I once heard this somewhere;
that there are only two stories:
A boy leaves home
and a stranger comes to town.

Sometimes I lie
in my bed and think about the strangers.
I think about how terrifying some strangers are.
How we tell our children to run and hide
from what they don’t know;
to stay where it’s safe
here, at home
with their stories untold.

I think of how lost those strangers must feel
with no one who will talk to them.
I think about the darkest villains of childhood lore.
How they all started out as children
afraid of reaching out and changing anything.

I think of how hard is must have been for them
as young adults, to built up the courage
and tell their parents they were leaving
against their wishes
to explore the world
and find the role they were meant to play.

I think
of the stories
hiding in between the boy
and the stranger.
The conversations they wished they could have
if only time weren’t so stubborn
and bent over backwards sometimes
for special cases,
like true love or some karmic mistake.

I think of all of the heroes and their journeys
and that how inevitably, at some point
they are going to be the stranger coming to town.

I think about where I live.
How many stories I’ve heard and told
that are heavy on one side.
I both envy and pity those who live the stories.
Those little boys leaving home;
they know how strange the world really is
and what it’s like
to strike fear in the townsfolk of some distant village;

Where it’s probably nicer this time of year.

We are a generation
raised by children
raised by children.

Growing up *****.
Maybe that’s why,
we’ve been avoiding it for so long,
and passing down lessons
on how to fake it.

He was seventeen.
His mistakes were still somewhere down the road
he so relentlessly trudged through the heavy weather
after storming out of his father’s house,
eager for independence.
Unsure what that meant.

He is my father -
responsible for all that I knew for sure as stable.
Yet, our table was held up by coasters
and we had a few too many late nights
sitting on milk crates
around a kerosene heater.
Things were never steady enough
to worry about them falling apart.

No one is perfect.
Although, I thought he was,
and he wanted to be
he just didn’t know how.

No one does.

This is the man who signed me up
for an in school group therapy session
in second grade
because it would get me out of class for a half an hour -
good lookin' out, Pops.

I learned from him, that life is about those little things.
There was this rule in his car about not leaving
until a good song is done playing on the radio.
It doesn’t matter what you’re late for
the world can wait.

I also learned from watching him
that life will **** your spirit.
That debt will eat you alive
only if you let it.
If you wait long enough, it’ll go into collections
eventually they will stop calling
and that’s all you really want.

I learned that no matter how bad you have it.
You can always afford to show compassion.
I learned that people will walk all over you.
That doesn’t mean you should stop.

But compassion takes its toll.
Years of chronic depression skewed my view of him.
At fourteen years old I became comfortable with the idea
that I might one day walk in on my dad hanging from a ceiling fan.
My only reassurance
was when he told me
“I won’t **** myself…I’m afraid it would hurt too much.”

I learned that love fades and sometimes stops cold
but that doesn’t mean you should give up on it.
I learned that sometimes there’s a good reason
to suffer through a bad marriage.
But once that reason doesn’t hold true
it’s time to break away, for your own sanity -
even that means breaking a heart in the process.

Then my Mother came back into the picture
slashing through his Achilles’ heel.
Watching my father fall was not an easy thing to see
but this wasn’t just my Mother’s doing
this was years in the making.
This was a poorly built Janga tower.
This was just a matter of time.

My sister told me,
in a rare moment of bonding
on stormy night,
while stuck at a Denny’s,
that she thinks it started
when his best friend died
a whole lifetime ago.

She shared stories about her memories of him
She got to see him play
and laugh because he felt like laughing
and not just to forget he has reasons to cry.
I envy her for that.

To me this was the man he'd always been
but in these weakest moments,
I saw myself.
For the first time in my life,
I truly don't want to be like him.
It hurts to admit that.

A man once said
that once you realize your parents aren’t perfect
you become an adolescent,
when you forgive them, you become an adult,
and when you forgive yourself
you become wise.

I feel no need to forgive my father.
I accept that he is human
and that he didn’t teach me the things he didn’t know.
What I did learn from him are the important things:
the value of compassion,
the pain of regret,
the unconditional love of a parent,
and most importantly
that stability is an expensive illusion
and bad things happen
to those who take theirs for granted.

8 .
I hear bullets
in the thunder of the storm
and wake up, fist balled
clenching onto fabricated memories
the only things I have
aside from the haunting neighbor kids’ taunts
and the hearsay of my mother:
the murderer

10.
someone told me this once
- I forget who -
but they told me that
my father picked me up
the morning after the shooting
- although he didn’t know it then -
he carried me over the corpse
as I slept
it slept under the porch
freshly painted
- a thick red

12.
seat across from me is empty
the killer’s chair
I walked into this building like an ant
(so small)
Its tall gates like sharpened teeth
opening wide - consuming me
and my insignificance

a long line of hair tangled
and miserable looking
women in orange enter the room
like the life had all but melted from them
and all they had to look forward to
was mashed potato Tuesdays
and cross-stitching classes
I know her from across the room
I don’t hate her
as I think I should, or imagine I would
Instead, I am overcome by heavy understanding

I am soon to be face to face
with the vessel that brought me into this world
and I could ask it any question
yet all I can think to say is
“hi “
she smiles at me and tears up a little
tells me she’s glad I came
and we stumble over small talk
still in awe
I wonder how it was that I just knew

she asks about me
I don’t know who I am yet
is the truth she never hears

13
I’m told that the gunshots
haunting my childhood dreams
were never fired by her
I believe that
she doesn’t seem like the type

the story I hear these days
is that she did what she had to do
to keep us kids alive
I like that much better
my mother:
the heroine

