like a preacher he talks of God
to a lost flock
around the clock
find him stuck between
a hard place and a rock
throwing upper cuts,
like rock em sock em robots
he was thrown off
his train of thought
by hobo figments of his imagination
imagination of a figment
that's a web of thoughts
more like the downward spiral
he's drowning in a tide pool of fear
of too much beer
and "let's get the **** out of here's"
and he'll be at it for years
like a text message from an ex
reading "want to get together?"
He's someone you'd rather forget
but for all his flaws
and lack of applause
he's up at night
underneath a flickering light
sitting at that desk
pen in hand
head in the clouds
trying to breakthrough

I knew a kid
who would skip school
and get drunk
every other day
he's in rehab now
and I haven't talked to him
in two years now

I knew a kid
who would go to the river
every weekend
to do *******
and whippits
he's in rehab now
I haven't talked to him
in a year now

I knew a girl
who was an alcoholic pill head
every weekend
she would parade around parties
trying to find a man
who could make her forget
she was nothing but trouble
I don't want to see her again

My best friend
spends too much time
with his nose pressed up
against upturned mirrors
and I worry about him
I wonder when I will speak to him
for the last time

My own brother
every morning
can be heard inhaling
keyboard duster
with the added bitterant
to disuade abuse
and I worry that I might become him

Everyday I stay inside
too many problems
wake up in the real world
so I either get
really **** high
or good and drunk
to keep everybody outside
I haven't talked to myself
in quite some time now

We all have our problems
all of our heads are ****** up
in one way or another
but we'll be alright
everything is going to be
alright

You don't really know addiction
until you have scrounged
down the back of all of your sofas
only to find one dollar
You don't really know addiction
until you have stolen from your younger brother
you don't really know addiction
until you have stolen from your own mother
you don't really know addiction
until there's nothing left to lose

We lost our ball of yarn at birth
the bread crumbs are all gone
we were tossed into the raging sea
black, thick, and malevolent
and all too self aware
the waves thrashed us again and again
blasts of lightning stab the horizon
the fury of the Gods
as riptides pull us in all directions
we beat our arms
and receive no guidance
some of us drown
our lungs filling with a cold void
some of us get caught in large nets
we are dragged on board squinting and mad
we are mistaken for fish
because we gasp for air
the rest of us wash up
on trash islands
and rocky crags
ruins of civilization
crumble around us
the earth bone dry
we wash up and form colonies
or are accepted
by the local cannibals
we are driven mad
by the knowledge
that one day we must return
to the welcoming clutches of the sea
we paint scenes depicting the glory
and struggles of the legendary human
with hopes that one will catch a draft of hot air
and will carry us off into the clouds
but until then
we wander a dead globe

there is a man
sitting in front of me
drinking some fruity coffee drink or another
with three cellphones
laid out before him
a different color case for each one
pink, yellow, blue
and ever minute or so
one starts to ring
an obnoxious ringtone
but aren't they all?
and he has to figure out which one is ringing
he then talks on the phone
for a few blunt sentences
in a language
which sounds middle-eastern
and I'm thinking
this guy must be
one hundred percent
out of his ******* mind
nuts
because I've always had trouble
keeping up with one cellphone
let alone three of the ******* things

Horatio Alger is whispering his stories in my sleeping ear
painting me as a lowly street urchin
who conquers adversities and moral wildernesses
with only my wit, determination, and guts
and he is painting me as a phoenix of the new world
rising from ashes of banality and
the naturalized familial trappings of my past
a dirt road in the socioeconomic desert
carved out with care by the hands of forefathers I will never know
but Mr. Alger died a long while ago
and the sun inevitably rises
shattering the stained glass story of my rags turned riches
now the big men upstairs
jot me down as numbers on a chart
of consumption trends of millennials
Go to college
they say
make something of yourself
they say
you are all too entitled
they say
What went wrong
they say without a hint of contradiction
I am not equipped to say if the story of humanity
is a cycle or a downwards spiral
I am not equipped to say
that it is the job of every generation
to ensure that they clear the debris
from the path of their progeny
but I say it anyway
everybody want’s a trophy
because we were raised to believe that
everybody deserves a trophy
In the same breath they expect us
to take the puritanical mantle of the breadwinner
the frayed saddle of the noble western outlaw
the lethally honed sword of the entrepreneur
the martyr making cross of the socially conscious family man
and then wonder why we so willingly
give ourselves over to the currents
of apathy and passivity and masochistic narcissism
giving us guns and bullets with no idea how to shoot them
so instead we turn them into sculptures of modern art
and scream to the empty heavens
for just a hint of recognition
I can’t decide if history will forget us
or memorize the lyrics of our collective heart beats
but I have decided
to wake up from my American Dream
have decided
to forge my own reality

