They prescribe it
for anxiety and
morning sadness.

It sets you in
a sort of halo,
but leaves the
pebble in your heart.

Its funny
how the stripes
on your shirt
indicate the inexact
shape of your
*******.

In a moment of
unplanned voyeurism
like walking into a bathroom
unlocked and occupied

the exposed often seems
a parody
of the clothed self.

A weathered statue stands alone behind
the house I visit in my darker hours
A disregarded sacred space, now sours
in human trash and nature's daily grind.
My eyes hang behind natural blinds
That close the portal to my powers
wasted, mostly on unworthy hours;
no mind so kind as the one unassigned.

This weathered Jesus, heart and tongue and staff
of stone, now hid beneath the springtime snow.
No rest for the weary, no spring for the rest,
I hope one day to be that holy calf,
martyred too soon by the debts that I owe,
Ill matched with life, yet still afraid of death.

Stunned or drunk,
you went silent after
I cupped your face and said
lets **** and

you spend your nights until we meet
at the bar while

I stay here, drinking hard like
cleaning a pistol.

There should be a genre of poetry called waste verse
tasteless and terse like the khaki pine needles that
litter the space underneath your porch.
a neglected place,
where the broken blue bottles and dew
marry in early morning ,
attended by a congregation of woodchips,
beers cans and
guinea pig ****
dancing easy with the morning breeze,
and carried like the currency of an early dreamer's reverie,
morning.

morning.

morning is gluing a teacup together knowing
that it will be broken tomorrow.
and day by day, the absence in form will grow
until that once teacup becomes nothing but empty space, with
its base designated in place of the back porch ash tray.
when i turned back one day, there was nothing left of its body
nothing left of it that i could see but paint dust, a couple of cuts
and some blood covered by a bandaid that doesn't stay on
because feet sweat a little too much.

morning is repetition for comfort
but breaking routine is
starting to feel more appealing
than keeping it,
because I know one morning I will wake alone,
with a rusted infrastructure and fractured backbone,
and have to look upon a screen with thousand texts that read,
"there are other fish in the sea"
well, *******, maybe he was my sea.
i mean,
he is my sea,
maybe.

there is a genre of waste verse called poetry,
and the simple syllogism of it all
leaves me reeling.
but after i finish my cigarette over the khaki pine needles
beneath your porch and go inside,
"good morning", i say.
"good morning", he said.
i cannot remember what was so important just a few moments ago.

morning.

The desk is a refreshing change of pace from the
uneasy comfort of the bed. I
eye the flimsy container of trail mix
lying in wait, my lightly salted prey.
rolling from beneath the body-like warmth of my
blanket cocoon,
I stumble towards nourishment.

I attack my snack,
and settle into the
beeswax halo of drunk hung Christmas lights,
mistakenly onto an uncapped felt pen,
tip bleeding into a beige throw
bought for a newly redecorated room.

Unnoticed, the stain spreads,
advancing on the threads of the throw.
I will, perhaps, see it tomorrow
and curse silently,
and wonder if it can be
hidden by rearrangement and ultimately
decide that a little folding will do the trick.

Outside, the snow freezes a fresh exoskeleton,
primed for crushing the footprints of strangers.