15
their drug of choice, dad tells me
was *******
and I’ve also learned some interesting
but hopefully forgettable facts
about the night I was conceived

17
they let her off her leash
she came back home
tail wagging between her legs
Got back with my father, and took
(another?) half-hearted jab at motherhood
She didn’t know how
Or me
And I felt bad for her

21
I wish I could tell you
that this story has a happy ending
but life is the shattering of people
and sweeping together of what falls on the floor
nothing is ever completely swept away
and the microscopic slivers of the past always
find their way into our feet

my parents were never built to last
not calloused enough to walk
barefoot in the kitchen
dad still calls me nearly every day
even just to gossip or complain

She hasn’t called in months
but she only calls when she wants something
so, I guess that’s a relief
Still, its times like this
I wish I could hate her

I hate to admit it,
But I kind of miss the time in my life
when she was made of stories
and I never knew her from across the room
or learned what she is:
another shard on my kitchen floor

I can’t remember
exactly what we had been fighting about.
All I know is this was the moment I started to ask myself
why I had fallen in love with you,
or even if.

I think I was complaining about algorithms
and how I didn’t understand them
and how math must have been invented by sadists.
You looked over my shoulder
and laughed at me.
That’s college math? That’s so easy. You must be *******.
Ok, that’s not exactly what you said
but that’s what I heard.
So I shot back with an
If it’s so easy how come you’re not doing it?

An hour later,
after egos and knuckles were bruised
upon the basement walls
and things were said that were meant
but not to be heard aloud
and we both had time to calm down.
I came back down stairs
and heard you sobbing in our bathroom.
I opened the door to see you
naked and shamed -
razor blade in hand
and your left leg
leaked thick and red
hiding the pattern of
horizontal slices
what would become ugly set of scars.

I felt many things in that moment:
pity, anger, guilt, and confusion.
Mostly I was just asking myself
why I had fallen in love with someone so clearly wounded -
and I hated how repulsed
I was by you that night.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how selfish you were.
How you clearly overreacted -
and how there was no way I’d win this argument.

Under the mask of the comforting boyfriend,
I sat beside you in silence.
I held your hand.
There was an itch in my throat
from uncomfortable words.
I swallowed them
and kept rubbing your back,
Instead I lied:
I told you we would be fine
that this didn’t change everything

that I didn’t hate you now.

There was a beauty in her brokenness
the way an abandoned church is spiritual
beaten in the fight against her nature
submitting to the ivy
She was self-destructive and potentially poisonous
but she was my punk rock goddess
and I, her poet-slave
muse and mistress
I knew I was doomed to heartbreak
nevertheless
I took the bold steps toward my apocalypse.
Her name is Catharsis – the Sun.
I am Icaris’s wax wings.
I can’t get too close or she will burn right through me.
It’s a defense mechanism, she says
she’s crazy and I should fly far away.
I should heed the warning
but I don’t.
I’m drawn onto her -
inked by something more than animal attraction.
I am a blood-lusting mosquito
and all I want is a little bit of her inside of me.

She makes me want to write metaphor heavy poetry.

My love,
today they found you in the alley,
an abandoned porcelain doll.
Your cheeks flushed and lips stained from the cold -
left shoeless in the snow.
Fist wrapped around your empty matchbook -
burnt out - used up - dead.

Those tight jeans and rag of a shirt
looked uncomfortable
even in repose.
At first nobody noticed.
Much to do, this New Year’s Day:
resolutions to be broken.  
No time to stop and smell the corpses.

They get younger every year
One cop coughed to the other
a cough of disgust.

They made you a nameless number.
A statistic doesn’t feel the burn of frostbite.
It lends itself to jokes -
and forgets humanity.

In death you are
The Jefferson Avenue Whoresicle
and sooner or later, forgotten altogether.

I can’t forget you,
on display –
hiding in that most undignified uniform.
Your eyes stabbing straight though me.
New Years Eve,
you tried to sell me a warmth.
I ignored you,
avoided your dagger eyes like the sun


I walked away,
Not after I saw how lonely
how frightened
how cold you were standing there
alone.
I can only image your visions
as you burned through those matches
and prayed for some John to come to your rescue.

You can finally rest
in a bed of your choosing.
No judgment passed.
No cold nights on the street.
No home to fear going back to.
It’s all over now.

There’s this tattoo I wish to get
if I ever get rid this fear
of making decisions.

It’s this little girl, maybe seven years old or so
she’s holding on to an aged dandelion by its neck.
Her eyes are closed and open to a whole other world -
she shoots a wish toward it
with every muscle in the body
that she doesn’t know the names of yet.

The seeds are propelled across my back
and transform into the shooting stars they always dreamed they’d be.
Somewhere below
on an otherwise empty beach
are a couple of teenagers
discovering themselves inside one another.
They kiss and tell no one.
The blanket promises to keep their secret
and the sand sneaks into places it knows it’s unwelcome.

They are drunk on the passion of the moment.
She’s lost in the stars
and wants to gently scoop those lights from the sky
seal them in a mason jar
and watch them do their cosmic dance around each other
to remind herself of how small she feels under them
and how amazing it felt to be everything and nothing at the same time.
She holds her breath, closing her eyes
sending up a wish in the music of young lust.

Meanwhile,
on my rightmost shoulder blade
There’s an older man, looking down a wishing well
at the two young lover’s play.
Smiling at his memories
which, like the ink, are fading.
A wish falls out his mouth and speeds down into the darkness
it bounces off the back of the boys head,
and is gobbled up by the greedy sand.

