i leaned to smoke
from film noir
the gritty grey frames
i first saw in cloudy rooms
completely antithetical to the vibrant blockbusters
from my childhood

if i can afford it
i still buy a non-filtered soft-pack
and puff them
three puffs just before
anything is inhaled
mostly for effect
drama

but when i cant
i just think of bogart
tear the filter off
and proceed

but it was never
so much about the act
drawing in a cloud
of overly-processed plant matter
but about the etiquette

if you have ever burned down
something without cotton
you know it is certainly a messy ordeal
but what hepburn and tracy taught
what grant and cagney spoke
with their actions of course
is that there is a reason to this madness

i practice
and i try to teach
that this is an elegant process

while taking in a deep breath
of something
you arent encouraged to love
without any health benefits
simply out of a base habit
some of that **** is going to get in your mouth

it may taste bitter too,
depending on how your buds are aligned,
but grow up
you cant keep just spitting where
other people will soon walk

they never did that
my heroes
instead
they stuck out
the tip of their tongue
pursed their lips
as the face made by
a baby on a commuter rail
staring at you
and you echo back
with a tiny poke
of your front 10000 buds
mostly for spectacle

and when that teensy bit emerges
within or without the train
you have to gently pick
with the forefinger and the thumb
the infinitesimal bits
resting at the tip
pluck them away
rub those two finger together
and pretend
that youre only smoking

and
if you arent looking closely enough
ill tell you
things are turning back into grey
and you turn RIGHT back into
the misogynist you hated
but emulated

youre still smoking though
handing out smokes in fact

holding up "the walls of jericho"
laughing at those
who dont know how
to fold a sheet

oh. but i pledge to quit
and you to change
and us to bond
and my smokes to wain

this isnt about the filter-less
that i had at 3am
its about what i commit
and what you
can respond with
how this can work
and the etiquette necessary

let me
let me
pick the fleck from the tip
of the teasing tongue
just for you
and you tell me
when i have something
in the place that
used to be my mustache

over the phone you might think me
a kindhearted metro-****** with a deep voice
that lilts and appropriately pitches
to accommodate your ear
and manipulate your conception of me
so that you wont put a frowney face
nested in the message that im leaving
for someone else
above any "i" that might appear

but this vocal spirit only disguises
the less-than-cheeerful demeanor
with which i walk around
when i deftly cut of all communication
with the people that need me to be
something that makes them feel better
not only about my person
but humanity as a whole too

i have a
love hate relationship with phone voice
it often feels like im acting
i wrote and approved a script
where a melancholy person pretends
to be the most pleasant thing
that you have ever known

"yes, HULLLOOO! im looking to leave a message for
....[puke in mouth] heather"
and when that dreadful experience
wains and vanishes
i light another cigarette
slam down a shot glass
and growl
ghrryeeeeaaaaah

me again
***** with tobacco stained fingers
happy [through ingestion]
but still not that person
never phone voice happy

i cant read
so i just write
i quickly become tired
with your work
i would much rather pace
wear down the blades of grass
in the familiar place

i cant read
because while the graces of poets
philosophers
and scholars
make pretty the page
syllables dancing
atop meticulously pressed parchment
while this happens
through their beauty
i only think of you

toss the tome aside
and imagine all the ways
i can express
the things that capture and drag
the fingertips to their home
back to the place where i feel full
loved and laughed at
where i carouse and cherish

this was never about the "reads"
never about the ratio
of lit to likes
it was only ever about me writing
you love letters every day
ten max though

fact is, half of these *******
scrawlings these
are returned to sender
but crying alone
is far better than pretending
pretending you were never upset
and begging for something you need
begging doesnt only work if there is a listener

i cant read
i cant read our future
i cant give you house keys
a front or back yard
a cat box
a leash

i cant read
i write.
all 106 of them
garbage some think
but its garbage
i sealed with tears
and stamped with a kiss
spritzed with cologne
(if i wore it)

i cant read
star charts
memos
concert bills
calendars
no parking signs
or the expressions of cats

but i can write
pour out every guttural spasm
scribble every inspiration
leer and laugh toward
a glowing screen
mute and accepting
of the drivel banged out below it

i cant read
i can write things though
some things
good things
things

see what i mean??
i cant even write.
"things
good
things"
hay-seuss x-mas!

