He was born on the wrong side of the tracks
a ruffian, lowlife, wastrel
probably addicted to drugs
taking from a society
which was never there for him
"don't end up like him son,
he's on the fast track to nowhere"
born on the wrong side
the bad side
the hopeless side
sitting at the bar
he ponders life
in a glass of whiskey
"where is the right side?"
he asks
to no one in particular
he doesn't understand
why he seems to be trapped
every city it's the same story
always caught on the wrong side

but that question got to me
what's better?
to be a ruffian
lowlife
wastrel
addicted to drugs
or the other
over privileged
a smile bought
at a great bargain
wrapped in plastic
ready to be shipped off
used and used and used
worn out
but there's always a replacement

submission or punishment
these are the lives we pick
and regardless of which side of the tracks
we are born on
we've all made our beds
we're just trying to accept
that we have to sleep in them

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

crushing on your better state of mind
and the curves beneath those clothes
thrown on so haphazardly
eyelashes tickling my common interests
eyes like the characters in the comics I used to read
have you ever known somebody to hide from sunshine?
You drew little doodles on my forearm
and the scratches and smudges of ballpoint ink
still rest in my flesh’s memory - hazy as all hell -
but still there
these lines don’t stack up much in comparison
to the notes which you emit
my not so secret secret love bird
If I hadn’t lost the key to the cage
I’d shoot you my arrow straight at the sun
to see you spread wings in dazzling flight
watching the children straining their arms to touch you
but you’ve always said I hang around with the wrong kids
and I can’t deny it - but you’ve gotta see that you make that cut
mine were always the stoners and the drop outs
too young to be quite so lost in the big bad city
we pretended to be wolves and went off on our lonesome
I found you there
dire in your attempts to shrug off a world of lesser cares
you said you’d adopted a puppy in wolf’s clothing
so my bark is worse than my bite, so what?
know that I’ll be the annoying neighborhood dog
waking you up every morning at six AM
the dog that you’ll miss when you get the hell out of this town

I grew up in a village
Americans always seem to laugh
at the very idea of a village
how quaint?
but I did
it was five or ten years behind the times
and in the pub,
the huntsman,
the local
there is an old Marlboro
cigarette vending machine
with lights and menthols
and 27's and reds
and milds and ultra milds
and all the others
I'm too drunk to remember
I miss those machines
bells rung of a simpler time
I miss those machines

Let'***** the road
my partner in crime
lets load up our guns
burn our I.D.'s
and hop on the first
freight train headed south
to Mexican tequila
and the baking sun and sand
living life in flashes of violence
like lightening pitch forks in the sky
streaking across the barren places
which are yet to be tamed by man
we'll gun down sheriffs and posses
and **** cheap mescal
and gulf water
and dust
keeping each other safe
in the low din of the early morning
as an orange fire flickers against
burning out to embers,
so vulnerable to the wind,
against all odds still burning
and we will wake before the sun
and find somewhere
where we no longer
feel the need to run

we cross paths without seeing the same thing.
Ghosts facing each other through the speeding windows of passing cars
blur the line between reality and perception
and you realize that nobody is right
What if the red I see isn't...
The way I see it
we're all insane
it's why I know how to make you see what you're supposed to
while I've personally never seen it
I'ts why we obsess
and scream alone in empty hallways
riding down the street on a bicycle
quacking like a duck
I'm glad I'm my kinda crazy
and you should be too

there are certain caveats of masculinity
which every guy hears at one point
my favorite is don't stick your **** in crazy,
yeah,
unless you want to have some fun

the beast from the land
the beast from the sea
a false prophet
an antichrist
do they walk among us?
I'm no longer scared by ghouls, ghosts, or goblins
no longer do I fear the axe ****** or serial killer or ******
it's the supposedly good, god fearing, men of family that I fear
I fear the man who would see us enslaved for his profit margin to become slightly more pleasing
I fear the man who stands idly by supporting the massacre of the poor and innocent
so he can walk atop their corpses to pluck the apple from the tree of good and evil
these monsters aren't under the bed
they're not in the closet
they sit in breezy air conditioned office penthouses in the places were trouble doesn't mean the same thing as it does to us
keep your lanterns close children
and not just for tonight
don't talk to strangers
but certainly don't talk to men and women in nice suits who say they have your best interests at heart
these pigs have no hearts
all they have is hunger