Every night I load my riffle
take my post
and wait

The waiting is the worst part
it's like fishing
you have too much time
to think about ****

I usually think about my life
and how much of a loser I was
living under my brother's perfect family home
like a troll under a bridge
distracting myself with Call of Duty
and beer

But then the world ended
and it was the best thing that could have happened
for me, that is

Not so much for my brother
who met his demise while on an evening jog
on an otherwise insignificant Saturday

I didn't know any of this until two days later
coming out of my cave to get more beer
to realize that the only one still there
was my brother's beautiful inconsolable wife
she thought I'd been dead
like everyone else
and awkwardly hugged me

She had just gotten word about her two missing children
the ******* little boy was found
gnawing on his little sister's arm
the rest of her was motionless, on a street a mile away

Killing them is too easy
way easier than I thought it would be
you just follow the rules laid out for us in the folklore
aim for the head
keep your distance
don't second guess yourself
double tap

I'm not a religious man
I have no particular thoughts about the soul
I leave those questions for the priests and philosophers

I don't care
I do my job
and I do it well

I've won
I've taken my prize
I spend my days with the woman I've always  loved
but could never have
and my nights doing what I do best
playing a game

I pull the trigger
it's head explodes
in a gust of red mist
...just like in the movies

You know, man
before all this went down
I used to think that zombies
were just a metaphor

Really? For what?

Yeah, like, for our struggle
to remain individuals
in a consumer driven culture
where identity is mass-produced
and we are pressured to belong
to some sort of group
or fit into some sort of mold
It’s like being the last survivor in a zombie apocalypse
it’s only a matter of time…

That’s some deep ****

Yeah, this is good ****

What do you think it means now?
You know, now that it’s really happening

It doesn’t mean anything now
Consumer culture is dead, man
People want to be able to eat and ****
and not have to worry about dying every day.
That’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs man
didn’t you learn anything in highschool?

***** you, dude
What’s that diploma doing for you anyway?

Touché

Dude, puff puff pass!
Quit hoggin all my ****
…****

He takes in a deep long breath
and billows out the flames
on all nine candles

His mother smiles
and remembers they day he was born
the only doctor in the sanctuary at the time
had been a dentist
he pulled him out of her
like a stubborn tooth

For those first few months
she stayed awake every night
watching him
terrified
hoping
and hating herself for hoping
that he would stop breathing
in the middle of the night

On his first birthday
218 had experienced a breach
nearly everyone was infected
no survivors
she thought about taking his life then

She poisoned his sippy-cup
with the stuff they used to **** the roaches
and in a fleeting moment of weakness
dumped it down the drain

When she does sleep
she relives her father changing
into a monster
and watches the man who raised her
chomp into the forearm of the man she was to marry

She remembers how much blood there was
and how much she hated them
and loved them
at the same time

The little boy
turns and shoots her a thank you smile
she smiles back
faint and almost fake

She makes a wish
but does not dare tell a soul
and continues to hate herself
for loving him too much

My father made me a makeshift dollhouse
one year for Christmas.
It sits in my room now, having been untouched for years.
It's cheaply made from a recycled dresser's wood
The insides are bare, lacking furniture.
When it's obvious flaws are ignored
it's sort of perfect.

Like it's patheticness has some charm.
I can't help but think that it is the perfect metaphor
for my family.

Reruns of That 70s Show
Interrupted
by the blonde lady
who smiles too much

She says there was a breakthrough
a medical miracle
They brought one back to life

I step outside for a cigarette
already, the town has gone nuts

A group of people
standing outside the grocery store
with signs that say
AbomiNation
and
We Can't Play God

They tell me that it's wrong
to circumvent God's punishment
that only bad can come
from bringing the undead back to life

The sick *****
honestly still think there is a god
and that this hell on Earth is his will
if so, that's no god of mine

They scream at me
trying to tell me what to think
while I buy my milk
and ****
just to make them gasp

This heathen here
really don't care
I'm more concerned with whether or not
Hyde and Jackie are getting back together

I was dead for ten years
until yesterday
They woke me up
to tell me it's okay now
I'm cured

My mission
was to save as many as I could
but I failed
They tell me it's okay now
I'm cured

She was maybe ten
or eleven years old
I tapped her on the shoulder
told her
that the helicopter was waiting for us
she bit me
They tell me it's okay now
I'm cured

I spent a decade
as a mindless cannibal
I must have killed
and feasted on
hundreds
if not thousands of people
and I remember it all
in detail

but They tell it's okay now
I'm cured
like it's Chicken Pox

The lack of poetic tongue
in my response
is sure to disappoint.
But I have a headache,
and my life *****,
and the baby won't stop freakin' crying.
What do you want from me, people?
I can't **** you out a masterpiece every time!!

...and I'm a little drunk.

When the sun sneaks above the horizon
he is awake to see it
but that's the only thing in his life
that one can envy

He never dreamed of being this
although
he never dreamed of being a factory worker either
but that's what he was before

His truck stalls
he hopes it doesn't work on the second try
but it does

He drives on out into the field
the fact that the smell of rotted flesh
doesn't bother him anymore
bothers him

He spots one
a blonde girl
she might have been beautiful
at one point
but now its hair and teeth had mostly fallen out
and its skin is was covered in sores and scrapes

Its emaciated body reminds him
of those TV commercials
that used to air
about starving kids in Ethiopia
she could have won Miss America with that body
he thinks
what a shame
the corpse gives one last kick of life
as if to say
*******, dude

No matter how many times he'd seen it before
it still kind of freaks him out

He shoots it in the head
just to be sure

Then he and his partner lift the body
and heave it into the truck bed

Blood leaking from the bullet hole
gets on his jeans
**** it
he thinks
That'll take forever to get out

