There is a moment on the cusp
of a decision which may fork futures
in which anxiety extends its jolting
grasp so firmly that all realities
pale and flicker.

"TO BE GREAT."
"TO BE HAPPY."

My mantras.

And yet the ghost of such essence hovers
about me and grows stronger with my
resolve.

Anxiety is the paradox of sound thinking.

And yet, it is also a thing
given a name
so that it may be driven
away.

The wind gossips.
    A bush of roses, crimson,
    explodes into the air
    and carries to the feet of
    every woman in need
    a scent of hope.

They won't turn black,
and if they receive acceptable
amounts of water
and finite amounts of ******, unsensible behavior,
they will see many years of flourish.

Seeping
at the end.
I'm inbetween places
and drunk and just sad.

But I wouldn't be letting you in
if I wasn't the least bit
happy, too.

And I am.

Too many ages ago the earth stopped
moving for a day
and shards of time in the stones
began pointing North instead of South.

I am a rock, too—
pointing and never faltering
but maybe soon
when time stops again for a moment and shifts
everything
will twist like a compass suddenly spinning
south;
I will stop and move in a new direction
because everything static is hopeless.

I dare you to write
poetry that breaks the rules.
Haiku? Sonnet? **** it.

It's not everything; to sit and watch the world
shift between abstractions is like sleep.
Life's not love.
Life's not wisdom.
Life's not nature.
Life's not anything
but a blue-brown paper bag to carry your thoughts
because there is no where else to put them.

I wouldn't say ironic. We aren't really trying to discover
secrets. It's not about that.
You can sit in swamp musk and find it
after realizing the world is not so disgusting,
but that we are.

It's about coping with yourself
and all of your ****;
biting ankles;
sewing shoes together;
selling the ridiculously semi-sentimental trinkets
your parents gave you and making some cash;
buying hookers;
taking them to the park with your dog;
watching your dog find happiness
and knowing you'll always just be
almost there.

I was content when the house burned down
    and melted silicon pasted the walls with portraits
    of everything I left pending.

I know fear isn't what we're taught to embrace
    but when I can place it by my bed and sing it a song
    I feel happy.

Two years ago my future was an old rope with coarse twines
protruding from every angle.
Before the scars on my hands formed,
it burned a lucid orange and left no ash.