giddy in your fear - as the cold tide licks at your heels
digging up ***** to show to your Mom and Dad
I think of you, my hand clutching that Dime store necklace
I think of you now
Me so intrigued, I draw up my plans with tact
only to crumble before you
I am the shells you dug up
I am the fishing line your dad cut off for you
the knots he taught you to make
I am your lost and found
helplessly missing you always
I am your Dime Store love

have you ever given your life to the ethereal?
shapes and faces forming in the night time hours
you don't know their names
nor their stories
but you know they are people who make you feel good
their stories level out the chaos of yours
they are from far away places
they are the people with far away problems
that make yours seem so finite
they dance beneath the glowing full moon
they dance until their bodies tire desperately
they say your name like a holy entity
they breathe out the sighs you breathe out in pain
they text you in the dead hours
hey, how're ya doin?
and you reply
better now
and that is all there is to it
to the choreographed dance of humanity

There was a long road
from the church to the farm house
and ten acres of land was never enough to disappear
but we tried our very best
the fields spanned out in wooden fence borders
until they met with dirt side roads
sheep, cows, and horses
and mud tracked jeans
we built dens in the woods
out of whatever we could scavenge
with wheat hanging limp from lips
we graduated to the days of the pretender
and started memorizing names like
RJ Reynolds and Phillip Morris
our fingers grew as yellow as our teeth
Tobacco Road Hobos
sticking up a thumb
with a Kamel Red pinched between index and middle
that's the gun metal blue smoke screen
rattling lungs in the morning
scorched throats at night
and a pair of mud tracked jeans
Kings of Tobacco Road

life ignites, contradiction fuels
moral quandaries, choices ran from
Mr. Nice Guy, a total *******
plaster smile, bleeding clown frowns
something to say, pretentious crap
I love you, I hate you for it
beautiful struggle, an ugly massacre
sun of fire, moon of ice
inhale, exhale, suffocate
intelligence, total confusion
love letters, suicide notes
and everything in between
so fully alive
dead as a door nail

A fist split the silence
the hard packing sound
followed by a liquid clogged choke
and Joe went under the water
limp in my arms
crimson red permeating through the cool blue salt water
of my parents’ pool
Nolan rubbing his hand - laughing
**** I didn’t mean to actually hit him
and we all laughed because it was a play fight
we were young, looking for answers which didn’t exist
so we filled the void like many of us did
with the seething, impotent aggression of youth
It went Gangsta rap
to punk rock
to heavy metal
and Joe and Nolan were in a band
and Joe and Nolan professed their love of Satan
because Satan never made them sit still and be quiet
they burned bibles and summoned demons
from an online version of the Necronomicon
and we went to shows
at fourteen and fifteen
drinking beer and whiskey in the alley out back
with all of the local rock stars
we hurled ourselves -
arms draped around each others’ shoulders -
into the swirling whirlwind of fists
and studded leather
and sweat and beer and blood
where grown men punched us in the face
and we gave back as good as we got
hugging afterwards in the warm glow of our pain
we were alive on the front lines
hanging from the edge that everybody else strayed from
domesticated wolves scared of electric fence flags
Nolan went crowd surfing at the Municipal Waste concert
only to be dropped into a stomping pile of ******* kids
his lips split open and I gave him my bandanna to soak up the blood
I still have that ***** rag around here somewhere
He needed six stitches inside his lower lip
but we didn’t leave until after the show
even when the fire marshals came to shut us down
when ceiling fans and trash cans were being thrown around like beach *****
we were just kids
confronted with the meaninglessness of everything we had been raised to hold on to
like life rafts
we were just kids to whom
destruction seemed far more important
than creation
if we were ever going to make anything for ourselves
in this concrete clad hell scape

Long walks with no destination
spending three hours talking ******* before realizing netflix stopped playing a while ago
getting drunk as hell with close friends
getting slightly less drunk around strangers
Weather good enough to smoke **** by the river in the middle of November
not being on the schedule anymore at your old job
looking forward to your new job
control
These are a few of my favorite things

You said you loved me
I said I loved you too
So that's it right?
End of story
they all lived happily ever after
except not really
the miles between us
care little for
teenagers who think they are in love
It has been jaded by too many
psuedo-Romeos and Juliets
Who get all caught up
in idealistic notions of love
but **** the road
we aren't like them
we are true
and we are strong
aren't we?
and I would bridge the gap
there's nothing keeping me here
except my signature
on the lease of my apartment
and of course
I love this city
and I think living in Harrisonburg
would only end up with my suicide
but some times I just think **** it
who's stopping you
even if everybody says it's a bad idea
isn't that what being young is all about?
making really dumb decisions?