Later, when he lights the match
he always thinks that he should say a prayer
or something
but he never does

After work he visits the bar
spending the rest of his night
trying to forget
what he does for a living

I can't remember
a night when I wasn't lulled to sleep
by the comforting sound of gunshots

I try
every night
I dig a little deeper
a little further back
nothing yet

Instead I remember
the night my father
carrying the triggerman's burden
turned the barrel on himself

I dig back further
to Mom's face
her soulless eyes
and the impatient hunger of an
starving child

The first time I watched  a man die
it wasn't a man anymore
they told me
just like my mother wasn't
my mother anymore

Further still
to the newscast
warning everyone to stay
inside their homes
glass shattering
my father's shotgun
pulled from retirement

I dig deeper
a faint and fuzzy
barely breathing memory
Dad smiling
the plop of a lure in the water
a tug on the line
excitement
laughter
more tugging and

BANG

****!
I lost it

Sometimes
I think about you
and about the gun
on the table beside my bed
in the sanctuary

I think about staying up late
even though it was a school night
and macaroni and cheese

I couldn't cook it to save my life
but you never minded
you were just going to smother it
with ketchup anyway

We'd watch old horror movies
and you'd laugh
when you should have screamed
and fell asleep before the end

I'd tuck you in
kiss your forehead
and channel-surf for some comedy
to lighten the mood

I think about the day it happened
how I secretly hoped the gun would jam
or misfire
and you would come at me
jaw unhinged
looking nothing like my angel

Then we'd be together
eating the flesh of some nameless passersby
yours
probably covered in ketchup

But the gun didn't jam
my aim was unfortunately perfect

I think about how
I was probably lying
when I told you
that you wouldn't feel a thing

The only thing I like
about nights like this
is that it gets so dark
and the skies are so clear
that they look like
the little boy who trapped us all here
decided to have mercy
and pin-***** little tiny airholes
in the lid of our mason jar

but there aren’t enough
to make a difference

Her lit cigarette burns
so brightly from the porch
against the darkness
like a lighthouse
...or a bug zapper

I don’t see how anyone
can smoke at a time like this
when the air is so heavy
it’s like breathing cement

there is a sunken silhouetted imprint
where you used to sleep
you’d spent so much time there in those last days
I don’t think it will ever forget you
things are not going to spring back
to the way they were before
no matter how much we want them to
try as we might not to
when we go
we leave behind residue
your room still smells like you
your fingerprints are still resting on your keyboard
your reading glasses, unfolded, lay on the night stand
beside your bed
next to your half-finished crossword puzzle book
and a pen
everything is just how you left it
but different
heavier maybe
plastic
like an elaborate stage full of props
like there’s no way this is real
but it is
and we can’t stand to look
at the world you left behind
at all of the residue
forced to contemplate the reality
that you are no longer in

My eyes are pulsating
surrounded by redness
from the overuse of my tear ducts lately

Pain radiates throughout my chest
in perfect cadence with my breath
in go all my plans and dreams of living for living sake
and out comes the remains:
shards of a self that was not whole to begin with.

It sort of looks like a painting I saw once
on the wall at a café
where I frequently perform
or whatever it is that I do

Whatever this is
a living, it is not
as I am all too often reminded

“What do you do for a living, Josh?”
I breathe
in go all the things I hate about myself
out comes everything else

I feel as though I’ve poisoned myself
and I feel as though I deserve it
but this is not a cut-myself cry about my feelings -emo *****-poet
lying in this bed, crying to his father
because someone hurt his feelings
these are not proud words

I am not that pathetic
am I?

I feel like a water balloon
pricked with a pin
not at the bottom
bursting all over in a two second eruption
but at the top
trickling
ever so slowly

Out  go
in comes
another moment further  from breakdown
one more breath closer
to laughing at myself in the mirror
and telling myself I’ll be okay

“What do you do for a living?”
I breathe
“Very funny, Josh, but how do you make money?”
I don’t

Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom.

You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method
and she always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.

She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.

Never autobiographical
never the truth.

She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”

So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.

She told me one day
that she thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.

People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really.

She was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.

She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.

Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.

She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.

She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.

And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.

Remember that chick?

...of course you don't.

I stare at myself in the mirror
decomposing.
The taste of decay still lingers in my mouth
like a hangover
I reach in
and yank out another rotted tooth.
I toss it in the cup with all of her other little trophies.
I peel what’s left of a layer of skin
from my shoulder.
Remnants of what my bed took last night
as I tossed and turned and screamed for her
to come back to life
and make mine whole again.
I ache
I dare not crack my knuckles
for I may break loose another finger.
My friend says to get out
but I’m unready to set foot in the sun
not like this.
Not when I should be dead.
I feel like the milk in my fridge
passed my expiration date
but still here
because someone’s too busy
or lazy
to throw me away.

You say
“If both she and I were dangling by our feet
over an active volcano
and you only had enough time to save one of us
which would it be?”

“Well…honestly?”
I ask
You nod.

“Neither of you.”
I answer bluntly.
“I’d freeze up.
I’d start thinking past the choice,
because the choice is too hard to make
I’d recite what I’d say at your funerals over and over
and I’d  just deal with the responsibility of my inaction.”

You leave a red hand print across my face
and do not speak to me for the rest of the day.
I learn that you don’t want me to be honest,
you want me to choose you.
I’ll make you breakfast and apologize
in the morning.

For now, I’ll sit here in self-pity
maybe finish the book I was reading
before you interrupted me
to ask that stupid question.

The first time we met
was on the playground
at Lakeshore Park.
You were six
and I was seven.
You shared your ice-cream cone with me -
Vanilla-Chocolate Swirl.

