I'm just not sure I trust it. This silly mind of mine. It's not without it's purpose though, as it helps me tow the line. I'm still not sure I trust it, this silly mind of mine.

It's an ever evolving, problem solving, slowly dissolving, mass of electric jelly. And they tell me to trust my gut. Isn't that part in my belly?

Nope I will not trust that thing. Nor this illusion we share in kind. My perception is askew in this silly mind of mine.

I could tell you you're  pretty and buy you a dinner.
You could tell me I'm funny but wish I was thinner.

We could talk about feelings, closets, and fish.
We'll walk by the fountain and each make a wish.

Your wish came true and I lost twelve stones.
And so I wished, to make a cage of your bones.

I brought the cage home so I could set it aside.
Then I took out my heart and locked it inside.

And there by the moon it sits on my sill.
And there by the moon it resides there still.

You may not remember meeting me.
I’m just not that memorable.
Though I’ll never forget it.
I imagine it was like my first time seeing a candle.
Though I’d seen it before.
I thought it was just a dream.
I couldn’t have imagined you were real.
The moon was waxing gibbons.
Tempered spirits that never as so much crossed paths as to crash into one another.

One thing it seems a lot of people can agree on is just how much we hate people.
Why? Well I'm sure you already know the answer. But just incase you happen to be a cocker spaniel that's just become hyper intelligent.
It's because we're horrible.
We will inevitably do something terrible.
Singularly or collectively, it is an inevitability.
It'll be for selfish reasons no doubt.
If I were to list off reasons.
You might assume that I was victimized in a way evident in said list.
But I won't. I can't.
Because I'm that cocker spaniel.
P.S. Y'all ****.

You want the secret to life?
You know it’s all a lie but you go with it anyway because you’re tired and have nothing else to do.

I get drunk,
and I think about you.
I get high,
and I think about you.
I get sober,
and I'm still thinking about you.
Seems the only way I'll ever be able to stop thinking about you, is if I get dead.

It doesn't matter how I write.
For whom, or when, or why.
It only matters that I write.
Until the day I die.

I used to like letting you in.
The door was always open for you.
Usually, you'd just stand in the archway.
You'd go through my mind like you were looking for the thought that murdered your family.
I couldn't help but smile. It was nice having someone over.
That was then.
I didn't want to have to change the locks.
And I don't know if I knew them what I know now. Whether or not I ever would've let you in.

Ive penned out my illusions and I knifed them to a wall, now I’m going to have a **** to watch them bleed and fall And won’t it be a tragedy if no one cares read, these nets we cast before ourselves like pornstars spreading seed

There are these days. They stain our memories. But in a good way. In January, when winter is catching its second breath and the night is as clear as something that just happened. The moon scours the landscape like a spotlight looking for its love.
Or the fall. Mid October. Wading through drifts of dead leaves. An eerie reminder of mortality birthed in a sunset of colors and cast down by time.
It's these days that come to pass, I try to give them meaning. If by no other measure than my own, I worry their fate of being forgotten. So I do something out of my ordinary routine. A bookmark of sorts. Because perhaps I spent that day with you. I fear nothing more than having woken up one day and not remembering you.

In line with the whole
“life is naught but a computer simulation, the matrix is real, there is no spoon” theory.
How do I know that , while I am not special in any meaningful way, I’m not a flawed line of code and you are a patch formulated to correct my supposed flaw in order to support the overall functionability of the software needed to run this particular aspect of the matrix?
So based on this revelation, your sky blue nail polish, and the fact I’m 90% sure I banged your mom in the mop closet of an Arby’s while huffing ammonia fumes. I don’t think we should get married, today.

I don't know about you.
But I've had enough of me today.
I'm going to go stand in the rain and laugh myself to sleep.

I'll start this prose,
with a pleasant verse.
I'll keep it friendly
and try not to curse.

Puppies and satin
and curtains and ****.
**** it I ****** up
so much for my lit.

Well it's said and done,
I'll just continue.
I promise I'll try,
not to offend you.

A baby elephant
was born today.
It came in to life
it's own neat way.

See? It's happy.
I'm doing quite well.
A few more verses.
This'll be swell.

This baby pachyderm.
A chipper young lad.
Perfectly healthy.
No cause to be sad.

This happy baby,
he loved his hay.
Why he could eat
that hay all day.

Until one day.
The hay was bad.
He killed everyone.
Caused he was mad.

The baby elephant.
He tore off limbs.
He ripped heads
Like flowers from stems.

You never saw
such carnage and fear.
This laddie was cross
and he made it clear.

When the swat team came.
They surrounded the zoo.
They never expected
what they had due.

That little baby,
arose in the roof.
It wasn't a stunt,
it wasn't a goof.

Well before that calf
could say what he wanted.
His life became
sunndenly stunted.