ask me what happened to make the world this way
I will say everything happened
we were put here to destroy and destroy
to obliterate all that came before us
because **** those people
We are here now
and they never will be again
so burn the museums
and tear down the landmarks
salt the earth black
and then we can build an ode
to the false idol
of the post-modern fragmentary image *******
and our cult will go on living in caves
in ***** rags
terrified of the thunder
and the night

The bohemian youth are dancing with the moon
with the night
pressed firmly on their backs
the wind of a thousand seas
they tick like clocks until the world is broken
down at their feet
all around them they build up their anthills
only to play God with magnifying glasses
taking the train or bus
to broke or bust
with cackles echoing off the graying apartment walls
blowing out clouds of intoxication
into the night sky
just so they could call it art
they are building pianos out of old photo albums
and listening to all the songs
they have heard a million times
and yet still do not know
taking the missing pieces out of
abandoned cable boxes
and talking on phones of
styrofoam cups and string
waiting for the day to become night
to stop all of the nonsensical
jibber jabber
with ironic t shirts they found on the side of the road
shooting city crows from the air with BB guns
and eating greasy sandwich after greasy sandwich
in the early hours of morning
beer and beer and beer and disappointment
no noble cause of nobility
for the wannabe outlaw to hang on to
no titanic monolith of strictures to rebel against
just a pair of worn out sneakers
and an empty compass

Voices lift us higher than any
lifted high in locked bedrooms
voices of angels
steeped in risk
and pure love
I come across silly
or played out
or too strong
a beat up beatnik wannabe
with too many beer stories
of *** drugs and rock ‘n roll
but from an early age
the words of men turned me into
my own depiction of heroes
wounded warriors smiling in vain
despite the spite of the jealous majorities
they cast out fishing lines
and hooked me with hooks
narrative to musical to comedic
limelight and broken bic lighters
and way too much baggage to
take on tour on planes
they connect through the telephone poles
an ethernet port into my ear
I may sometimes come across
as thin as spread butter
but the voices are still all
bubbling up inside of me

Selina grew up in an orphanage
she was a *******
her father disappeared
after the Great War
her mother
dead from poverty
She was a Catholic
of the highest devotion
she loved Jesus
and Saint Joseph
and after she was
past schooling age (14)
she went off
to serve as a maid
for a good Catholic family
she wanted to be a nurse
but circumstance dictated
that she never could be
not enough school,
then, when she was 17
the 2nd Great War came
and women were needed
to work the steel mills
and shipyards
of Stockton England

she got a job
painting bombs
she signed little things on them
like,
take that ******,
but the job
caused her asthma to flare
so she was reassigned
as what was then known as
a postman
clopping around the streets
happily delivering mail
She met a man
named John Hartley
and she intended to marry him
her friends warned her
he's a bachelor,
a woman hater,
but he was also
quite the handsome soldier
they married
after the war
and had five children
three of whom
became nurses
proud tears falling
like rain drops
a life of hardships
which she batted away
with Christ as her shield
summed up
by her
giving her children
what she never had

I moved to this country
when I was thirteen or twelve years old
My Dad was semi-proud, semi-sorry
"I've been promoted...
the only thing is we have to move to America"
but all of my friends
but then again... it might not be raining all the time
but I'll miss the rain
don't lie
okay but where in America?
".... Richmond, Virginia."
where?
What state is Virginia in?
"It is a state, near D.C. - the head of the south"
oh great the south,
it was like moving from a farm village
filled with fat xenophobic racists
only to move to an even bigger farming village
filled with fat xenophobic racists
"Well you don't have much of a choice."