The moon hung lazy in hazy city sky
the air silent and pure - untouched
and she was the anima to your animus
that pretty little thing you sat in an empty parking lot with
talking until three AM
she was touching her hair a lot
and you remember reading something about body language
which said that means she likes you
courage isn’t being born standing tall
courage is knowing when to follow your love off that cliff
courage is faith that somehow she will be there
waiting to catch you
a safety net made of shy smiles
and a nervous mouth filled with run-on sentences
and paint stained hands on your ribs
a soul isn’t some ephemeral entity trapped inside of you
a soul is the anger and lust and passion that directs you
all of these words are silly little fickle things
pigeons which take flight the moment you get close
all of these actions are breathless, frail things
old men and women determined to take the stairs
she told you that you she had fun
you said me too
and I want to see you again
she said me too
sitting there in that empty lot
the heater barely on in the car
beneath a canvas full of long dead stars
you took a leap off of that cliff
and for a moment
you forgot how to drown

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

the rain comes to wash away the sins of yesterday
so that new life might bloom
droplets of water clinging to bare limbs
become paintings of flowers by the morning
and you could use a little rain right about now
head as heavy as your sleepless eyes
stomach as tight as your constantly clenched fists
at night you get lost within the trappings of your mind
a dark maze of funhouse mirror illusions
and you pray for relief
prayers which do not come with answers
so you you search for something to hold on to
just for a little longer
but these solutions are lead weights disguised as floatation devices
and those water wings melt beneath the unforgiving sun
you so tired
you so willing to let go
so willing to be saved by whatever arms may find you
the couch is laughing at you
the TV is egging you on
and that girl who just walked by -
I think her name is nothingness -
looks so **** good
that you are way past the point of seduction
another day goes by only to become weeks
to become months to become years
to become a life of “if only”

do not be fooled by those
who only profess wisdom in times of darkness
these wolves dressed to be lambs
these monsters under your bed
they are not your friends
a match is useless without a strike
and a blazing fire is irrelevant in the absence of cold and darkness
take these times and wear them on your sleeve
let them be the reason you shine so bright
so that you might light up another’s darkness

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

He had been on the road for a while
trekking from city unknown to city unknown
in a cloud of dust kicked up
by a Greyhound bus
he used a different name in every city
he wasn't a criminal,
but he was on the run,
he simply enjoyed anonymity
enjoyed being everybody's imaginary friend
He took magic mushrooms in Richmond
and rode the image of his grand spiritual quest
like a drug induced steed,
rode it straight to San Jose
where he met some migrant workers
who drank cheap mescal
beneath the stars of the dead pan landscape
wasters of the great American wasteland
and in New Mexico city
he was given a tab of acid
which dissolved under his tongue
in an explosion of hypnotic torture
his life reflected as a visage
as hallucinogenic as the walls which rippled all around him,
Portland was ******* and oxy pills
his humanity stretched tight like a drum
ready to snap at any given stimuli
he made it to California
dreams of LA
he became addicted to the limelight,
pretty hipster chicks who were foolish enough
to sleep with him,
simply because he introduced himself as a writer,
simply because he could work the word,
and he settled in San Diego
where the whiskey poured freely
and the *** was enough to blow your ******* head off,
in a small one room apartment
where the rent was cheap,
he drank and smoked himself in a stupor
with the windows open -
enjoying the soft pacific breeze which washed him of his sins
he had been all over his forced continent
looking for a place to call home,
but he never found what he was looking for,
and with grit and determination
and a hunger for the freedom of the American dream
he packed up again,
and left for the road,
a thief in the all encompassing night

Hey Pops,
things got a little crazy back there
huh,
the funny thing is
whenever people would say to me
"You're just a spitting image
of your dad"
I was proud
Proud to think that
one day I could be like you
A family
and riches
and land
and the love of a great woman
then came the move
another country
only meant new troubles
Big city American troubles
far beyond the Drax farming village
I remember the night
you were drunk off of
gin and tonics
which was a feat for you
and you cast iron liver
you told me
to not go to college
unless I knew exactly
what I wanted to do
This surprised me,
you said you wanted to be
an archaeologist,
you climbed the grand canyon
and visited Australia
before your career
which you pursued for us
took its toll

You told my Mum
that for your 25th anniversary
you were taking her abroad
the location a secret
then a week before
you dropped the bomb
"I'm not happy
I want a divorce"
which I could have understood
if it wasn't for the cowardice
which ran through your veins
Old Man,
and I hate you
because I love you
because I can't forget
what you've done for me
the opportunities I've been given
and maybe it wouldn't hurt so much
If I hadn't heard my Mum
sobbing her eyes out on Christmas Eve
so here I am
a prospective college drop out
with nothing but words to cling to
and a determination
to prove everybody wrong
who made comparisons between us
and like I said,
I still love you
but that doesn't mean
that I won't dedicate my life
to undermining everything you wanted
but never had,
Dad,
I'm going to be your worst nightmare
evidence that
You can follow your dreams
and still be a good person
free of coward blood
evidence that
you made the biggest
******* mistake of your life
I will be everything you could have been,
but failed at
Old man,
I love you,
and I thank you
from the bottom of my heart
but at the same time
*******
for teaching me the most important lesson
To let your passions die
cut's deepest of all
Love from
your once and always
son