We met again a decade later
in high school,
neither of us remembered the incident at the park
until our parents showed us pictures
of us covered in the stuff
holding hands.

We stayed best friends for a three years
because I was too chicken-**** to ask you out
but somewhere along the way
our unbreakable bond came undone
you drifted off to some Ivy League school
and I stayed here
convinced I could find another way out.

After that, I pretty much forgot all about you.

That is until today,
I was at the park with my niece,
and I thought about you
I sent you a message on Facebook -
asking if you were back in town.

Then, in anticipation of our reunion,
I read what people were posting on your wall:

“Rest in Peace. You will be missed.”

…****.

I glance out of my driver’s side window
and see a boy
trudging miserably down the sidewalk
his essence radiating awkwardness
this long haired kid, maybe twelve years old
or just turned thirteen
wore hand me down boots that are too big for his feet,
ripped jeans, and a bookbag slung across his shoulder
in the dying days of July
whispering under his breath
maybe reciting poetry
or telling himself a story

And I honestly think
if time is fluid, like the oceans
like the monks say
then maybe I’m glancing over as a wave breaks
and I’m looking at myself
I couldn’t tell you how many times
I made that journey on foot
my heels throbbing, my legs begging to be broken
my hitchhiker’s thumb, had given up all hope at that point

I think about giving myself a ride
to wherever I may be going
but then I remember all the lessons I’ve learned
from time-travel movies
the one universal rule being not to meddle with the past
something about a butterfly’s wings flapping in Beijing
and a tsunami in New Orleans
or whatever
so, instead I honk my horn
and the traffic light turns green

I watch the boy, who might have been a younger me
in some distant past,
look on with curious anger as the cars pass
for a moment
then return to the story already in progress

he grows tinier and tinier
in my rear view mirror
until he is yesterday again

“One thousand words.” He said “that’s the going rate.”
I looked down at it in my hand.
Taken back to the day it was first shown to me.
“What if it’s burned?” I asked.
“Burned?” He asked. “How burned?”
“Not very, just around the edges.” I explained.
“Like, it was saved from a fire. Would it be worth more, then?”
“Well, no.” He answered, matter-of-factly.
“What it it’s old.”
“Old?” he asked. Leaning forward, now engaged. “How old?”
“What if what used to be white is now turning yellow.
and what used to seem new now looks antique
and she looks so young that you think it can’t be her.”
“Well…” He paused, thinking it over – or pretending to.
“No.” He finally decided, leaning back into his position of power.
“One thousand words. That’s the going rate.”
“What if…” I searched it for any other idiosyncrasy “It’s autographed.”
“Like – half in cursive and half printed – and the ‘I’ is accented by a tiny heart.”
“That’s tempting, but rules are rules, and rates are rates.”
He smiled, enjoying my pain too much.
“It’s worth a thousand words. No more, no less.”
“What kind of words, I mean do I get to choose them?” I said
“Mostly fluffy words, not very heavy handed words. Not five dollar words.
Just our two cents worth.” He said through his grinning teeth.
The thought of her being reduced to one-thousand two-cent words made me ill.
So I left and took the picture with me.
I wandered and pondered and got lost
finding myself
at that pier she used to talk about, where she first met my father.
The sight there had to be worth twenty thousand words, in French.
I don’t speak French.
So I did not understand why it was beautiful
only that it was.
So it was there and then that I decided I would set her
priceless and free.

I find my serenity
On the beach
Swinging alone
Nearly hypnotized
By the rhythmic squeaking
Of the metal chains
That keep my floating in the sky
Of my mind’s eye
I try and listen past it
For the sounds of the lake
Although I cannot hear them
Over the machines
Tearing down a nearby building
That used to be my school
I find the racket soothing
Interesting
The way the sounds clash
With the chain’s music

I open my eyes
It’s not a sunny day
Dark clouds are rolling in
Over the horizon
It’s going to rain
I don’t mind too much
As long as it’s a warm rain
I’d like that
If it’s not
I won’t complain
This moment
Won’t be any less perfect