So we went on a pilgrimage
to the land of slavery, cowboys, and McDonald's
they didn't have a monarchy
but there were a lot of kings around
JFK airport wasn't much
compared to London
and the traffic down from DC
was absolutely ridiculous
This many people can not possibly
find use out of a truck
why so many traffic lights
and raised cars
We got lost
and drove through a DC ghetto
where I saw TV depictions of "The streets"
for the first time up close
quick close the windows
drive drive drive
We made it to Richmond
in the dead of night
and even then
the skyline across the James
was like low hanging stars
and in the mornings
the James looks like a scene
from a Jack London story
and now I've been here for almost seven years
and the place has grown on me
it's a good balance
of obnoxious redneck republicans
and obnoxious hipster democrats
and some of the prettiest landscapes I've seen
and yeah I'll take Richmond on a summer day
over any other city
Because RVA creates
is on every street light banner
and the feeling permeates through the city
like electricity in the air
making your hair stand up on end
as if to say
Welcome to Richmond

we are a nation
who bonded over a simple ritual
much to the disappointment of our parents
and our lungs
before you even open your mouth
that cancer stick tells me
that we are one in the same
we are all trying to escape from something
and for the most part
we don't like ourselves
but take comfort in the knowledge
that we are in this together
and yes you can *** one
my old friend
smoke 'em if you got 'em
and there is nothing more beautiful
than sharing a post-****** drag
smoke a pack for every sin
we have committed
which went unnoticed
unpunished
and in that night sky
your face partly lit
as if by a stop light
with every inhale
the cherry is a supernova,
God I love the ritual

something special seems to happen
when the sun goes down
when  the street people come out to play
drinking in the moonlight with greed
I got new DVD's at a good price
I can hook you up man
I feel most estranged
and most comfortable
when the sun is down
fill up my cup
give me a drink
and i can write you poem
after poem after poem
I can give you introspective insights
and parts of me
which only exist between certain hours
with a cat's eye
and a devilish grin
you sing me off
into another, stranger land

She said she wanted an adventure
trekking through the Mexican desert with six shooters
the Lone Ranger and her Kemo Sabe
she wanted to pack her bags
hit the road without a second glance to spare
take the Greyhound bus
or maybe her dad's Jetta
and open it up across endless highways
until the tires are stripped bare
and the exhaust smokes
she wanted to be a stranger
in a strange town
with a cardboard sign reading
    Anywhere but here
mostly she just wanted to escape
the chill of all the old ghosts which haunted her

You texted me last night
telling me to come over and hang out
and I was real excited
and kinda nervous
but I tried to clean up as best I could
got in my car
and headed over to your house
and then turning left onto your street
I barely saw it coming
Crash
trapped in my flipped car
It was my first crash
and the cops came
and the EMT's
and the firemen
and somehow I walked out
completely unscathed
and I know I should be thankful for that
but my first upside down thought
was that I wouldn't be seeing you tonight
and that maybe it was some sort of sign
but I've always been one to ignore signs
Nobody was answering my phone calls
and I was freaking out
vibrating in the midst of an adrenaline earthquake
but you came
when I texted you what happened
and you brought me a little juice box
and gave me a hug
and even though my car was destroyed
it was still nice seeing you

time keeps on slipping through the seams
as worn out as a pair of work jeans
fade away and stay insane
who can we trust?
all the industries rust
as we stand beneath them
waiting to catch debris
to sell off at pawn shops
for a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread
suns down
so the pradators prowl the town
see how their fangs glint with motor oil
turmoil in the soul the sole reason for this lack of control
deeper we spiral
everybody just wants to go viral like small pox
drive the check through the box
the list of mistakes you still want to make
break through the shake up of rubble
and start some real trouble, burst their bubbles
visible from the hubble teloscope
we **** hope and call it dope
no more sirens in rearview mirrors
pen the next great thriller and bring it into reality
point out their logical fallicies
and make another casualty in the war
of left versus right
north south east and west
and we think one is the best
jesters playing guessing games in the crown’s court
but we always seem to fall short - straying off course
and of course it isn’t fair
we’ve all had our share of heartbreaks
but we claimed a stake of this land
pioneers of the yeah yeah yeah
but we multiply until we all die
leaving seeds on the front lawn
of the dawning of time

When all the magic is gone
we will crawl from checkpoint to checkpoint
with dull great white eyes
always hungry
always starving ourselves
gotta look good for the summer
when all the magic is gone
we will howl out for sacrifice
it’s shoe harvesting season
and you’ve gotta cop some of this crop
when all the magic is gone
the national anthem will change with top 100
and when the air is stale
the prophets and poets will be driven out of town
to test their mettle in uncaring wilderness
when the magic is gone
we will hail the president on bended knee - blindfolded
when the magic is gone
everything will be trending
and nobody will give a ****
so get your abra kadabras in now
you don’t know how much magic we have left