There's an old man
sitting across from me
drinking a small coffee
with his bags of groceries
he sings gently to himself
the songs of his youth
he doesn't get the world today
but he tries hard to
He talks to the strangers
as if they are old friends
or grand children
but nobody has time
not for a lonely old man
who just wants to talk
so he goes on singing
the songs that remind him
of a simpler time
of his youth
when the world was his
before it all became
so **** confusing

perched in a thick mess of pine trees
my head rotates three hundred and sixty degrees
scouring for the vermin I make my prey
I own the night time skies
silhouetted against a harvest moon
death is coming in my dreams
and with it comes new life
wisdom of the self
aware of the lies which cover the world in its blanket of grey snow
the owl lives in my skull

The coyote stalking the empty desert highways
looking for roadkill
looking for the weak and alone
I cackle into the dead sterile air
for every pack member lost to poachers
manic laughter for every left turn which results in dead ends
stealthy patient
hungry and haunting
the coyote treads the territory of my atriums and ventricles  

The hawk circles in the blinding midday sun
a deadly serrated dagger with wings
arrow let loose from the quiver of the Gods
impossible to tether and domesticate
finding ultimate freedom in the vast openness of the sky
lock on,
tuck the wings,
nose dive deep into the waters of the ****
a creator
a teacher
a messenger of truth
the hawk soars in the infinity of my soul

ID
EGO
SUPEREGO

take me away to a different place
I had never been there before
but it smelled like memories
the sky meeting with the ground
in a haze of heat and dreams
far off from the tilted axis
and the rotations of day and night
music plays but our headphones
aren’t plugged into anything
where we walked and walked
and our shoes never wore
our feet never sore
and the horizon never came to meet us
at the train station
where no train will ever come
we play in between the tracks
throwing stones down the river
to watch them skip
mile after mile after mile
out of sight
texts were notes we drew in the sand
that the wind would never blow over
the clouds blowing low over the model houses
every bench a billow of thick smoke
dancing in still air
on the fringe of night
I had never been to this strange alien place before
but once I arrived,
I never wanted to leave

the world is wrapped in plastic
and our feelings can be found
through a binary language
in the internet web of deceit
and the only thing we feel strongly about
is our own apathy
and maybe our phones
the culture's obsession with Zombies
makes sense if art mirrors life
we walk around looking through empty glass eyes
and make fake relationships
with people
who barely even exist
we grow up
and fill the shoes
which were left for us
at different points
on our journeys
generations of Russian nesting dolls
the few of us who want to live
are drowned in debt and ***** looks
and Jesus Christ
one day we'll be in charge
of the entire ******* planet
just think about that

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.

There's gotta be something to all this
he says
he pleads
he reaches out for something concrete to mix his ideals in with
there's gotta be something to it
he says
well explain what it is to me.
it's like
I see the world before me
every place that ever was
ever will be
I see all of this
and all of the people -
silly little things bouncing around the galactic pin ball table
and it's like I'm waiting for the bonus round
I'm not following you
that's the problem
nail on the ******* head doc
nobody follows me
or maybe I don't follow them
they say Hello how are you doing
and all I hear is
sroeijfapoirjfpaiorjvpioserhvipshfvjipsrjvarjv[oisjgv[js[voijn­raoijoi[sjvijsr[jsr[i,vjsoirjvso[itjsoiernaudrv;jzdnfv;ndfvi;ondf­oibnsoinb Why ******* bother?
and I don't know why I bother
ya know, doc?
because I see myself in a cracked mirror
a really introspective, deep thinking, wordsmith of the people by the people for the people
here to wake people up, to put some ******* oomph in their step
then it changes
out of my left eye I see
the waste of space siphoning oxygen and turning it into ****
so **** yourself to make the world a better place, right? only I know that it's not right. When I am awake in bed at five am craving anything to shut my brain up I think of her, or the other ones, or my Mother and how much wasted potential it would be. Potential I don't have. Potential everybody tells me is there. Go to school. Move to san fran, or LA, or the big apple, flee. But I can't leave them.
Slow down son, you're rambling.
sorry doc, it's just the world moves at a set speed, and inside my head is a washing machine full of shoes and bricks on way too high a setting.
so why do you write?
because If I didn't this would all come out in much unhealthier ways. I have to stop myself from spearing the woman with her baby with my Hyundai accent hatchback 2011. I clench my fist so tight, that my fingernails cut my palm - If only I didn't bite them raw and ******.
Where do you think this all comes from, this feeling of anxiety?
where? what the **** kind of a question is that, doc?
just do your best
my best will never be good enough. Because the world is empty and void and full of people who would sell you as Joseph just for a technicolored dream coat.
That reference is so outdated, who is it for?
certainly not the people who like my work. I write poetry for a world that doesn't give a **** about poetry.
you don't really write poetry though, do you? You just rant and then hit enter to give the appearance of lines and stanzas.
You're right. I dropped out of school for this **** and all I can churn out is infantile angsty *******. I hate the people who practice self harm. It seems laughable to me. If you need help ask. If you want to die, Die. Nobody is stopping you. Then again, I want to save every kid who thinks they are ****** up or not worth it or hopeless. Maybe I read the catcher in the Rye one too many times. But Salinger had it right. He just locked himself away from the world so he could write.
I think we're about to run out of time
Doc, my time ran out a long while ago. My whole life has been spent running away from the last falling grain of sand
so the same time next week?
sure, doc, why the **** not, I mean you don't even really exist.
You are just the dead air when I'm at my most lonesome. This office - just my empty car, my bed in late and early hours and this patient is just another kid thinking he is the exception only to realize we're all being flushed down the same ****** toilet.
So yeah, same time next week I guess