They sat across the table from one another. One girl staring at her notebook. The other’s eyes fixed on her classmate. On the broadside of the table sat a dark haired woman, the only smiling face in the room. The shy girl’s crimson hair hung out from under her hooded sweatshirt as she sketched axes on the front of her notebook. The other girl’s golden locks hung in curls around her face. Her beauty was undeniable, as was the disdain in her eyes.
“So, can one of you two describe to me what happened today on that stairwell?” asked Mrs. White, the guidance counselor at Jacob Grimm High. Despite the gossip floating around the school about her, a smile was always plastered on her face. Most of the children found this unbearably creepy. “Nothing ma’am. We were just having a friendly conversation, when that pig came along and insisted, very forcefully, that we come here,” the blonde said, sarcastically, her eyes never letting go of their gaze on the other girl.
Mrs. White chuckled “That’s not how it happened, Goldie. C’mon, tell us your side of things.” Goldie rolled her eyes. “Well, Mrs. White, it’s like this: my bio class was just letting out, and I was heading down to calculus. She comes flying UP the DOWN stairs, like a maniac, slamming into my shoulder. I hit her, she hit me back. Now we’re here.”
“Is that true, Ms. Ridinghood?” asked Mrs. White, turning her head to the other girl.
“Not entirely,” she answered, finally joining the conversation. “Ms. Princess here was going up those stairs before I even got to them. To be honest, I was zoned out, just following the sheep. I’m not having the best day, so a friend gave me something to take the edge off this morning. I was following her up the down stairs, apparently and she turned around and started coming at me, shoving my shoulder as she walked past, then got offended – like I did something wrong – and hit me. So I punched her back. We wrestled for a minute before the rent-a-cop came and broke it up.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. White turned to Goldie, who was looking down the floor. “Goldie, why were you going back up the stairs?” ,
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“So you did go back up the stairs and come down a second time?”
“It was actually my third time,” Goldie admitted, embarrassed. “The first time I went too fast, the second time I went too slow. That time would have been just right. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder . Go ahead, laugh it up.”
“No one’s laughing,” Mrs. White assured her. Although Red was a little, until Mrs. White turned to her. “Can you tell me why it is you needed to be ‘zoned out’ today?”
“None of your business, that’s why,” Red snapped.
“I have read your file, I know what day it is.”
“Then why did you have to bring it up?” Red was now agitated.
“For Goldie to hear. So you can better understand one another.”
“*******! What kind of understanding am I to get from this preppy ***** with a silver spoon up her ***? I’ve spit puddles deeper than her!” The two girls rose up, over the table. Mrs. White was able to get in between them.
“Now, both of you need to just calm down and talk this out like civil adults. Keep in mind, this is your only alternative to expulsion. “
Once everyone regained themselves, Red spoke again, this time directly to Goldie.
“Six years ago, today, my grandmother was murdered.” Goldie began to see Red with new eyes. “Remember The Wolf
“That guy who went around vandalizing houses?” ?”
“Yeah. He was hiding out in the woods. I was going to visit my grandma, who lived out that way. I saw him. He’d shaved so I hadn’t recognized him from the news. I told him I was going to my grandma’s place, dumb idea—I know. He suggested a different route, said it’d be shorter. By the time I got there, grams was gone. He was in her bed, dressed like her, waiting for me. His eyes…were so…big. If it wasn’t for Larry, a woodsman working nearby, I would be dead too.”
“I heard about that! That was you? Wow…I’m sorry. ” Goldie shook her head in amazement, then added, “Didn’t the woodsman chop off his head?”
“No. He shot him. Larry carries a gun when he’s working in that forest, because of all the dangerous things that happen there.”
“No doubt, that place is freaky. I got lost in it once, when I was six. I ended up at this cabin. I thought it was abandoned. Imagine my surprise when the family came home. I was sleeping in the kid’s bed, and I’d eaten their food too. I think I even broke something.”
“How’d that play out?”
“I did some time in juvy for property damage and theft.”
“Wow…that’s so messed up. At least you learned your lesson, right?”
“Oddly enough, no. When I turned eleven I started breaking into people’s houses. I mean, I didn’t take anything, just slept in their beds, or watched TV. I never got caught again.” Goldie sounded mildly disappointed.
“You know,” Red interjected “we are a couple of freaks, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. Hey…where did Mrs. White go?” Goldie said, finally realizing that Mrs. White had made an escape somewhere in the midst of their discussion.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh well…did you hear she has seven midgets living with her?”
“That’s just a rumor,” Red said.
On that note, the bell rang, and the two girls left the room giggling like old friends.

Society detests innocence
Often shaking hands with ignorance
Exchanging phone numbers with bliss.
We hate it cause we’re jealous.

So we send loaded words their way.
Our mouths, like pistols
shooting bullets full of hate.
Someday we shall see the error of our ways.
Until then,

******.
We call him.
He who has yet to be used,
Or more so, use another for pleasure
******, and then leave a woman and a ******
on a Hotel’s bathroom floor,
alone and broken.

Square.
We say
To she who has never felt the itch.
Needed so badly to scratch it
and get her fix
that she steal from her two month old daughters college fund
so she can fly away and forget….

Try as we may, we never forget
How it feels to fall from the sky.
So, we know how to make a mockingbird cry.
We know how to make a mockingbird cry.
And we know how it feels
to **** one

There once was a man
So hopelessly in love
that he cut off his ear.
No one knows what to take from this.
I guess, it’s just that love
makes you do crazy things.

That being said,
it’s not hard to believe
that there once was a man
So hopelessly in love
that he stowed away on trains
riding them from Ohio to Arizona
just to barge in
on an ex-lover’s wedding and scream

“I OBJECT!”

There once was a woman
so hopelessly in love with another man
that she left her husband at the altar.
Although that’s not the woman at this altar
in our story.
This woman tossed champagne
in the man’s face
and screamed that she never wanted
to see him again.

There once was a man
with a heart so broken
he once considered suicide
but then he read something
about this painter
who cut off his ear
and mailed it to this *******
that he was head over heals for.

Today, there’s a shell of a man
in New York City
with a stub
where his ring finger used to be.

And somewhere in Arizona
in a box she never opened,
is the rest of him.

Sometimes I wish for power to go out.
Be it a down power line, a blackout,
or simply a bill that wasn’t paid on time.
That way we would have an excuse to break out
those scented candles I got you for Christmas last year.
The apartment will fill with its fruity aroma
and I’d know why you never lit them.

We’d laugh, as we re-learn to navigate our living room,
half-arguing over whose idea it was
to put that table there.
I’d knock over that hideous lamp your mother gave you,
insisting that it was an accident, and that you didn’t really like it either,
So now, at least we have an excuse to trash it,
‘Cause I know how much you hate to throw things away.
That’s why I’m still here.
Not that I’m complaining.

We’d make up games to pass the time,
like “Would you ever?”
“Would you ever kiss me in a dark room?” You’d ask.
I’d find your lips in the abyss and show you my answer.
A few hours later we’d play “Where’s my pants?”

Once dressed, we’d stumble our way over furniture
to get outside,
where we’d lay next to each other in the grass
which is a little wet, but we don’t care
and enjoy the stars without the distraction of the city lights.