They put a few bullets
in his pudgy body.
They

**** this **** is way too long.
It's like the very last verse.
In a very bad song.

I can’t move beyond the nothing.
I’m not upset about there being nothing.
Just wishing I could move past it.
For a while, I was envious of others because I figured they’d moved beyond the nothing.
Turns out, they never reached the nothing.
So now I stand guard.
A sentry pacing back and forth in front of these gates.
“Nay! Turn! ‘Tis not the place for you here! Go over there. It’s better.”
The idea of seeing someone else here terrifies me.

Am I supposed to feel regardless?
As to whether the sun finds me well or not.
Or if the moon should find me at all.
I ask you for nothing save this.
Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear.
In what little time I have
That comes in like a soft breeze and curls upon a dune
Tell me a secret
Who do you want to love and who you do love
What that thought was you had that time
Beseech me with a memory I can tell the gods about
Something
Anything
To make me feel a little less regardless

I’ll be honest with you.
I’m halfway through this movie.
And I’m done explaining it to you.
You can try to catch up if you think you can.
And that’d be swell.
Just don’t look to me for answers.
Like I said, I’m halfway through this movie.
And I still have no idea what it’s about.

I met a girl who wasn't there.
She wasn't there yesterday.
She wasn't there again today.

I met a girl who wasn't there.
I said I loved her yesterday.
Then I asked her to go away.

I don’t feel alone because I’m alone, I feel alone because you’re here
So while I’m an expert on beer and scotch let me just make myself clear
Because in the morning, I won’t know **** including your name my dear

Nobody knows what life is, they’ll say they do but they lie
They’ll tell you it’s love, finding love, and some **** about the man in the sky
Truth be told, nobody knows, especially you or I

It’s like I’m running a race, and millions of people are there
We’re all running towards the sun, and they seem so **** unaware
And I can’t even have one minute, to show someone that I care

Just tell me you’re lost too, just tell me you know it’s a sham
Relieve me of all this ****** doubt while we drink and not give a ****
Cause tomorrow I’ll forget all this and we’ll have to begin again

It wouldn’t occur to me
To ask of you
To ever think
Of I
Though I’ll never stop
Thinking of you
Until the day I die

Yesterday I thought of you
No less than the day before
But not as much as today
I don’t suspect tomorrow to be much better
If it rains
I’ll think about your smile
Should Apollo feel like doing his job
I’ll think about your laugh
Crimson mornings, bloodied by my dreams absent you
Puddles that hide their depth in your reflection
The shadows between the stars, the beautiful unknown
I’ll think about you
Somewhere out there laughing at a good joke
Singing your heart out to a song only you know
I really must increase my drug intake

A poem a week, or so to speak. A rhyme, a quip, a riddle. This isn't the only thing I **** at. You should see me play the fiddle.

Some folks here, will write about love. Found, lost, forgotten. Though much like the *** of a long dead chicken. Tis seem a lil bit rotten.

Nah, I'm here to speak today on behalf of the absurdist view. Now take a deep breath you rat faced *****. Your perspective is askew.

Absurdism lends itself to the idea that none of it makes sense. That everything you think you know is derived from experience.

Your senses along with your mind in tow, shape how you think and feel. Though adept as they are, there's still some gaps between what's fake and real.

Falsified memories, vibrating atoms, light behaving like matter. We collectively dance, to the sound of the wind while watching our ashes scatter.

It's absurd to insist you understand life, when you've only just arrived. Nobody can tell what it all means, when nobody has ever survived.

So doubt the nature of nurture vs genetics, and forget everything I've said. Waltz and sing with an absurdist tonight. Cause tomorrow, you could be dead.

we're as unaware of the before as we are the after.
so, it's not illogical to assume that this is it.
this commercial break of an existence in the ongoing celestial clusterfuck that is the universe/life.
so we witlessly scramble about
sentient but delusional.
hooked on euphoria, looking to extend the feeling for as long as possible
"others have done it, why can't i".
i'd argue
that they move about us.
every moment, every feeling
an illusion just passing through.
some, few, illusions stay.

I want to give up and put down this pen.
To turn back time and begin again

Another chance to compose this rhyme.
Perhaps I'll get it right next time

There's no doubt that I am simply broken.
For me in this life there is no token.

So lay me down and strike down a match.
Let the fire reign and close the hatch.

And perhaps the gods will grant a new life.
One with more love and a lot less strife.

There’s a cat staring at me, the internet’s out, and I guess it’s time to start drinking.
If I thought that it mattered or thought that you cared, I’d tell you what it is that I’m thinking.
But since you’re not here, and I’m all alone, I might as well forget your name.
We could stare at the moon, from under our lovers, hoping the song is the same.
Or I could light up the sky with a thousand house fires so that you could find your way.
You could sit on my porch with me as we listen while the fires turn night into day.
You’ll smile at me, I’ll laugh out loud, and then we could pull out your hair.
You’d wake up to ruins, rub your bald head, and smile because I’m still there.
Another drunken daydream, another moment where I bask in the sun.
Before that demon sobriety finds me, and reminds me I’m not the one.