They spoke jazz
the words trickled from their tongues
like magic
they weren't rich
or famous
or connected
but they were **** good people
tongues like metronomes
they spoke in flashes of music
music music
not just sounds layered
atop other sounds
but soul and heart and fire and passions,
aching sadness
heartbroken longing
and the taste of danger
and ***
they were broke
scratching and hustling
for nickels and dimes
and forty ounces of freedom,
if they save up long enough
they can score a nickel bag
but they never do
and they still somehow get their hands on the stuff
malt liquor hangovers
wake them in the morning
and they smoke loosies
given to them by the over-privileged college kids
and their nice clothes
and undeserved smiles
they are the rat pack
hearts beating to the sounds of saxophones
and in my book
they're alright

I know that my life
became something else
something unwanted
unplanned
like a teenage pregnancy,
coming out of high school
they would have said
that boy has so much potential
very smart,
highly actualized,
mature

the only thing is,
about the same time I moved out
my parents decided
that my thirteen year old brother
wasn't worth pretending for anymore
they split
like a banana based dessert
and left me
and the three of my brothers
asking questions
our basis for true love
was fragmented
like a cartoon broken heart
and the pieces were too small to pick up,

so now here I am
no job
and no higher learning
to speak of
clinging to the words
which rush around inside of me
I've come to the realization,
there are no ****** up kids
only ****** up parents
and poor kids
who are left to
reestablish a basis
for love and life

He comes in around the same time
every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday
eating alone save for the newspapers
constantly clutched beneath his arm
his spectacles worn to ice
his windbreaker and khakis
every time ordering the same
salad, soup, and pasta dish
He doesn’t talk much
and I like that
his words are rare occurrences
of honest observation
a reflection of the aged, sad look
which he wears on his face
every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday
just before the dinner rush
I never see him arrive or leave
simply he appears
a ghost from an old photograph
walking among the swirling mess
of flesh, blood, and heartbeats
I bet he drives an Oldsmobile
or maybe a buick
stick shift with faded leather interior
I bet he had a wife once who loved him
and children who weren’t too grown up
to give him a call every now and then
just to check in
I think about this man
under the closing-time moon
as I pull myself into my car
and leave
away with my own life
my own story
and I aim not to forget him

There's an old road
where I spent much
of my childhood
back in England
that I miss
more than anything else

I tell all of my friends
"Yeah Virginia is ******* beautiful,
but you haven't seen real green grass
until you've been to that
small farming village"
yeah I'm from the sticks
it wasn't strange to come home
to stray sheep
which had escaped
from Farmer Neville

But where was I?
the road
that absolute beauty
on one side
proud oak trees
some of which are older than
the entire United States
covered in a sickly yellow moss
chlorophyll green shafts of summer
when we walked around
in shorts and t-shirts
the other side
is a field of grain
which was set ablaze
once a day
when the sun came down
to plant a kiss on the horizon
and we spent countless hours
playing on that tire swing

Now that road is closed off
overgrown
after we left
on our transatlantic journey
nobody was there to take care
no more children
whose laughter
echoed off of those
proud oak trees
and I do miss that road
I don't regret leaving it
life wasn't meant
to be spent
longing for old roads