the black tarmac was still hot from the daylight
sitting there as people took turns
bombing down the driveway on metal scooters
drinking beer from multicolored solo cups
the passage of time loses meaning
there's a sense of ease to the night
a sense that we were on the right path
a sense that there was never a path to begin with
certain windows began to slowly close
and people were seen scrambling for them
not wanting to be left alone
on the inside
sleeping on a couch
alone,
with a case of beer as a pillow
and when the next morning rolls around
naked bodies pressed together
warming slowly in the morning sun
they resort to physical intimacy
to hide from any conversation
all of which is deemed
simply too awkward
and when it is all over
nothing is ever really changed
but they feel better
better for the release

A purple light bulb
a purple light bulb
It doesn't sound like much
but it changed that room
from a suburban neighborhood bedroom
into a dungeon
Black metal was pouring out of the speaker
an old vinyl set up
which sounded real raw
and a purple ******* light bulb
Jake's bedroom
a shrine to the deities of rock
we mix and matched
pain killers and anxiety pills
and achieved lift off
screaming our stories
from the dark side of the moon

You wake up early already feeling an itch behind your eyes and at the base of your spine.
behind your throat. Sweating but **** - it's November and you had the window open. Four cups of coffee and seven cigarettes to start the day. A tip: if you put your hands in your pockets then nobody can see them shaking.
"You look hungry. Eat something."
force down a McMuffin or two at noon and a ham sandwich before work. Drive the car.
that night work is noise.  The shift ends with a paycheck.
Go withdraw thirty bucks. Find some *****.
"A guy's gotta cut loose."
a guy's gotta be cut off.
***** this ***** that
twisted up so tight. wound around the bend. coffee and the dashboard lights. Radiation.
three AM fumbling with the keys - alone under a street light at the bus stop
wake up to the tv playing infomercials. Shower. Now repeat.

The children are all going back to school
glum looks on their glum faces
and the days are slowly
becoming more and more
gray
Summer sings her swan song
as the sun sets for what seems like the last time
Summer's end feels like a funeral
for the death of childhood nostalgia innocence
as the sky makes way for fall
and biting winds
blue skin
and *** hoodies and cigarette butts
and you'll see those friends again at thanksgiving
maybe
but they won't be the same person
and neither will you
so take one more night this Summer
to spend with those you love
before we are all thrown back to the lions

the smell of a cold breeze
reminded me of school
the fall leaves
colored by academia
fall on the grass
of Monroe Park
when football season has started
and jeans and flannels
dot the horizon
like buoys
and fast paced walks
against the racing clock
cigarette after cigarette
to make it to world cinema
201
or something
and doing homework in starbucks
and eating bad dining hall food
and getting drunk on the weekends
weekdays too
and high enough
to warrant eating
that bad dining hall food
but the memories aren't the same
something amiss
like memories of Christmas
before the folks split
or the dog died
or grandma
or whatever else
must have happened
it's school time again
but I'm not sure if I'm ready to learn

It was a funny night
the boys were out on the back porch
eating sandwiches
of nutella and magic mushrooms
the girls were all upstairs
snorting tiny white lines
crushed prescriptions
and it hit me
a wave of light
pouring over me
again and again
"look at all the directions
we could go tonight"
so we went on a walk
through a winter wonderland
a sky divided
northern lights green
mars red
streetlights carrying rainbow halos
and these streets are paved with stars
the bushes bloomed with clouds
"there is no God
but I believe in love"
******* that was deep
falling deeper and deeper
whatever the opposite of being
comfortably numb is
they took the cigarette out of my hand
entranced by steel blue spirals
making their way into the thick night
"It's burning me"
humans seemed a whole lot more
worthwhile
and that rug felt like magic
on my bare feet
everything being so perfect
it made me wonder
if life isn't the hallucinogen