My roommate is vacuuming the apartment
I'm thinking about distances
past to present,
empty to overflowing,
shattered to whole
doctor your wounds are bleeding again
and I don't have the proper training
we toil and toil beneath the gaze of an oblivion
too much sweat on the brow to take the time to ask why
my heart is a runaway train
my brain the penny on the tracks
there's no such thing as non-civilian casualties
hungry is as hungry does
it's just the nature of these lives
our carrot on a string
I thought I caught a taste once
only to bite my own finger
It hurts, but the pain is just motivation
to keep on living
and all of those lessons and truths
she whispered in your ear on dreaming nights
are still the reason your heart beats the way it now does
wake the hell up
perfect does not exist
and you are going to be fine
fix the roof
you are going to be fine

who are these strangers
clad in the uniform
of consumerism
conformation into the church
of the holy dollar
fables about legendary bread winners
but they never say
if they were happy
if they died alone
like everybody else
they think it makes them immortal
but they make it immortal
the strange belief
that we can assign
numerical values to life
I wonder how
they can be my brothers
and my sisters
when we are so different
but people are people
always have been
and always will be

She hides behind herself,
picturesque scenery flashing
before her sad doe eyes
only to crystallize before her
like memories
life washes over her
but not through her
at any given moment
she could fade away
gone with a fluttering
of butterfly wings
what is love
(baby don't hurt me)
but a rush of pheromones,
a shotgun blast of hormones?
a necessity
a necessity she doesn't know by name
or by face
but by the lingering aroma
of cigarette smoke
and detestable good byes

it had been the three of us
since we were little kids
who listened to their music too loud
and didn't listen to their parents enough
It's all one long cycle
more so a downward spiral
the things we were promised
are always put on a higher shelf
and no matter
how high up on our tip toes
we can get
they will always move it
just one shelf higher
it can really **** a guy off

But like I said
It was the three of us
me Jake and Martin
mister no names
in that house
the glass house
because we could see it coming
and so could everybody else
stuck outside
cursed to only watch
never intervene

The glass house
we stained the walls
the color of our lives
Crimson Jade Purple Black
and the colors blur
and the scenes become twisted
and harder to look at
It has our lives already
a commodity for nutrition
we are more like ghosts now
doomed to haunt forever

I woke up
Jake never did
deeply asleep
gone gone gone
his girlfriend called to him
shook him
slapped him
all the while he slept
like a rock
He will never get out now
the glass house his tomb
Martin dug himself deeper
a trench against the outside world
and he was a trench rat
he knew it
he was okay with it
it was a suit which he wore well
I packed up
the few belongings that place hadn't stolen
and got out
never looking back
because people in glass houses
shouldn't throw stones

wear my thick skin
like armor with my heart
on my sleeve
because I love to give it out
but I'll be ****** if I'll take that **** back
so I guess I'm just one way traffic
a conduit for a confused Confucius conveying crap
poems of purple prose pretentiously purposefully pretty
self loathing can be as strong as love
because we love to hate ourselves
maybe it's just extreme modesty
and you always called me a wolf
because heat seemed to come off my body
in waves
even on the coldest night
I think it's just the kinetic energy of the words in my head
playing bumper cars
at a million miles an hour
and I always have an idea of a poem
when I sit down
and then it gets away from me
and runs circles around me
just like you when we argue
the only difference is
I would always tell the poem
that it was right
so I don't know what that means

It's another slew of ****** poetry
so publish this junk
so I can sell my work to people who can't read
let me tell you about David
he is a *****
not a literal ******,
that'd be ridiculous,
what I mean is -
he admits to having emotions
what a *** right?
but his emotions come on too strong
cologne on some ***** in a bar
and he doesn't know what to do with them
so he empties out every bottle
and fills them with his tears
then he thinks he might see something amid the pain
something to throw together
so he stacks the bottles in a jaunty pyramid
and calls it art
how ******* deep of him
he loves girls
fears rejections
so his trash cans are filled with old cummy wads of tissue paper
and wakes up hung over and nervous about everything
I hate him almost as much as I love him