The land loomed around him
full of everything
everything which he could want
everything he detested
like a mirror maze
he saw himself
bending wildly out of shape
cast in odd angles
the clouds rained upwards
and the people spoke
in a strange foreign tongue
harsh and lyrical
and blunt
the road he was on
was paved with
cast gold corpses
pretty corpses
would he become the next stretch?
it seemed unlikely
armed with only
a much needed sense of arrogance
he walked on
towards champion mountain
the best that ever was
the best that would ever come
entirely forgettable

I walk with empty shoulders
I left my angel and devil
in my bedside table
it's soothing though
no bad choices
no good choices
just choices
like duck duck goose
the world is a playground at recess
and nobody wants to see it
because it makes them feel small
but the bigger you are
the harder you fall
or so the saying goes

These chattering fingers
are the only things which keep me sane
they stave off the tide of madness
which is never too far away

These pretty faced girls
are the only things keeping me nice
they stave off the loneliness
even if only for a night

These chemical pit stops
are the only things which keep me going
they stave off reality
and all of the ugliness that comes with it

These ****** poems
are the only things which keep me connected
shattering the isolation
an ocean of blank faces to vent at

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

fade away from sunlight
the dogs are keeping the neighbors up
a shadow is cast from God's smiting hands
it looks like heaven
Watch me slowly drip down the storm drain
one nerve ending at a time
I saw a crib in an alleyway
by the big green dumpster
and the story behind it
is too terrible for me to ruminate on
cracked brickwork reveals the ****** history of these streets
Monroe Park Campus used to be all nightclubs
and crack spots
the coke was good - I hear
I'm snorting up lines of cigarette ash
high on hypocrisy
high on self-loathing masochism
and mirror checking narcissism
megalomaniac with a chip on his shoulder
watch all the pins line themselves up
only to wave at the gutterball
motive? intent?
these words don't concern me
I'm just trying to keep this fire alive tonight
so I can ward off all the moonlight predators  
these stars will be long dead
by the time I reach them

David was waiting. Always waiting.
David did not know for what.
He didn’t speak until three years of age -
regardless of the speech therapists.
School came and school went
David the underachiever
who always got good grades
his mind wandered
and he spent most of his time inside of day dreams
he moved around a lot
always friends with the outsiders
punk rock, heavy metal, hip-hop
skate boards and ink
comic books and stand up comedy
one summer he met drugs and alcohol
and fell in love for the first time
with altered perceptions and thoughts
all the while -
David was always waiting,
but now, he was searching
searching for something -
******* anything which would bring it all full circle
whether he was shy or reserved is up for debate
but he always sought solace behind the locked door
notebooks began stacking up under beds
and thoughts began finding their way out of the nest
until the day he graduated high school with honors
He came upon the realization
that the time for waiting is over
the waiting - but never the searching
and David is out there - somewhere
looking for answers that he might never find
but at least he took the leap

Isn't it very strange
That the majority of humans on this planet
Are right handed?
I mean seriously
Out of seven billion people
Over three and a half billion
Are right handed
And I wonder
What part of our genetic coding
Dictated that
The norm
Was for people to rely
On their right hand

the strong suffer in silence
silently willing the weight
to come loose from their shoulders
Atlas's back is breaking
somebody stepped on the wrong crack
but he stands there
shaking with effort
knowing it's coming
yet still he stands vigil
The strong suffer in silence
knuckles white from pressure
as blood makes its way out of clenched fists
white hot with rage
The strong suffer in silence
but they never forget
the ones who wronged them

We may have lost
whatever it was we had
but we still need each other
though it's hopeless
but it could have been so pretty
but that's all
just a hypothetical
and I've been drunk for a week now
looking for us in bottles
but no matter how long
and how dark
the nights can be
the sun also rises

the orange glow from the fire
partially lit the man's face
catching each crack and valley in a shadow
"Gather round if you'd hear a tale"
a voice of gravel and coals
and too much moonshine
"once there was a young boy
the type of young boy,
who never leaves home
without his skinned knees,
and oh, what a boy he was
brave and good
yes once there was a boy
who was well and truly lost..."

once there was a boy
who had a thirst for adventure
that only young boys have
and there was an old forest
in his small village
ancient and mystic
possessing untold wisdom
it was said to be alive,
mothers told their children
to give it a wide berth
but some kids
just can't be told
the boy walked past the forest every day
and felt some great force
humming from deep inside
calling to him
enticing him,

One day it was too much
he packed his supplies
of bread and water
with his shoulders back
his chest puffed out
he walked on into that forest,

In the low afternoon light
the forest was pleasant
and the air stood sober, serene
shafts of light came down like spears from heaven
breaking through the clouds
and the thick forest canopy
but it was all a mirage
an oasis in the desert
and as the sun dipped below the earth
the forest began to change
and the boy stood true
foolishly thinking
that the dark is nothing to be scared of
how little he knew