Does a sociopath love?
does the child who pinches the girl sitting next to him in kindergarten?
The tongue tied middles schooler
hey.. uh.. um.. I was like... well.. just wondering... You wanna like maybe... dance or something
the text recipient writing four drafts of his response reading:
what are you doing this Friday night?
The jolt of lightning which rips through his body
a current sent from her through their clutched hands
or the girl who blushes when Prince tall, dark, handsome, and charming
looks her in the eye and smiles
we all stand on the edge of the cliff
waiting to be pushed
praying that they are there when we hit the ground
with a hug, a coffee, and a thick blanket
we all want somebody to love us in the ways we could never love ourselves
so we might be complete

Jesus is pounding on the bathroom door
“Hurry the **** up dude, I need to go.”
I tell Jesus to stop being a little *****
as I hold the door open for him - smirking
Jesus goes in there
and I can tell he really had to go
by the thunderous sound
of a waterfall battering the earth,
and the smell of holy water -
Jesus must be pretty well hung
He emerges and walks over to the coffee table
beginning to pack small pinches of ****
into the **** which we hide behind the sofa
and it ***** getting high with Jesus
just one self-righteous rant after another
and the old stigmata story
yaddahyaddahyaddah
but Jesus knows a Puerto Rican
by the name of C C
who gets some of the best stuff around
and me and Jesus - we smoke
and Jesus runs the tap in the sink
changing it all into wine
and we drink his blood
until our lips are stained and our voices loud
“It’s a real ****** having had to die for your sins, y’know?
because it seems that you all live for your sins.”
He says as he fishes a twenty out of his beard
and gives C C a call

The road I take to get to your house -
the long way because last time I rushed I woke up in my upside down car -
winds in tight turns
banks left sharply
only to snake back right
barely wide enough for two vehicles
up the hill and under the railroad bridge
right by that patch of grass
the precipice of a cliff
your legs hanging over the edge
me sitting Indian style a few feet back
wishing you wouldn't sit there like that
a year ago on that frigid December night
before I picked up a couple more drunken scars
"I'm cold. Come here."
and certain fall to my death or no,
I've never been good at saying no to you
so I moved closer
hearing the screams of men who lost their footing
and I let you bundle up against my gigantic hoodie
one strong gust of wind
one false move
and that would be it
but I didn't think about getting up
and that says the most

He had no name to call his own
no true home either
he had been following his footsteps into unknown
for an unknown amount of time
days, weeks, months, years?
the convalescent bond he shares with his heart and his gut and his spine
meander around and through his humanity
tributaries of some God sized river
when the night comes around
he hunkers down in a suitable place
and drifts off to restless sleep
his legs twitching with excitement like an old dog’s dreams
he is a biblical figure in a non-biblical world
he drinks too much and vomits up cringe inducing truths
let’s things slip
but all in the name of honesty
all in the name of passion
all in the name of the nameless father who cast him out from Eden
he roams with the cold, the hungry, the tired, the poor
he roams through crack deals on Y street
and date rapes on Laurel
he roams and roams and roams until sneakers become slippers become bare feet
riddled with blisters turned callous
he roams with the forever sleepy drunks who murmur nothings at nobody
he has a harmonica and he plays a song called love
sleeping under the divine sanctity of cathedral steps
smelling like the James River
Norfolk salt in his hair
and a tan that only comes with those who have a pinch of Southern Soil in their blood
he roams seeking out the answers that we didn’t have the time or courage
to pursue

I just wish life
was like a lazy river
I wish I could just
float through it
taking in the scenery
as I bobble forwards
catching some rays
laughing with friends
smiling at pretty girls
dressed in their bikinis
they say I lack ambition
I say they lack sanity
if their ambitions
aren't to have a good time
and to be happy
different points of view
I guess

In high school
my friends would ask me
"how do you not care about anything?"
and I would try to say something
a grand piece of witticism like
"100 years from now
nobody will know that I existed
let alone how I did on a ******* spanish quiz"
yeah look at me
Mr. Edgy
care free
careless rebel
but nobody knew
that my greatest anxiety
is that there will be nothing
left of me
after I die

