Floating
The ceiling is my bed
A dusty breath of reality hits the floor
Six a.m. alarm and a ***** nurse vanishes
A dog in the street
Cold rain
Awful ******* people in their awful ******* cars
The smell of fast food and lying cheating shadows
The world is grey and cold then warm and comforting
Just confusion
The TV lulls and the noises fade into everything else that isn’t remembered
Just some more distraction some more drug
Just legal
Some more love
Just fake
Hamburgers and beer
Water and spaghetti
Passing clouds and birds
I envy birds their freedom they are limitless
But they are stupid
Car crashes **** ****** abortion ******
Apple juice and cigarettes
Terrorists
Preachers
Cows, ducks
No one and nothing
Going no where when they die 
There will be a lot of disappointed people
Just standing there saying what the **** man
A nice ***, wet ***** and a pair of ****
Some jealousy and a ***** of a wife
A kid that you love but he leaves too eventually
That apartment in the city you used to have
That one you wanted to leave but long for now
A blow-job and a shot of whisky
An eighty-dollar tab and an upside down car
The radio plays nothing you recognize
The kids all dress different and talk like ******* lunatics
Foaming at the mouth and cussing life
God is gone he said he wasn’t coming back anytime soon
Not for you at least
Maybe when you have kids and don’t wish you were that bird
Maybe just long enough for you to say
What the **** man

perception shift
a swift lift into another dimension.
tangled vines, chord, cord, record each step
to a picnic in the mountains.
the back of this van feels much larger
than my bladder, and my grip on what to say
removed everything I wanted to complain,
this liquid is a drain.

my record at paying attention
is unusually retreating this evening.
lack of thoughts spilled out all over your kitchen floor.
hidden shame in the cheeks of a burning face,
pounding heart faster than pounding drums
so I stick to a hum and try not to walk on the carpet.

trying to be careful
while trying not to care at all

listen

I don't expect a reaction,
sympathy,
empathy;
a solution.

I don't need your love,
care,
devotion;
or shoulder, even.

I just need your ear.

Perhaps only for a few minutes.

While we're sitting at the bar,
waiting for the bus,
riding in a cab,
or even standing in a long line.

listen.

You may not change my life,
heart,
soul,
or even my mood.

But you will have changed the course of one day.

ONE day          of          MY life.

If only you could understand the significance of just one day.

Cities have been leveled. Towers have fallen. Ships have been sunk.

And though I may not be a Hiroshima, a 9/11, a Pearl Harbor.... I matter.

You don't have to tell stories about me to your grandchildren,
follow me,
attend my funeral;
or remember me, for that matter.

You just need to take a couple of minutes out of your day...
while you're sitting at the bar,
waiting for a bus,
riding in a cab,
or simply standing in a r e a l l y   l  o  n  g   line...

whether you be a stranger,
friend,
lover;
or mother.

listen.

The red roses melt,
as does her smile.
But that’s not surprising
when she pulls out her deck of tarot cards to play poker.


She never respected living.
The TV screen illuminates her face
in the darkness of the small room.
The clouds outside feel like they came from her eyes.


Everyone in the world gathers
outside her home
to watch, trying to understand
Only to be met with a wall of indignation.


There is a coldness in her body
but a warmth in her glass eyes.
Her home is just a shell now,
filled with things that wore out their usefulness.


Only the white door to her bedroom
isn’t covered in red splatters.
It’s locked. Everyone’s afraid of what’s behind it.
They’re going to tear down her home.


But it’s too late.
She’s already succeeded
in proving this is no
Utopia.

Scaffolding in place by those that value
a structure arranged and supporting,
housing community.
Community from its root of ‘commune,’
what exists from the efforts
of all those involved.
A building housing
opinions,
creativity,
debate,
and art.

What was once a poetry free-for-all,
now a pay to play disaster
crumbling down
at the swinging of a dollar-shaped
wrecking ball.