The branches took on twisted new shapes
and the little demons came out to play
the wind in the trees
a groan of death
a groan of ******
the forest creek turned to ice
and the pathways all twisted
and formed circular paths
and before long
the boy was lost
now this was before telephones
and the boy was deep in the forest
he knew it was trouble for sure

Now the boy wasn't much good with directions
and he wasn't much good
at telling the time
and the canopy was so thick
that the north star was lost
but he still felt that humming
drawing him deeper into the forest
and he had no choice but to follow
so he walked
and he walked
and he walked some more
for many days
and many nights
his shoes were battered
his clothes,
***** and torn
and he grew skinny
from foraging nuts
but he climbed up hills
and crawled through thorns
and went deeper
into the forest
the humming was growing louder
with each wayward step
until it split his skull like a shriek
and he brought his palms to his temples
and carried on with a grimace
because the forest had filled the boy
with **** and grit and steel
and just when he thought he could no longer take it
he came upon a small pool
more like a natural well
of the clearest water he had ever seen
the world went quiet
only the vibrations of humming birds were heard
as the boy hunkered down over the water
and what he saw in the reflection
was strange and troubling
for it was no longer a boy
who returned his scowl
but a man
a rough man with a scraggly beard
so the boy no more
stood up,
turned around,
and went to find his home

"Now I know what you're thinking
old man you drank one too many drinks
and that's true,
my mind isn't what it used to be
but I know that forest
like an old friend
and mark my words
in the eyes of the Lord
I knew that boy once
a long time ago
and as for the man
well now he's an old man
sitting at a camp fire
telling tales to strangers
missing the adventures of boyhood
oh once there was a boy,
but no more,
no
more"

Let me tell you about the time I got jumped,
my pumped up heart thumped me apart
it was around three AM
and we were drunk again
drinking flavored ***** in my apartment
somewhere in between boys and men
drinking to our heart's content
we head out and hit the cement
we were going to the Camel
where we thought time would unravel
It was a small venue on broad street
they did ska and jazz and other stuff
and it was never full, not by far
but we were in the mood for drunk ska
and we danced
or more so we thrashed
and kicked and punched and all kinds of other ****,
then the show was over
and we headed back
walking down broad street at 3 AM
can make you superstitious
can make you avoid every crack to avoid a broken back
we turned onto first street
and it was dark out
the sort of dark that is only viewed in a six year old's room
the sort of dark that breeds monsters in closets
or under beds, **** it, it's all in our heads,
but people are monsters that do exist
they kick and twist
vicious spirits of malice and ****
I heard the footsteps
clapclapclapclapclap
and just had time to think
"somebody is running awfully fas-"
blinding lights like fireworks
exploded in front of me
and I was on the pavement
about a  foot away from me
or where I was
what was the cause?
my face hurt, and why all this blood?
my friend Michael
he's a skinny art kid
was on the ground
getting what I can only call
the absolute **** kicked out of him
I mean he just couldn't win
they circled like vultures
these rejects of culture
"What you got? What you got?"
he got
a pair of tight skinny jeans
and a pocket full of artistic dreams
they couldn't squeeze past the seams
and they gave up
when somebody at the bus stop
yelled
"******* SOMEBODY CALL THE COPS!"
they were off
and I've never seen people run so fast
I mean seriously
these guys were hauling ***
these members of the criminal class
not bad
just desperate and lost
and sick of being **** on
so they ******* with us
they didn't even get any money
they just left behind a few bruises
and a cracked lens in Michael's glasses
We went up to my apartment
I knew I wouldn't be pressing charges
those men were indiscriminate targets
and actually finding them seemed far fetched
no instead I put some ***** on a paper towel
and put it on the **** on my arm
I then proceeded to run around the apartment
trying to articulate the burning pain of my arm
but instead it came out something like
"oh **** oh **** ohhh Jesus Christ this really ******* hurts!"
and then we drank more
and I passed out on my bed
fully clothed
my ****** arm exposed
and I fell asleep laughing
because ******* it
I was alive

She walked in
with a group of other girls
and some older women
I can only assume
played the parental role
They were either
seniors in high school,
checking out the campus for next year
or college kids,
ready to move back home for the summer
Their voices, and their dispositions pleaded the former
but there was one among them
and Hot ****, she was looking good
A dark blue and black plaid flannel cardigan
covered loose fitting yellow top
and from a little above her waist
fell a teal skirt
made from some gossamer material
which had a split down one side
so that when she walked
porcelain flashes of leg lit up the room,
and lemme tell you about this walk in's hair
the color were brown and red meet
braided in the back,
the thick snake of hair
cascading down her left shoulder,
it was killing me,
So I watched,
and drank coffee,
and had my breakfast
and watched some more
knowing she was just a walk in
and nothing more
I sat my *** down
and went ahead and wrote her a poem