The man on the phone
told him that rent was due
by five o'clock
rent which was not there
but five was seven hours away
and he had this feeling
that seven hours was a good distance
to put between him and Richmond
so he packed up his clothes
his old jeans and plaid button downs
and his typewriter
that old clunky *******
which made such sweet music
he stuffed it all into a backpack
and left his keys in the apartment
as the door closed for him
for the last time

He left Virginia behind
and headed west
he spent a night or two in Memphis
drinking cheap bourbon from a plastic bottle
and dancing with some pretty little thing
as Johnny Cash played over the radio
He took his car
and passed through
Fort Smith Arkansas
but he didn't stay too long
He made a few bucks
cleaning glasses in a ****** old bar
in Oklahoma City
sleeping in the small room
upstairs
He made it to Amarillo Texas
and thought that he might just stay
under the dead pan
Texas sun
but he was restlessly being chased
by his memories and fears
His car broke down
in Albuquerque
so he hopped on a train
heading to Phoenix
but Phoenix was tough
and alien
and he got footloose
real quick
He hitched out of there
with a ****** cardboard sign
which read simply
"West"
and he met some strangers
and made some new friends
before he found himself
in fallen angel country
Hollywood heart breaks
and smog covered starlight
with no more road left to travel
he'd been coast to coast
he settled down
like the pioneers who came before him
and burned his maps
just a *****,
road weary,
traveler
with a typewriter
and dusty worn jeans
a traveler who made his way home

locked in  cage
he holds the key to
she's waiting for him
on the other side
and he wants to free himself
but doesn't
doesn't know why
but he doesn't
maybe he's afraid
afraid that without the bars
she would become too real
they would become too real
and reality scares him
scares the ever loving hell out of him
ever since he picked up his first book
he realized,
fiction is just so much prettier
than real life

My brain is jumping rope with my responsibilities
my heart is putting pins on my seat
and my words are thumbing their nose
high as a kite with a *** addiction
laughing like it’s all I have to go on
I just put my sunglasses on
so the drive thru cashier
doesn’t see the glassy red mischief
taking a selfie with the planet
keeping in touch with my unhealthy habits
I’m not chasing
***** that
I’m riding the rabbit
excuse me sir,
but could I trouble you for the time
all I’m asking for is a few more hours
to play hide and seek with my inner child
and tickle the monsters under my bed
the voice in my head is off on tour
so the mice are playing cat
prowling the alleys of recess city
to find that fine feline
who tells me she’s a dog person
TV made my couch a dime piece
music made me see things differently
and writing gave me a false sense of invulnerability
so I write another poem
pen another cry for validation
told my mamma I’m shooting for the moon
but he’s one crafty *******
and my water pistol is full of bourbon
not sure if I’m crazy or sane
not sure if I’m playing the game
or riding a train to arrested development
but let’s get a cup of coffee
and debate waking up before noon

The closest I ever came to understanding poetry
was in that crowd, at that hip hop show
and I know you're thinking
"come on kid, rap isn't poetic"
but i could never forget it
the live band blending seamlessly
the predetermined rhythms a symphony
which carried me away to infinity
And when my savior
clutched that microphone in his hand
it began to dawn on me
save your understandings, be one in a crowd
the words flowed out from the mic like jazz
and I knew that i didn't have to worry about being seen as
an over privileged, over educated, over sheltered
white boy who would toy with the idea of fitting a scene
it's more than just a phase
I'll take every last E.P. to the grave
and I will always support
those who have something to say.

It was okay to be lost
nobody is born with a map
but through that rap
I found the pace I'd like to walk at
until I'm in a lovely place, free from my fat
where street preachers use their words
like hot air balloons
and carry me away into the clouds
it seemed certain that I had found my crowd

I like to believe
in partial reincarnation
that when people die
their essence is broken
into millions
of fragments
shards of spiritual glass
some with razor sharp edges
but these pieces
they need somewhere to go
so they find us
and we are made up of all
who came before us
always carrying pieces
so every new person
is more human
than the last
and maybe souls find like recipients
painters seeking out painters
and so forth
and I like to imagine
that a great writer
found my soul
but it seems far more likely
that it was the village idiots
who settled in my being