your hiatus

from me
cut off the lights
and read in the dark
whatever it is that you need to

its clear
that i distract you
you get nothing done
whenever im around you gabbing

im itching
clawing my skin
getting you from under
easier said than could be done

comfort yet
just knowing it
we still read minds
youre listening from hours away

still though
you need plugs
to protect your ears
because these thoughts arent quiet

im screaming
with the electricity
firing between each synapse
and it shows through where i pace

soon though
certain of that
counting down the days
when i trade combat boots for bare foot

call soon
or write even
anything beats all this
writhing and pulling out my greys

i have even considered breaking poetic structure to tell you
that im waiting just by the phone for your ring tone
i promise to stop biting the nails to the quick
just when you give me that jingle or note
swear ill stop writing anxious poems
stop calling you every single 3 AM
cease to leave our song on loop
chase out all my cars dust
shave my whiskers
eat every meal
drink nothing
bathe nightly
dr. artist
me

im not done
but ill stop

truly convienent
to be able to tell your boss
im just taking a break
right back to it when i finish this poem
****
you can hang dry wall
AND
write something to make someone
smile
cry
point a finger in your direction

yeah
about that
there isnt anything special
in my portfolio
just stuff i scribble on bar napkins
next to the doodles of you
maps too
in the small spaces that are left
i write those down
i mostly leave them for the barkeep
but not always

sometimes i bring them back to work
here into the room with
the tarps on the floor
cans full of paint
and joint compound
to reread them

and if i werent lieing
about smoking all these cigarettes
i would tell you
that im going to my car to write
just ONE more
before i send you those TPS reports

if only i could upload
all the doodles attached to them
people would know
that im PROBABLY better off
sticking to writing

if you think that i cant hear you
youre probably right
im dreaming again
and youve lost your voice
for the fifteen-millionth time
youre acting like youre screaming
and i have my hands cupped around my ears

and when yelling turns you off
you walk away
and im the *** with his hands on his ears

chase after you
with a pad and a pen
write something down instead
but i lost my pen
and my pad is covered
in doodles of zombies

the curb is no better friend
no worse either
as cold and as hard
as my attempts with you
and your response

and THATS why people learn sign language
for dreams mostly
i have never even tried while sleeping
and if i did im sure that it would be offensive

the more that i think of it
i think that a hug would have sufficed
pluck one of your hairs
and tie it to my sleeve button hole
for it to wag alongside me
as i get back curb-side

ill be the guy wearing the...
nothing
reading poetry by street lamp light

i know
i know
black tank top
see you soon

over the shoulder squeals
giggles atop great grandma's quilt
from under the tree
that we have all hit our heads on

way up in the field
screaming up in to the sky
NO POCKET KITE
WHAT ARE YOU DOING???!
diving a dipping
then crashing
youre no trick kite!
nothing but a dollar store impulse buy
ill *** you up and stuff you back
into the belt-clippable makeshift container
the one you shamefully came in
curse you and your inadequately short string
maybe she'll have you
return you to your designers glory
not i

oh but you
i see you
soaring
string waaaay to far out
dangling above the trees
and power lines to boot
aloft at least 100 meters up
today you soared
mathew perry shoot
thats what im going to call you
parachute in a bag
to heights i could never achieve
standing in the sand
waves crashing against phalanges
in those years
over a decade back now
and you
and your potential joy provided
collected dust
in that same place that i left you
all those years ago

but i had to call the dog back up
"TESS DOG, HEEL!"
and i had to wipe the quinoa of my hands
and roll up your string
she had to stop smiling at some point
your stewardess or should i say flight attendant
smiling, no loving.
or staying.
kissing.

oh lets stay here!
in the field
atop the blossoms of berries
yet ripened
smiling
"pulling and running!!!"
under the shade tree
on a blanket
holding hands

give me thirty days though
i have some things to work out

clumsy trip up the 17
steps to the paisley sheets
me behind you and
saying the same thing
with a new twist
"hey, know whats trending?"
"your sweet ***"
or
"you smell that?!"
to which you reply
"farts is trending"
no able to erupt
in the uproarious laughter
necessitated by turning
a tired line on its head
i cover my mustachioed mouth
with a sweaty palm
to cover the guffaw
that would most certainly
awake my roommates
you always in the lead
giving *** for tat
the style of humor
i searched for yearningly
and never found
that is
till you released wind
and then told me about it

Everyone wants me to leave
Some going
Some coming
but that doesnt tell me much
about the next kind
of house cat ill be

the one that spurts foam
or shovels in snow

the one that brings you the paper
or completely gnaws your bone

if you arent taming me
youre handing me treats
not dangling string
then ill emblazon a kitty spot on the ****

what can i do but
coo near your ear
nip at your thumb
bring lick to your toes
sniff the parts
and curl up

so the aliens,
right?
they got out telescopes and ****
and they were all like
whoa man
we could totally **** those guys up
RACE!!!!
ready?
set?
and then they were all
killing each other on the way over
but some made it though right???
and there were like
monkeys and stuff
that they put their seed in
so THATS WHY were all different colors
and eyes and hair and stuff
They are really
just seeing who wins

thats why i have my AR-15