We’d fall asleep this way,
I’d wake up in the morning next to you,
with my shirt on backwards,
my frown upside down,
and you still sleeping, sideways
with my head on my chest
and your leg wrapped around mine.

Electricity? Who needs it?
We make our own.

Nobody knows the boulevards
and back roads of broken hearts
better than he who has been there
too many times and counting.
He loved to get lost in this neighborhood
practically growing up there
seeing his fair share of roads in need of repair
bridges built up and burned down
and train tracks leading everywhere
and nowhere.
Exactly where he was going
before he was distracted
by a pretty girl with a flirtatious smile
in a pink Corvette passing by.
Occasionally he’ll come to his senses
and head for the city exit
but before he’s home free
some dame, with a dangerous name convinces him to stay
and play cat and mouse.
Nobody know the boulevards
and back roads of broken hearts
like he.
and he still gets lost
in familiar territory.

I couldn’t tell you when I started doing it
Or why.
As far as I know it’s always been a part of me
My parents were certain it was a phase.
That this, like my nonexistent terrible twos,
would come and go
and the people in supermarkets would stop staring.
I know now how odd it looks.
I don’t blame them.
Imagine a miniature me, burning a hole in the floor
pacing back and forth
Hands clenched around an action figure
Mumbling nonsense to no one in particular.
Perhaps, they’d assume, to the toy in my hands
that my eyes were strictly fixed to.
“Talking to myself”
They called it.
Like I was crazy.
“Quit talking to yourself!”
My step mother would slap the toy out of my hand.
“You’re a big boy now, stop it!”
Maybe I would have if she took time to talk to me without screaming
or if my father were home enough to see how much she hated me.
How she Isolated me from her children,
the very ones who grew up to hate her more then I ever would.
But to me, it wasn’t something strange or crazy at all.
It was – is – kind of like watching T.V.
only more interactive.
I would tell myself a story.
The action figure, or whatever, was like an actor – a template.
For anyone I wanted to create.
The world around me would melt into static,
and I’d play both audience and performer
Putting on shows full of fantasy and magic.
Adventure and romance.
Tragedy and madness.
My own private little theater of distractions.
The older I got,
the smaller my actor,
and more private my performances became
until my action figure became a pair of toenail clippers.
Small enough to be hidden in my pocket
If I had to descend into the real world without any given notice.
The way I acted,
when someone walked in on me
You’d assume I was doing something naughty
and maybe I was.
Maybe it was wrong to indulge in the imaginary,
to live for fiction
but I didn’t care.
It was the one world I didn’t have to share.
I eventually would,
But I liked that I didn’t have to.

When I started writing these crazy stories down on paper
English teachers took notice,
and saw in me,
an apprentice.
Someone who could live their long forgotten dreams of being…
I don’t know.
I don’t think they did either.
They taught me the mechanics,
Putting names to the concepts I had known and used for years
that’s how I came to writing and to poetry.
How I became what I always was,and never will be again:
A little kid, telling  a story,
with indifference to the audience,
or lack thereof.
For no other reason,then to escape everything
If only in the moments when no one is watching.
Every now and again,
I still like to slip away from the crowd,
pull out my toenail clippers from my right front pocket
and see what’s playing.
I know, I may look and sound crazy
talking to myself over here,
and maybe I am.
But at least it’s not a boring conversation

Once upon a time
This was known as "the river of many fish"
We are told this as children
like it's a fairytale
our parents, trying not to laugh
as they tell us of a time
long before their own
when this was the place to be
If you wanted to be somebody
you came to the town with the name you can't pronounce
and you could have your American Dream
Newly free men and women
arrived early and bright at our train station
their sleeves rolled up and heads held high
ready to kickstart their lives.
The gears of industry were turning here
in the land of wine and covered bridges.
Once upon a time
there was a trainwreck here
a lot of people lost their lives
even more lost their way
as time rusted over the wheels of progress
and our water
once so full of hope and prosperity
caught fire and burned for miles in all directions
scorching the water, and suffocating the fish
Today
this is "the river of much pollution"
We have always known it as such
A town were depression is both
a hereditary emotional and economic condition
Where pessimism is our only tradition
The train station no longer operates
The free man's grandchildren's children are up before the birds
trying to find a way to kickstart their high
chasing the American Delusion
"Ashtabula does not have a drug problem"
The police told a friend of mine
as her two year old daughter looked on curiously
at a strung out stranger who wandered into their home
and took their bathroom hostage for two hours
He shook uncontrollably
His eyes overflowing with emptiness
By the time the cops showed up, he was long gone
tossed back into the river
The fish in this water have nothing to lose
If evolution is true, we can sprout legs and lungs
crawl onto dry land and breathe
but the current prevents it here
It's hard to see the glass as half full
when you can't drink the water
I suppose we could drink the wine instead
and stumble inside of a bridge
seeking shelter from the toxic rain

Every night I brush my teeth,
I lift up the blankets that hang over the side of my bed
and hesitantly peek underneath.
I sigh with relief.
No monsters tonight. I tell myself.
My finger lingers on the switch that turns the night light on.
Part of me knows I’m being irrational.
There is no good reason for a grown *** man to be afraid of the dark.
I tell myself, in my father’s voice.
But there’s a part of me, much deeper, underneath the fear even,
that enjoys playing this game.
It makes me feel young again.
It reminds me of a time before dorms, term papers,
bosses, deadlines, and death - looming eerily in the distance
Getting closer every year that I look over my shoulder,
before we learned that life wasn’t meant to be enjoyed,
only suffered and survived.
A time before the march toward Oblivion, in funny looking suits,
with high hopes that we can trick someone into thinking that we belong here
In this grotesque parade of strangers in masks.