******* summer
the pollen drives me nuts
I've always had awful allergies
and today my eyes are streaming
But the sun will go down soon
and they seem to get better at night
besides, David is here
so Is my older sister
and her twenty-one year old boyfriend
I've never done it before
but David said it's a blast
and I'll get used to the taste
but not the hangovers

The moon reigned supreme
and we came out to play
clear liquid
ripped down my throat
like a shotgun blast
which tasted remotely of watermelon
and a lot like skinned knees and cuts
I've never done this before?
where have I been
and why won't my arms
do as I tell them
who cares?
for once not me
I think we are going to become
very fast friends

1800
Georgie boy
busch
bud
coors
PBR
they slide down the relaxed throat
of an unrelaxed youth
and these red squiggly lines mark my poems
as if to say
hey,
Harry buddy,
you realize that you make no ******* sense,
right?
and who decides what is and what isn't
nonsensical
All I know is that these crazy ******* yankees
are making me lose my grip on the English stiff upper lip reality
My tenth grade history teacher/JV soccer coach
liked to make songs up about me
There's only one Harry Baxter
true.
only not
there are many of us
the good Harry
The bad Harry
Ugly Harry
and swagger Harry
Violent Harry
and introspective Harry
Romantic and evil
caring and selfish
I get drunk to forget everything
life
money
cares
desires
needs
duty
I write about ten ******* poems a day
not because I'm prolific
or inspired
not because I'm deep
or smart
or romantic
I write because it stems the tide of suicidal thoughts
which barrage my inactive mind
like cannon *****
and I've got great ***** of fire
rushing the pace of every word I spit
but I'm afraid of my own genetic cowardice
From grandfather to father to son
it runs through my veins like people and bulls
I'm drunk tonight
I'll be drunk tomorrow
and what the hell do you care?

the words sliced deliciously
drawing not blood
but ink
furious passionate ink
she was just words on a page
in a human shell
he was just
another who wanted to try
with expendable arms and legs
but still the ink came
the words sliced horizons
not vertically
so as not to ****
only to bleed
and before the cut
has a chance to heal
pens and greedy fingers
jammed into the wound
hoping to take
the last drop
of art

Breath in deep through the nose
out through the mouth
repeat to beat this cold sweat
has the room stopped spinning yet?
speed it up
maybe you had one too many cups
last night you got pretty tight
pretty wired
too tired to worry about being tired the next morning
smoking **** as soon as you got home's the reason you're moaning
feel the room go all vertigo
and clutch the **** stained toilet to your chest
flip that face to give the other cheek some cold tile love
but don't fall asleep in here
your alarm clock is in the other room
do you need to puke, ****, or ****?
you know you want to puke it out
cleansing expulsion of ****** fluids
decide to say ***** it
weave your way along the wall to your bed
fall don't flat breath rasping and rattling
like the firing up of a Gatling gun
close the eyes
and let the spins take you on a downward spiral
wake up and take six advil
the night always tries to steal the sun

Have You Found God?

priestess you have found me shameful in my wanting
my sin, your stubbed toe
you curse me
in ways I have never heard -
but I found God -
I found God in the silence of quiet night time street
and the bathroom floor
God came into the restaurant once
he didn’t tip
but he did turn all the water into wine
God sleeps by the bus shelter
and asks for cigarettes
God is an old insane man in the halfway house
he sells me his piano CD’s for five bucks a pop
I read his libretto once, it was alright
God is a family man - a father
but every Friday night around 630 PM
you can find him at the bar, because a guy has to cut loose sometimes
God asked me for directions to the Garden of Eden
and sleeps with a night light
Oh priestess, I know you lament your long lost husband
in long forgotten altars to the old world
just know he’s out there
always in the last place you look

The angels are calling me home
to churches at night where concrete features
bleed with the blood of artists
who were consumed by their pride
in their search for God:
Hide and seek champion of all time
which is completely relative
I’ve been on this planet since the days where
creatures fled the Jurassic blackness
a pen is just a pen is just a pen is just a gateway
into a mind afflicted with rational thoughts
and freud would say a pen is just a pen
but sometimes a pen is a *****
and that’s the world we live in
I walk the same twelve square blocks of this city
and the police chase me away from
******* on fire hydrants
drunk on the steps of city hall
I bought myself a thick glass of self-esteem
and fed it to my ego
before I threw up all of things we never wanted heard
onto a piece of paper
a hotel bar napkin
which reads I love you
The angels are calling me home
but I falter
because I want my time to fly
so I fly on the wings of dead street birds
and childhood kites
and when it rains it pours
and I collect it in a cup and baptize myself in nature
a poet is a poet is a poet
but I say
a poet is a poet is sometimes a jack ***