I envy the preacher and shaman. I envy their faith and their flock.
Those deluded non sensical *******, just running down time on the clock.

I adore the rabbi and lama, the beards and the tans are the tops.
And whenever I want to party, the imam is pulling no stops.

They live in worlds of certainty, where convictions are set in stone.
While I’ve been somehow left to wander my world all alone.

While others were able to forgive a world that can’t be rationalized.
I got stuck, became enamored, and now I’m pasteurized.

So I’ll laugh until my eyes bleed from staring at the sun.
And if we meet again one day we’ll say “yeah well that was fun”.

I won’t remember writing this.
And it’s funny.
Because I can remember with excruciating accuity everything I know about the person that inspired ninety percent of everything I’ve written.
You can quote my own words back to me minutes after I’ve penned them.
I won’t recognize them.
I can sit down at a bar and write a poem on a napkin about the girl three seats down on a whim.
And not remember a word of it or her probably.
But ****** if it wouldn’t take a lobotomy, I’ll never forget Colibri.

Gonna snort some drano
I can explain though
Just want to turn my thoughts
To snow so
I can forget
Or rather split
My memories like atoms
Since I’ve had em
They’re soft cells
I can’t resell
Waking me up at three
Like a doorbell
Whiskey saturation
It’s like mental *******
The same **** stories
Not worth infatuation
So I figure a lil poison
To **** the noise and
Bring a lil peace
And put a cease
To these dreams
That just won’t stop

The mathematical probability of your existence is so excruitiatingly improbable. You'd have a better shot at winning the lottery everyday for a year.
So.
With you being proof that the impossible can happen.
Why not?

An amber moon painted against a silken sky in hues of blue
She sighs out of relief as her maiden steps out into the light
The southerly wind bides it’s time, knowing just where to find her

The same place I find her. The maiden. Between a thought and a dream.
The steam from a cup of tea floats up like a specter
And reminds me of her.
How it is she moves.
Between a thought and a dream.

The maiden looks upon the moon and smiles.
As if acknowledging an old friend.
She rests herself in the grace of its light and embraces it without gesture.
Just in spirit.
They have a mutual understanding of what it means to be alone.

A book lies before me on the small table in front of the tea shop.
Odysseus and Penelope.
I wonder if she’s read it.
Or would she let me read it to her.

She takes three flowers from her garden and nods to the moon.
Before retreating back into her home.
Across the street from where I sit.
Every Friday night.
At the No. 13 Tea Shop.

My days and nights fold over one another, going unnoticed.
I do not suffer any day save Friday. Wherein I’ll find her again.
Across the street from the No. 13 Tea Shop.
Right about the time my tea is placed before me by a man with seemingly no tongue.
Because he never speaks to me.

I’ve watched Odysseus slay the cyclops a hundred times.
From my chair, before the ghosts that spring from my tea.
And again she steps outside her home. Rinsing off the day in the light of the moon.

I’d longed to approach her. To tell her of the feelings that stir within.
Just at the sight of her.
To tell her a joke so that I may hear that laugh of hers.
I’d heard it once before.
While she watched the stars play amongst the grass in the park.
Where I first saw her.

Since then. A hundred cups of tea later. I sat here still.
As if I were watching a doe in the wood.
Hesitant to move to suddenly.
For fear that she’d somehow escape my dream.

Finally I’d decided that I’d haunt her no more.
That I’d cease my foolish endeavors in trying to muster the courage to speak to her.
I begrudgingly withdrew myself from my favorite chair.
Heeding the chance to see her one last time. To bless my soul with the knowledge that she still exist.
I’d resign her to being just a dream.

For how would I approach her in anyway.
To tell her that she is ether for my heart.
Alas, I should let this lion of a moment sleep.
To stir it couldn’t possibly bode well for I or my heart.
Someone as wondrous as her has only to be visiting. For I do not see how heaven could function without her.

I approached the shop keeper to settle my tab. He silently refused my payment for the tea.
I insisted that the tea be paid for.
His smile, seemingly etched onto his face only grew.
“Your tea has been paid for, as has every tea of yours for the next month.”
“You owe me nought, why would you do this?” I replied.
“I didn’t.”
He smiled once more at my confused expression.
Then he looked past me and motioned behind me.
There she stood. At the top of her steps.
“Seems someone has decided they don’t want you to go.” He said.

Just by coincidence.
On the day I’d finally decided that my courage had failed me.
She lifted my weary soul.
In front of the No. 13 tea shop.

