This city feels like spinning wheels
carving deeper into the earth
with each revolution.
I'm up to my knees,
now.
I inhale the dust
until my lungs are gravel
and my teeth and tongue
have no memories
except dirt
and the ache
of chewing your name.
I used to like
to hear the wind
and the rain
delivering my morse code messages,
spelling everything out.
I used to trust
the things the storms would say.
When did I develop a fear of gray?

You're the bags under my eyes
when I stay awake until 4 am trying
to see if you'll text back or if you've
fallen asleep without realizing.

You're the smile on my face
every morning when I wake up
with you as the first thought on my mind.

You're the wind in my hair when
our song comes on the radio and
I crank it loud and belt it out as
I drive down a lonely highway.

You're a restless night and I can't sleep.
You're the sheets upon my skin as I
nuzzle up and try and forget a hard day.

The faded sticker on my dresser reads I AM JESUS’ DISCIPLE
and my church hates me.
I pierced holes in my temple and set diamonds in them
I took pictures of God's image
and sent them to a man so that he could admire the beauty of creation
because I am a **** beauty
and God knows that.
Hell, he created me, right?

the drugs wore off
its late
ima go to sleep

I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.

Noxious cold blinds,
his blood pulses and
the brain goes numb.
Panic fills the smoke-thick
atmosphere.

A "Who's there?" falls
before a silent response.
A clack under a thumb.
The musket metal gleams
like water in the moonlight.

A fire's scent drifts into his nostrils
as a steady beat of drums --
"war drums"
wiggle through the trees
into his electrified mind.

Moving forward,
the forest canopy transforms--
illuminated tangerine.
Sparks snap like upward
travelling orange muse.

Feathers dance
above the flames.
[war cries]
He retreats back
into the leafy abyss.

Even her necklace hangs
Like her head
She's awake, but
Probably better off dead.

Hopelessness is swallowing me.
For all my life I've been it's prey.
Sometimes strong, sometimes weak,
I've always managed to hold on,
but my grip is loosening.

My dreams have been squelched
and my imagination is fading.
I'm tired of pushing boulders uphill
only to watch them roll back down.
My shiny glaze of compassion has dulled.

Flaccid are my heartstrings,
flying ramdomly like torn ribbons
on a misguided kite.
Where can I escape and become
someone else somewhere else?

I have tried it all
To get the monsters in my soul
Smoking them out
Drowning them in alcohol
Poisoning them with pills
Putting them to sleep with green happiness
Bleeding them out
And yet every night they whisper
I am here
I will always be here
As long as you are here

John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.