There's a man I know
I'd name him, only,
I'm not sure it's my place,
he views the world in music
music as the voice of angels
the language of the heavens
he's an old snowball of a guy
his black skin cracked at the lips and fingers
and white foam coating the corners of his leathery lips
He reminds me of my late grandfather
a soldier who fell to Parkinson's
He had been playing flute,
cello,
violin,
piano,
and conducting since the age of five
I bought two CD's from him for seven bucks
and **** it was pretty **** good,
and I don't even listen to that type of music,
I found out he lives in a group home
mentally disabled in some way or another
he said he dreams of owning his own house
and his own car,
he dreams that one day,
everybody will have heard his music,
and I hope he reaches those dreams
if anybody ever deserved to
it's the music man

I just want to be honest
to not have to create
characters
settings
scenarios
walls which can never be scaled
I just want to be me
but it's hard sometime
not on good terms
with father time
and it feels like
I'm never moving fast enough
and not moving forward enough
I learned about naturalism
in tenth grade honors English
but it wasn't until
I saw my friends
the people I love
and faces i will never
get to remember
fall into the trap
and I always swore
never you Harry
you're stronger than that
but it seems that
my only strength
sn self-deception
and acceptance
My lungs swell
and I let out a ****** scream
but no sound comes out
deep in a thick ocean trench
and I never learned how to swim
But i think I'm getting stronger
I can't beat time in a foot race
But I'm going to make it work
for this victory
my journey means
becoming the person
I always knew I could be
at 12 years old
untouched and pure
I said hello to poetry
and she presented herself to me
a grand canyon
overflowing with truth
and therapeutic readings
whatever might happen to me
I tell myself every morning
You are going to make it

what is the definition of us?
you beat the crap out of me
and I come crawling back
they just don’t know you like I do
they just don’t see love like I do
nobody understands
and I’ve always lived to spite
so I keep on keeping on with our swan song
and yeah I could go without you
if I really wanted to
but I was raised to not quit
plus - every time I see you again
you look better than last time
I mean ******* is that lingerie or a ballgown?
and we never get out of bed
which I like
but I never get out of bed
which I hate
You tell me
never change
so I walk around town in sweatpants
and four day stubble
hair always greasy and wild
and the beautiful people I make eye contact with
look at me like a raving homeless lunatic
which wouldn’t **** me off so much -
if they weren’t so close to the truth
but you are a full time job
and I’m getting overtime
dot my eyes again
we both know I deserve it
we both know we deserve each other

Crack a hole in my skull
to let some light in
I’m walking around confused
checking out the numbers
on the side of houses
I’m walking around whistling the theme tune
of a movie I never saw
in light tinted green through newly sprung leaves
I bask in the holy midday sun
everything so fresh and new
it makes one forget about mistakes
and tomorrows
and consequence
pour me a strong, cold drink
I want to live life
on an endless back porch summer night
where the insects and the trees make their music
as we slowly let go
of the parts of ourselves
which hold no real weight
cut me to see if I bleed
I bet the blood would never come
too thick from the sweat induced
dehydration
I’m drinking iced coffee
on an infinite stretch of broad street
I’m climbing the trees of my childhood
to pick the fruits of my memories
they taste like nostalgia
and they taste like you
how I imagine you taste
if we were cast together
outside of time
these are the musings
of a mind riddled with growing up