There is something within the heart
of western society
a voice of sorts
a frothing, thrashing, screaming voice
which knows only one word,
west,
for some people it's god,
the west is the American holy land
a brand spanking new Canaan
it reeks of hard work
and tastes like the dust
kicked up from an eternity of tires and wheels and spokes
it smells like fresh prairies
and feels like a worn leather belt
and emaciated happy xylophone rib cages
and it looks like  how adventure feels
the west, the endless west,
spurs and sunshine and simple life
always calling
always howling away in the warm humid south eastern nights

I am in the wild
a world not of nature
but the nurturing of ambitious men
and blood thirsty predators
The Wild
where you can walk
desperate mile after desperate mile
without seeing another human face
only the twisted visage
of a wounded, snarling beast
In the distance I hear the
pounding of drums as
black smoke sails across the sky
declaring war on anything
which looks like it might belong
I am in the wild
and am not yet ready to return

The wind blows through the trees
knocking blood, gold, and rust
to the concrete pavement
forest floors beneath a blanket of pine needles
to the side of highways across the country
no matter what
the wind still blows through the leaves in the fall

There was a wolf once
majestic and noble
lone but for his disciples
and he owned his territory
from the edge of the forest
all the way to the outskirts
of humanity
But he wasn't content
the people in the village
shunned and shooed him
he could taste their fear
and didn't know why
"cant they see it?
I am no different from them
yet they call me a liar
I couldn't be one of them
just a primordial beast"
So the wolf went on being a wolf
knowing it wasn't right
but every time
the moon grew full
the villagers could hear
the howls of the wolf
as he cried boy
over and over again
into the empty darkness

They stole the night
out from beneath their feet
and replaced it
with endless painted black billboards
with cosmic advertisements
that read: tired of those pesky feelings?
then come on down to the real world
and the stars were switched with
fluorescent bulbs and Christmas lights
the clouds are just moving back drops
and the moon a search light
they stole the day
replaced vibrant blue with
coral blue #64
or baby blue
but mostly gray
they beat ambition with baseball bats
and left it for dead in a ditch
on the side of a high way
they took life
and made it banal
a product
Honey I've shrunk the conversation!
they took the world
and all of it's people
but don't let them
mean you

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

if you look too closely at something
for too much time
the lines and details begin
to bend and blur
into inconstant fragility
and if you avoid looking at something
it becomes so large,
so all encompassing
that it takes over your life
people need to learn to walk the edge
of observation,
reflection,
introspection,
to see things for what they really are
we are always too caught up
or too naive
we never just see things
as just things

"Do you like me?"
the words took courage
courage which would go unnoticed
"Not really, that's why we're so good"
words cushioned by a teasing smile
it was that same **** smile
which chased her dreams
all night long,
"You're bad"
"I'm certainly not good"
"You're nothing but a quick tongue,
aren't you?"
it made him laugh
"I'm hurt you didn't mention
my killer ***"
she had to admit,
it wasn't too shabby
"I think you love me."
"I love pizza,
but let's not get into that"
she looked cute
colored by the flush of frustration
"God, you're an ***"
"You wouldn't have it any other way"
"You wouldn't let me"
"No,
No I suppose I wouldn't"
they stood awash in a comfortable silence
she wished he would agree with her
he wished that he could
he knew that he did
"What do you want
to love me for anyway?
You are leaving again
after the summer"
"So what?"
"So that."
she was a ball of energy
and he wanted to take her in
and feed off of her,
wanted to keep her fire going
yet he feared,
his ice couldn't be melted
she tucked her chin
into her breast
and he cupped her face
by the jaws
leaned down
and gave her a kiss,
"Things are always better
in the summer"

Look at you
you poor little thing
you sit there in your tears
mascara pools solidifying around your shoes
how much I want to save that moment forever
that moment where you needed somebody so badly
who could maybe be me
and I go to tell you I love you
but bite my tongue
because in reality
I don't ever want you not in that moment
I don't ever want you happy or regulated or normal
in that moment I realize that this isn't what love is
this is greed
so I pass you by
leave you weeping on that curb
leave you to get better

Today I made it five hours
unless you count the six cups of coffee
and the cigarettes
I don’t
it’s convenient that way
I don’t know what it is
It is the one thing I can’t find the words for
probably because I am afraid of the implications
those words will surely bring
when I was a young *******
I knew way more than I do now
and I was never unhappy
but I grew up -
admittedly slower than my peers -
and bit by bit the wallpaper was stripped away
until all that was left were pipes and studs
a haunting skeleton creaking in the night
so I slipped more and more as I got older
because I wanted to go faster
wanted it all right away
and I was foolish
because all it got me was a handful of good words
and me sitting in this chair
lamenting the fact that I only made it five hours today
but tomorrow is tomorrow
and just maybe
I won’t be this me