Pack up your bowls and check on your pockets.
Take out my eyes and stick your fingers in the sockets.
I’ve been your dog and I’ve played your game.
The least you could do is to call out my name.

Well the tourist have gone and I’m still standing here.
I know you can see that I just want to be clear.
So you have your fun until the rivers run dry.
And I’ll still be here because I believed the lie.

So just tidy it up and we’ll tell the devil we know
The moon is too high to have seen this show
Don’t say it first, don’t you cast that stone.
That dog is done dead let’s just leave it alone.

And now I’ll retreat to the back of your mind.
You could only hope that I would treat you in kind.
But it’s really not safe and there is no light.
Where I put things to suffer and out of my sight.

So trademark that **** and put a stamp on your thigh.
I’ll be smoking my dreams staring at the sky.
We’ll grease our thoughts and set them free of our will
Then we’ll bury their corpses out back on Blue hill.

Because if there was anything I was ever meant to do on this ****** planet. It was to make sure you never knew the soul crushing loneliness and sadness I feel everyday. So whether you have any love for me or not. I’ll die by the sword that does anything but make you feel otherwise.

Amber mornings and sapphire nights
Your misty eyes, in my mind, forever changing
Your nails like black tourmaline
Gliding like skates across my memories
Lying awake at night
Blowing smoke in the moons face
Writhing under the weight
Like the snake to the eagle
Twisting and fighting for the surface
For just one more breath
To tell you
I love you

Get a skill, go to work, do something that you love.
I happen to love ******* with my favorite latex glove.
Well no not that do something that will make you feel empowered.
Like that time I did coke while getting golden showered?
Not so much I just think you could find a good vocation.
I did, last summer, in Detroit, I got arrested for solicitation.
You could find a job in which you’re proud of the sweat upon your back.
Well I put down in my resume that I’m a urophiliac.
A job is something of honor into which you could place your pride.
I’m working on an **** **** that I call slip n glide.
Don’t you want to be able to buy those things that you really want?
Nah, not really, I’m happy here, just a worn out silly

You’ll smile again
For passing glances
A frosty beer
Moonlight dances

You’ll laugh again
At a random thing
You’ll run again
You’ll cry and sing

You’ll see again
Blues skies dear
Dragonflies
With wings so clear

You’ll feel again
Something new
Butterflies
And something true

You’ll love again
In spite of time
That other poem
That silly rhyme

You’ll do these things again one day
On your own path, in your own way
And maybe once
Under the stars, overlooking the sea
You might **** and think of me

As if he'd waded across the Salton Sea with the weight of the sun on his back.
Skin stretched and smoked, thin hands strong like talons.
I'd seen that look before.
Tired, resolute, and dark.
He pulled a bone knife from his boot and splayed his left hand on the bar palm up.
He didn't even press his lips to the bottle. Unable to swallow as fast as the whiskey poured it spilled over.
One more look over his left shoulder he pressed the point of the bone knife into his palm.
Sliding the blade up toward his fingers he then pulled it back towards his wrist along a different line.
Folding back his flesh he reached into the cut and removed a key.
A fierce wind rushed in from the south as if chased by some ancient god bent on revenge.
Every door and shutter flung open, candles extinguished.
I looked pass the stranger out into the night.
A storm highlighted by stilts of lightening approached.
I relit the candles and checked on the horses, nervous but still tied to the posts.
The stranger folded his flesh back into his palm and held it over the candle.
Reseated before him he motioned for my hand.
I unfurled my palm on the table and he placed the key dead center.
I closed my fingers around the key and he squeezed my fist chanting a language long thought dead.
I unrolled my fingers to find the key had sunk into my flesh.
"The key must always be passed from hand to hand, all will die should it touch land. That storm will follow you for the rest of your days or for as so long as you bear the key. It must never catch you. Or all is lost. Though from now on. You are immortal."
The stranger stood before the door and breathed deep.
His horse made no sound as he disappeared into the darkness.
I looked down upon my left hand wherein the key, a relic of some ancient magic, now resided.
I looked up at the storm approaching.
Foreboding reminder of the chaos that would become my life from then on.
I finished off the whiskey.
Stared into the candles flame.
Freed the axe from the block and rested my key bearing hand where so many chickens had lost their heads for the sake of a stew.
I brought down the axe and missed.
Just the tips of my fingers on the first try.
Quickly before my mind was to catch on to my carnage.
I brought the axe down again.
This time I was successful.
My left hand.
Cursed and abandoned.
As if it'd betrayed me somehow and was now banished.
I do feel bad and yeah it hurts quite a bit.
Though I'll be ****** if I'm going to spend my life outrunning a storm for immortality.
I tossed my hand into the fire and lit a cigarette.
Once the hand is consumed, the key will sink into the ashes, and we can all burn together.