the roads were slick with ice
at 2pm on a saturday it was 13 degrees
the wind wasn’t a breeze but a bite
the light reflecting from the snow
was blinding
I was going on a walk
because I don’t exercise nearly as much as I should
and today
I felt good
step after step after step
picking up pace
a smile spreading across my face
the strangers I passed
weren’t strangers at all
but long lost brothers and sisters
I never got the chance
to stop and sit with
but when eye contact connects us together
something in their face let me know
that they felt it as well
we are all navigating the ups and downs of this city
the ugly the witty the pretty the ******
just bricks -
on our own, we aren’t much
but at times when we come together
we form odes to the fact that the human spirit can weather any storm
when deflating lungs feel worn
and some bonds become torn
there will always be someone rooting for you
standing on the sideline
saying good luck
I know that I follow in your footsteps
and that means that we have to tread carefully
avoid the thin ice
and pitfalls
no more runner’s walls
cars stalled in the winter morning
but whether you tread towards nicer weather
or walk tight circles around the city blocks with a song stuck in your head
just know that the important thing
is you have to take that first step

They never cared for much,
born into a world
which changes faster than they
attachments lost in the dull facade of trends
attachments never made
hooked to quivering emptiness
they never cared for much
other than a second look
The big man flashed neon colors
from the corner of the room
sitting in a box
of demanding power
and their thoughts are contained
confined
by character limits
points of data
and ceaseless lifeless numbers
numbers which scrawl the wall
like days left of a sentence
they see their souls
on the empty bus stops
and bleak dark houses
rocking in the stale night wind
and their cups never fell empty
nor did their lungs go long
without suffering
trying to find some chemical reaction
which might dissolve the world around
like mad scientists
they didn't care for much
only a yawn
a yawn
and an illusion

Get loud for Christ's sake
shake the walls
vibrate
black out red
we killed twelve Pakistani innocents with unmanned drones
and this silence is getting under my skin
there's a disturbing lack of politicians hanging from flagpoles across the country
no I didn't hear the new Q94 top tracks
and say yoloswag one more time,
I dare you,
you can find your teeth in the back of your throat
burn polo and nike to the ground
turn the CEO's over to the sweatshop workers
this quiet will **** us
but until it does
I'm off hunting
so don't find yourself on the wrong side of my iron sights
thin the herd until we near extinction
righteous fire is cleansing
and we will rebuild from the mountain of corrupted ashes
impotent rage is a trait of the youth
and I'm young enough to pop
if these airwaves stay dead for much longer

he is a robotic man
clad in a suit or iron
which is the only thing
anchoring him to this place
foot steps leave dents in the ground
huge heaving strides
a step with a purpose
cold to the touch
filled with dangerous mechanisms
only vulnerable on the inside
but nobody can crack the plating
pulled by magnetic fields
He is lifeless
tight like a nerve
charging up passionate energy
which comes out in laser beam explosions
a sentinel
less human with every sunset
he puts mankind
in his cross hairs
and opens fire
an Iron man
who was once
simply,
just a man

The air is clear tonight
I am relaxed
overeager hooligans
are shooting fireworks
into the face of the muggy
night sky
The light summer breeze
smells like her
my head
is swimming with words
the right one always on the tip
of my tongue
the right one always out of reach
a family on the sidewalk
out front of their house
the women fat and weathered
the men unkempt and wiry
small children running around
laughing
and a disabled man sitting in the open door
of a car which blares bluegrass
and I am yet to walk the hills
where does this trail lead?
or better yet,
what does any of this mean?
blah blah blah
yaddah yaddah yaddah
tonight,
none of that matters

Being poor,
Has become a certainty for me,
I have rejected my dad's money
To go off on my own
And how do I survive it?
I can survive because
I'd **** and eat your family's
Precious little dog
Before I'd let myself starve

She was a small town girl
visions of suburban angels
she had big dreams
and itchy feet
she packed her bags
and her guitar
gave herself to the wind
like a summer tune
she had the California dream
so she left that small town
shrinking in the rear view mirror
and she drove west
until the gas ran out
and the pennies were spent
so with her bag
and her guitar
and her thumb
and her itchy feet
she hitched a ride to Santa Barbra
and she still resides there
making her music
just a small town girl
with itchy feet
and a guitar