I hide under my covers with a flashlight and old comic books.
Holding back laughter, with imaginary fear of waking the ghosts of my parents
who I  often thought of sleeping in the other room,
just like they did before they died,
One of old age, the other in a mid-life crisis motorcycle accident,
Leaving me the empty house with her romance novels
and his extensive **** collection.
I remind myself that I have work in the morning
which quickly drags me down from my euphoric nostalgia.

I put Spiderman back in his plastic case
and stick him in the dresser drawer
full of all my guilty pleasures and memories of  yesterday.
I then remove my mask and crawl under the bed,
where no one thinks to look for us anymore,
and drift into fantasies full of all those familiar faces
of my Neverland.

Want me.
Love me.
Desire me.
Choose me.

I need you

Ignore me.
Avoid me.
Disdain me.
Destroy me.

I love you.

I couldn't sleep last night.
Something about the sound
Of the trains kept me up
Thinking of you.

That night you stood next to the tracks
As one flew past
You said "*** you oughta try this"
"It's like no other rush"
I said "Baby don't get too close"
You said "Baby, I can't get close enough."

Go back about three months
I picked you up from the hospital
Another visit with your mother.
But you don't want to talk about it.

We get stuck at the same tracks
And the train picks up.
You say, "God ****** this is *******"
"This always happens, It's just our luck."
I say "Baby, it's moving pretty fast."
You say "It can't move fast enough."

Rewind a week or so
We were laying under the stars
And amidst our Deep conversation
Another Train rolled by.

I held you you close as it scaled the tracks
In that monotonous drone
You say "I hate this town."
"It's like a black hole- that *****."
I say "We can move far away"
You say "We can't move far enough."

I squeezed your hand
To reassure you that we can.
You just smiled and shook your head.
Like I had just told you gravity didn't exist.

That day, Stuck behind those tracks
I realized that you were right
That night, under the stars
You said "No matter where you go"
"There will be tracks that lead back home"
I said "So, Tracks alone aren't going to remind us."
You said "Baby, the sound of the Trains will be enough."

I couldn't sleep last night.
It's been seventeen years-
And thirteen states-
But those trains always seem to find me.

I said "baby, don't get too close"
You said "Baby i can't get close enough."
But this time,
You were wrong.

She is
faded blue jeans
with holes in the knees
a ***** white t-shirt
covered in mustard stains and engine grease
on any given Saturday

She is
black fingernail polish on a Tuesday
because she wants people to wonder
short skirts in church
to make the choir boys’ minds wander

She is
jealous of the girl who has
the boy she didn’t want
the lies she tells her friends
about the guy she hasn’t slept with yet
misplaced like lost money
unexpected, but refreshingly so

She is
a tongue piercing that she got when she was ******
that she takes out around authority figures
‘cause her parents do not know
the mistakes she will evidently make
as she will learn and grow
eventually going to tell them the truth
maybe

She is
trying to make you uncomfortable
just to see you squirm

She is
intelligent, and strong in her demeanor
throwing off the curve in all her classes
expelled for kicking some cheerleaders’ *****
in love with her history teacher

She is
poetry that breaks all the rules
the girl all the bad guys want
but won’t admit to
a guilty pleasure

She is
all of the above
none of it
and more

From behind your canvas
you peer up at me taking in the details of my body.
Your scientific eyes studying  me
cold
with neither lust or disgust
as if I were a vase
or a basket of fruit.
Not long before this we embraced one another
in the throes of passion.
You've never been more into me.
The skillful motions of your lips and tongue,
throwing my body into religious convulsions
and praising your name.
It intrigues me how you can turn that off.
How you can refrain from smiling
as you draw the outline of my ******.
How my naked body so near and ready
doesn’t cause that animal I’ve come to know so well
to overpower the artist in you.
I’m truly fascinated, filled with both admiration and jealousy
for that woman you are creating.
I know that In your mind,
we've never been closer
but you look so far away
hiding from me behind that easel
cheating on my body with your interpretation.
No doubt, she will be flawless,
and have none of my ugly imperfections.
She isn’t even finished being born and I hate her already.
Although, I’ll lie when you reveal her to me.
I’ll tell you that she’s beautiful
that I really like her.
Then, I’ll make love to you
right there on the floor.
Forcing her to watch.

On behalf all of us who make bad decisions,
and worse excuses for them
I’d like to say that I’m sorry

I heard about how hard you worked on that science fair project
and how the teacher didn’t believe you
Because a week ago, someone like me used the same excuse
to get out of turning an assignment in on time.

And I’d like to say I’m sorry, for all the exams you studied for days to get a C on
and all the ones we aced without trying.
I promise, it wasn’t our fault, we’re just lucky guessers
I guess we could be little Irish
Like four leaf clovers are running though our bloodstreams.

On behalf of all of us who cried wolf,
because we fell asleep
and lost track of a few sheep.
I’d like to say that I’m sorry
that the boss didn’t accept the puncture wounds as proof
because we went too far one too many times for anyone to be trusted anymore.

For always taking the easy way out.
For every little white lie we told, that snowballed into an avalanche
and took you with it as it raced downhill.

On behalf of all of us whose dog did not, in fact, eat our homework
to you, the kid with a genuine excuse.
I would have liked to say I’m sorry.
I even had this whole apology written out
-It was cool, and rather poetic, if you ask me-

But there was this freak accident this morning
involving traveling circus, a ******* and a ham sandwich
-Trust me, you don’t want to know the details-

Okay, you got me
I guess some old habits die hard.