Then there's Jake -
a grade A ****
no really, he is
Violent
angry for no reason other than it makes him feel good
he views women as three holes to put on his trophy case
he puts cigarettes out on his arm
and throws every thing anybody he ever loved ever gave him
back in their face
with a hefty helping of satirical, cynical, sarcasm
but say what you want about Jake
He get's **** done
and the **** he does only helps him out
Jake and David
they are best ******* buds
and God knows why
because most of the time
you can walk in on them
choking each other to death in the night
only to hug it out the next morning
Jake and David
star crossed lovers
holding desperately onto each other
as they make their way down the dark, frothing river of life

all the good luck in the world won't save you
from yourself
we were born as four young men
all at odds with something
we couldn't conjure a name for
a masochistic lightning bolt of self-destruction
streaking through us

the straight man
doing everything right
with a bottle of soda
which gets so shaken up
that it pops and spills over
on drunken occasions
body becoming synonymous with temple
a place of worship
with a strong love
for vicariously living the southern life

The anarchist
spelled ID ID ID ID
is getting ****** up
and thinking he ***** up
all too often
Mr. Insomniac
Mr. smoker's hack
ash stained fingers slowly yellowing
as the hot Richmond sun
turns our skin to leather
He is brave
he is impulsive
smart, but not smart enough
to figure out how to get out of his own way
some would say criminal
he would say unlucky
I would say
What's the difference?

The anomaly
much older than the few years he carries in his hand
to skip away as stones
across the pond
of awkward, confused, troubled adolescence
at home in front of a room full of people
doing stupid ****
in clever ways
making them laugh and laugh
at home locked away for countless summer days
in his bedroom talking to strangers
in some online video game
he reminds me much of myself
which is why I have always carried
the chips on his shoulders
close to my heart
because if we raise him right,
he'll be better than all of us

The OCD CEO
the creative type
with a metaphorical hippy flower in her hair
a teacher
a healer
a support beam
and a ******* basket case
gifted in the tongue with the art of embellishment
and when her kingdom comes under attack
she uses love as a shield
and guilt as a sword
she can read all the words
but only if they are jumbled
in the precisely right order
just because
"That's how it should be"

The King of Abdication
made of steel and iron
as still as a stone until
the scent of blood reaches his nostrils
so strange to see the visage in the shattered mirror
of cold, calculated, killer on the battle field of capitalism
nerdy, awkward, silent on the battle field of human relations
A rolling stone
who always rolled on back home
who taught me
that sometimes you have no other option
but to buckle down, take the hits
be a man and finish the job
as well as you can
frugality and hard work and yaddah yaddah
surprised me when he told me
"Sometimes you just need to jump,
Jumping was the best choice I ever made"

The Rebel,
highly frustrating
intelligent
confident in his lack of self-esteem
unaware of what happened in those hazy years
to lead him to reach out
to total strangers
like he was begging for a new toy
"Look what I made! Isn't it good?
Please tell me it's good.
Please tell me I'm okay."
who never liked being told
"I'm older than you, so do what I say"
so he made it his own personal mission
to do the opposite whenever he could
regardless of what it meant for him
and in his mind
he paints himself as missed genius
too intelligent to ever be happy
with the world he lives in
and in everybody else's mind
he is a whiny little kid
in need of a kick in the pants and a job
a grade A reality check
before his burning protest
leaves him stranded with no bridges
a hermit of his own making
constantly looking for that human attention

The cast is in place
the audience are taking their seats
but this isn't a play
not a comedy, tragedy
not a hope
nobody knows how it is all going to end
but like fair weather NASCAR fans
they are just there for the crashes

You stand before me
the opposite of a reflection
you are heads
and I am tails
as beautiful
as I am ugly
as sacredly spoken
as I am blasphemous
the angel
to all of my demons
as electric
as I am static
the spark of passion
locked within my apathy
The only thing I've loved more
than I neglect myself

yesterdays like today
expecting what is to come
with the rising of the sun
like a Chinese whisper
passed through time and ancestry
the overall message
is muddied along the way

Maybe there will come a point
a turning point, swiveling on
the axis of my rotations
and I'll hear the whisper
barely audible small and infantile
and I will finally understand
until then the days are transcribed
into tally marks
etched out on the walls of life

