My hands are calloused
from cold mornings with hot coffee
spent—not wasted—digging
for history.

My hands are scratched
from hoping and praying
as I reach blindly into holes
desperate for something
more than a sherd.

My hands are the victims
of archaeology—destroyed
to prove they existed.

My hands are calloused
from the silent nights
when I rock myself to sleep
clutching shoulder blades
that would make Occam
blush.

My hands are stained
from writing down words
that are too often forced.
Like your name.
I smudged it today
as I passed it by.

I’ve never felt more sinister.

My hands are calloused
from assuming.
That plate’s not too hot.
Yes, I can hold that.
Yes, I can manage.
NO. I don’t need help.
I need

Space.


My hands are sore
from pulling when everyone else
pushed.
My hands are bruised
from doors and windows that shut
too fast.

My hands are calloused
from the rails I grip
because I walk too hard.
My hands are calloused
because I’m not made for
waiting.

My hands are calloused
because they’ve already
faced
a succession of eternities
and they’re determined
to weather more.

This is the 21st century.
you can have everything you want
if you work hard enough

you can have Christmas lights
in february
an indie girlfriend,
folk music,
and ***** clutter
in an urban apartment.

you can have cookies
whenever you want

but still,
you’ll want to blow up parking garages
sometimes.

I’ve spent thousands of
smiling hours
cupping the soft pit
of intellect in my hands
preening with its glow,
casting the shadow of lecture
on my greedy eyes.

when my feet sank
beneath her earthly soil
weeks slipped quiet
(like notes shaken from leather spines)
with no discussion of Plato.

the hardened sphere was
drained of all prestige
footnote and reference.

sometimes, before sleep,
I sharpen my doubts
and carve it out.

it sleeps by me,
a guilty golden mistress.
I am afraid
she will hear the warmth
through my phone.

Struggling to swallow the strong spicy bourbon,
Staining his breath, like a meatball
Splattered onto a white t shirt.
He wondered, the most dear, delightful
Wonders. His minds roof slowly collapsing
Like the spine of a paraplegic.
He dreamed of the ways he could
Revolutionize the world. Desperate for
A sincere societal change; not only in
Norms, but in culture, politics, religion;
It all mattered, it all must change.
His heart struggled, stuck inside the
Pain-staking world he had grown to
Hate. "It mustn't stay the same",
He said. But, what did he know.
Things don't just change. Things don't
Just get better. People must die.
Innocent people. Normal people.
Non-killing people, they must die.
But he continued to think.
He continued to search, deep in his soul.
People questioned his sanity: "**** lunatic!"
They would say. They. A word he hated.
Perhaps that was it. They!
He realized what he must do in order
To save all of humanity.
He sat down and he wrote. And wrote.
And wrote. And wrote. And wrote.
And wrote. And it was good.
His plan was almost complete. One more step.
Society would forever be changed.
Everyone would love. Everyone would eat.
There would be no bombs. No hate.
The world was about to forever change;
He hoped for the very best.
So he went to his room. It was light.
He reached in the drawer and felt metal.
Pulling out the key to societies happiness.
He, himself became happy. He looked around,
Then...
Bam!