This might hurt
these words that blurt
out like a volcano
with debris to throw
raining down
onto the town
taking no prisoners
like an unholy visitor
why am I angry?
because sometimes
it feels **** good
because sometimes
what under my hood
likes to heat up
when I feel beat up
not physical
not mental
just a broken principal
and the hounds are set loose
I don't control these words
they control me
which accounts for
sketchy rhyming patterns
which I don't believe matters
leaving form in blood tatters
these words attack us
and sometimes
I want them to hurt
to scathing and scalding
because it lets me know
that I still care

******* hoodies and stained jeans
rank socks and two day old underwear
get back from work
collapse into the couch
feeling the exhaustion creep up from toes to top
smelling like an ashtray
eyes red from carrying heavy bags
***** the cap on and catch it with the flame
smoke filling it up
raising a fish out of the ocean
three
two
one
mouth pushes down as lungs become acrid
hold it in until you float away
now exhale
the body high
paranoia
giggles
sink deeper into the couch
ride the waves back
until you can see land
then find the message in the bottle
it says
you're not done quite yet
empty clinking
no more thinking
head is reeling
no more feeling
face the ceiling
fall asleep on the sofa
wake up long enough to crawl to bed
at one in the morning
fall into the black brick wall of unconsciousness
alarm clock screams ****** ******
snooze just a little further
brush the dentals
ice cold water washes over a washed up face
climb in the car at seven fifteen
to go make enough money
to do it all again
we stay in this purgatory
waiting to see if we make the list
heaven on hell
without a soul to sell

Those were the days
before I knew about money
and before a relationship
seemed so **** appealing
those were the days
when we still had play time
twice a day in the school yard
and played guns with our fingers
bang bang you're dead
those were the days
when we were chased off of the farm
for climbing the bails of hay
angry farmers in tractors
those were the days
when my mother wanted me to come home
she would yell out of the front window
and I could hear
all the way from the church wall
those were the days
when summer holidays
meant the ice cream man
and making dens in the woods
those were the days
when my dad yelled at us
for writing obscenities
on the walls of my tree house
those were the days
when we would race up the tops of trees
not knowing how we would get down
those were the days
now just fond memories

The night was spiked with energy
like the charge of air
after a lightning strike
each and every one of them
had their own motives,
to drink,
to meet,
to experience,
to try,
to do,
to ****,
to love,
to live,
to let come what may,
it was a night of suspension
freedom not from consequences
but the fear of consequences
a chance to relish in what their pastors' frowned upon
a chance to make their parents' disappointed
and for some,
just a chance

One was a pseudo-intellectual
he was a college learned man,
a phony philosopher
who was good at passing off trivia
as honest to god thoughts
trying to impress
some impressionable young thing
hoping for validation

One was a romantic
hopelessly addicted
to the fairer ***
with misplaced ideas
that he was
some sort of poet
and not just a spout of
pretentious,
whiny venting
just looking to get hopelessly lost

Another was an on the way sociopath
enrolled in the fraternity of the machismo
with every other word being
***** or ***** or ****
he wanted action
experiences to shape and harden
to be a fine edge
blessed with a fatal sharpness
he was looking for something
to prove his vulnerability

They all came together
people of all types
intolerant in the passing of time
their lives like so many grains of sand
falling in sand timer opulence
fear and inhibitions
slowly fading
like mixing whiskey and pain killers
they could live the night
to the beat of their own passion,
drives,
desires,
the night bent around their will
like moss creeping up fiber glass suburban houses
what did they care?
it was just another throw away night
in a long list
of thrown away nights

Circling at speeds too fast to blur
the edges are edged out of peripherals
tick tock spoke the clock
as laughter erupts from the hungry bellies
of a million explosions waiting to happen
breathing out fumes of cough syrup
saying things like
I am so ****** up right now
wading through the *** of honey
to rescue the husks of dead flies
fists firmly grasping nothing but air
the message in the bottle is blank
close your eyes and open your ears
the fire is about to die
like us it too craves oxygen
which is ****** out of your lungs
with each couch depressing sigh
summer fades into snowy winter
in the blink of an eye
and the clock still sits on the wall in judgement
tick tock
tick tock

don't let people tell you
what you can and can't do
don't let people steer you
or tell you it's not possible,
don't let people buy you
define you
hide you
or anything else
because a lot of people forget
we're all born champions
and that's something
that nobody can take away
just hide and blur and cover
and don't ever forget
that you're a ******* animal
and the people,
and the things,
standing in your way
can pile so high
that you get scared sometimes,
but don't let it stop you,
don't even let yourself stop you
time to move those mountains kid