I'm losing my mind,
I can't talk to anybody
who isn't a complete stranger
A college dropout
yet nobody knows
big dreams of making it as a writer
inspire and deflate all at once
a lifetime of poverty and rejection and flattened hope
to look forward to,
but I couldn't do it any other way
college was great and all,
only it wasn't
I never felt enriched
just as if I was memorizing facts
and my heart is all messed up
not knowing up from down
and my brain is clear,
cold,
lacking in sympathy
but not in wit
and every waking moment
seems pointless
just doing what I'm supposed to
nobody knows of the double life
I go to "class"
which really means starbucks
so I can write for a few hours
like the king of cliche
and I want to tell people
especially my mother
"school just isn't for me anymore,
the student loan check never came through
because I'm not a student"
but my tongue is tied
locked up
the key thrown away\but I just can't,
I can not,
and I don't know how much longer
I can go on living a lie

The sound of clattering plates
as a voice in the kitchen yells
we gotta sailor walking in hot
and the waitresses walk around the place
always just beyond the breaking point
wearing voices which say
we hope you have a great night
the plates they clatter
as the men at the bar grow drunker
as the redskins lose yet another game
No sir,
we regret to inform you
that you can not take your beer home with you
in a kiddie sized to go cup
the plates clatter
as the bus boys and dish crew
bounce to Mexican hopping beats
bustling and jostling their way through the six tops
a cart full of leftovers and the crayon drawings of little kids
seven o’clock sees the dinner rush
come and go
and still that sound
the endless clattering of plates
as quitting time rolls around
and a hundred people throw a hundred exhausted punches
at the same juggernaut of a clock
as they always have and always will
outside fresh air smells chemical
and in the car
alone on the ride home save for the passing
of headlights: strangers navigating the same dark
you still think you can hear it
the clattering of plates

On a back of seeing stars
as the carousel turns cycles across the night sky
the world wobbles on its axis
and each blinking airplane
which I mistook for shooting stars
are arriving at destination
let go completely
The dogs are barking at the cow
as it jumps over the moon
the needle and the spoon make a stark getaway
in a drop top box of American industry
waves crash against the wet sand
and I burrow into the beach
crab walking to the hidden
watch as they dance within their machinations
slack jawed and love eyed
now watch as the rain drops start to fall
one by one
only to freeze -
forgotten in the winter
Requiem for a teenage dream

The flavor of my youth
was skateboards and punk rock
heavy metal and mischief
walking through Cary town
with pockets full of change
and crushed singles
sodas in hand
and skateboards under the other arm
in the gated community we lived in
we would find the houses
where we knew the owners were away on vacation
and we took to the stairs on four wheels
to glide through the air like arrows shot from some towering bow
made of concrete and asphalt
and we went to shows in the city
dressed in the armor of wristbands, ripped jeans, and faded band shirts
drunk on our parents’ beer and skunk ****
drunk on the promise of a night open to any footfall we chose
and we jumped up and down in mosh pits
just trying to feel anything real
anything which tasted like living
we stalked from house to house cloaked in the witching hour
and pillaged our knick knacks from the garages of neighbors we never knew
padded fingertips pressing against doorbells
1...2...3…
now run
we didn’t have time for school
or the teachers trying to bring us down
but we always had time to trek through the woods with a bowl
smoking **** until we got to the mall
where we ******* around until mall security chased us out
we did not always make the greatest decisions
but I am **** glad I made them

In my dreams
we stand together
bare footed
on the grass
of our rural Georgia home
or maybe
we are out west
born again pioneers
trekking on through
the California sunshine

In my dreams you would be happy
all because of me
and in my dreams
you would feel safe
and would call me
your better half
your rock
your one and only
with nothing but compliments
coming from your lips

In my dreams you would support me
and I you
and we would revel
in each other's success
and we would wake together
in the sober morning light
to the pretty sounds of birds
perfectly content
moving only forward

whatever I may conjure in my sleep
rest assured you are there

at the dining hall
swipe me in please
hunger runs wild among the domestic wolves
all licking their chops
salivating over some new meal ticket
people swirling around and around
trying to assemble a life
from the rubble of those before them
I’m building sand castles
filled with sea shells
to cut the feet of oblivious children
not vindictive, but I see your point
who put this song on?
nothing but wailing fat ladies
and droning piano loops
make me a chart topping heart stopper
blotter paper and eye droppers
we used to fill our journal with raps
because at the time G-Unit was in
but we grew up to fill dream journals
with wild cowboy hay-makers
please let this be the one
the one to sweep me away
to paparazzi and front porches
and good loving
and I’m an instant-gratification limelight right now
kinda guy
with a crooked smile
and a poem on the tip of my tongue