it's a bad bet,
a silly gamble,
a poor chance,
a sick game,
an unfortunate guess,
a misplaced trust,
yes, it's a bad bet,
betting on me.

i woke up on the underside of an avalanche
i always try to go to bed with an olive branch
but the morning brings a thorn in my side
every time
every time

In this town, of park and stone
The rain comes every day
Scrubbing clean the grime accrued
Of city's sin and labor's clay.

And perched in a window is The Girl
Who cannot forget
The blackest times of this dismal street
And the fractures forming, yet.

Because this present darkness
Will in surest memory fade
For the blessed many
Who at night let go the day

But She will sit in her lonely sill
Knowing there are none who will relate
As they, unburdened, meander on
As she drags behind a weight.

It's a heavy story, drenched and clothed,
In the mud, the rain and black
That speaks unfondly of us all
Of our unkind lack.

And though an inch of glass is all there is
To keep her from below
Always on that edge She sits
Come storm, come fire, or snow.

The truth is she would leap
But for that lonely inch of glass
And The Bottom longs for the day they meet
As it stares back up and laughs

But as if a laugh in lover's quarrel
It drives her to spite
To serve as the homily's vanguard
And bring a candle to the night

Because though that little inch is all she has
She knows that inch is hers
And it will not be given, freely
Nor will it pass unheard.

I never met a storm I didn't like
I wish I could say the same for people
Though sometimes I think
They have as little control
Of what they destroy
As storms

I think I could love anyone,
that shared a mountain coast with me.
Those rocks and rivers and beachfront caves?
I feel like a pirate.

And I believe not caring what others think,
Is a coward's way to self-esteem.
You can't make everyone happy
That doesn't mean you shouldn't try.

I can seem cold
But what you're hearing
Is precision
It makes sense when you love words
And hate being misunderstood.

I hate when people argue to be right
Instead of understand
It's self-indulgent
And dehumanizing
And so very me.

I'm such a nerd I'd need another poem
to convey how much
But I think it will suffice to say
If you like
Will McAvoy
The Dragonborn
Charles Spurgeon
Vault Dwellers
or the Crystal Gems
We'll probably get along.

And lastly
I only wrote this poem
Because I hate not having an answer
To "tell me about yourself."

Oh woe were I a painter, impressionist in craft
Painting pictures in emotion, instead of photograph
Because there is no color, no brush-stroke I could sweep
That could capture her, or the wonder that she keeps.

Why go to church and sing our lies? What good is the praise of a song obliged? Obliged to worship, to speak not cry, of the Son of God for whom death died?

And we go to church and sing these songs, but all we are, are sounding gongs. We pretend that we know right from wrong, wearing masks to hide our devil prongs.

And we think just our community gives us immunity, to be spiritual lepers but judge with impunity. We speak of witness but we shun opportunity, and we fail brothers and God in our mission for unity.

See, that's a church that has no Christ: just makeup on the face of vice, a place where we curse in silver tongues and then play nice, acting lions when we should be mice.

Because it’s the glory of God for which Christ died, a glorious God that we denied, yet from our throats were our own hands pried, just so in God we could confide. Just so in Christ we could abide.

At my high school reunion
Years from now
In the old gym
They'll ask, whatever happened to us anyway
I won't have an answer for them
It'll be a shoulder shrug
Upward palms
And a colon backslash face
They'll move on to my son
Or work
Or school
Or some distant memory which will undoubtadly begin with, "remember that time"
And most likely end with, "those were the days"
And while they move on with their conversations
I will still have a colon backslash face
And my mind will be in a completely different time machine than the prom queen and the class clown
I will
By the end of it all
Have devoted what I can only imagine to be significantly more time than alotted
Thinking about what did ever happen to us anyway
And when I go home to what I anticipate being a beautiful, intellegent, loving wife, girlfriend, fiancee thing
She will
For a moment
Or possibly two moments
Not measure up to you
And I hope she won't notice my colon backslash face
That she'll end up smiling until she falls asleep

The morning after my high school reunion
I will stand in front of my mirror
And for much longer than two moments
I will not measure up
To the man you could have made me
And I will notice
I will start by ******* in my gut
Running my hands through my hair to try and imagine myself with a different style
I will analyze my wardrobe
And half way through auditing my music collection I will fall to the floor
I will cry
And with you in the forefront of my mind
I will
In true movie scene fashion
Whisper to no one
Whatever happened to us anyway
And worse than not having an answer at the reunion
I won't have an answer for myself
In an empty living room
Because I really don't know whatever happened to us anyway
One day we were
The next day we weren't
It was so adult
I was so civil
Even our break-up will be the best I ever had

The day before my high school reunion
I will cut my hair
Trim my arm pits
And clip my beard
I will iron a suit
Pick a good tie
And I imagine
In front of a mirrror
I will
Be proud of the man I have become

In the years going forward
And leading up to that high school reunion
I will
As a matter of life's course
Have no other occasion
To ask myself
Whatever happened to us anyways
But never the less
One night
Years from now
That question
Will leave me paralyzed
Scared
Heartbroken
Lonely
And even if
I am not alone
My pillow will remember
For one night
Or maybe even two nights
How to smell like you
And my arms
If only for a half a moment
Or possibly one whole moment
Will
With no luck
Reach for you