Cast against the grain of all things
wandering the earth
from small town to hamlet to big city dreaming
gleaming every small ounce of life
fought desperately over
magpies chasing shiny glints in the darkness
Each piece of ground earned
a victory
go with the sun on your back in the morning
and in your face at the end of the day
Westward like pioneers of old
and if there’s no new ground to find
we will make some for ourselves
so that our dreaming heads
might have a leg to stand on
It’s just the way she goes
Lady Luck is up there laughing at me
as I crawl on my belly from place to place
lusting after her touch
my Goddess wearing gypsy shawls
and no shoes
egging me on
another step towards the last

Sunglasses hide me from the hurtful rays
and like a bandit mask conceal my identity
pull the bill of the cap down
until I look like a sleepwalking hobo
and though I'm a regular recognizable face
at that corporate coffee castle
nobody knows my name
Because If I keep them at a distance
then I don't feel as bad
when I do horrible things to them
in my writings
I keep myself anonymous
so that they can show me
their true selves
because nobody expects to be observed
by a sleepwalking hobo

Write a poem
To keep from
Throwing in the old towel
The towel of easy life
Not full of strife
Or exams, homework, and tests
You're not the best yet
Just on the way
Shrugging off layers of grey
And hopeless
Knock knock jokes
Drowning without a hope
In the fields of grain
Too numb to actually feel the pain
The pain of consistency
Complacency
Ad agencies
And bone shattering realizations
It's an odd sensation
Bouncing off the walls
Smoking water falls
Like we're sitting in the sin bin
This poem is ending
Henned in a caged pen
Traveling salesmen
Drop safety pins of fraternity logic
Don't get sick
We could be gone tomorrow
But hasn't that always been the case?

These gears grinding in my head
the most dangerous part of my body
controlling the switch
icy and collected
         to
eyes pinpoint, sweating and shaking
      on fire
mixing my metaphors
with heavy handed similes
and **** headed diction
cocky connotations
lock stock and barrel
shock collared, shattered
tectonic plates are shifting
     alignment
and it is time to be
      bold
to risk/gamble win/lose
*to try

The title didn't lie, this one is not a poem, but a promotion of the expansion of poetry. Do yourself a favor and look up "the poet is ******" by Cecil otter on YouTube. Warning - it is a hip hop song, but it is also one of my favorite poems.

"Sunny day we're having"
the man quipped
his head fixed firmly on the Formica bar
his words given time to die
and he is rewarded
with nods and broken English
we all knew -
it was sunny
swimming in the silence
not funeral silence,
but post love making silence
a comfortable,
relaxing silence
because it was still sunny
before the words were spoken

today lead me to music
to beauty
to love
i'm usually the ***** poet
the drinker and smoker
the under achiever
but tonight
I feel capable of
inhaling the benevolent energy
of 100 suns
of swallowing whole
a whole a spoonful of love
I love talking in cliches
because **** being real
i wear headphones
so I can ignore the world
swipe right on tinder
Let me be your latest fix
I'm the smiling faced jester
looking to win the ****** race
but you make me happy
happier than minimal clouds
the sun is shining
I am red
but I feel as if
I bathed in orange and deep yellows
**** my poetry
this is a status check
I hope you all are fine
the people with whom I connect

She is starlight
Fighting for the moon's attention
As she moves in sync
With the peace of this earth
Sparking fires In the fields of my imagination
She coaxes me forward
Towards some beautiful disaster
My eyes caught in her gaze
As I float among the wreckage of my ship

She is a healer
Who never healed her own wounds
So she gives and gives
An leaves just the smallest trail of blood
She lives in a house full
Of punched out funhouse mirrors
With a bottle in one hand
And her not so innocent good intentions
In the other
She makes me feel like some dumb little kid
Riding his bike way too fast down a hill
No helmet, just a grin

The way she is so full of that nervous energy
You get the feeling that she is always moving
Kinetic
With eyes closed and music playing
The way she seems like nobody is watching her
She fixed her broken acoustic
By taking my heart strings
And strumming them against pretty fantasies
Just because she missed the sound

On this earth many do wander
Whether she has a flower in her hair,
Gum in her mouth,
A cute 2nd hand outfit
With cute first hand scars to match
Out there -
Walking with the weight of their clipped wings
Resting heavily on their back -
Are the fallen angels
And I wish I knew how
I might teach them to fly again