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.

Mist in the morning air
collects heavy on the neck
of a blade of grass

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

I wrote a poem.
A long, healthy, glorious poem.
It started as a tingle in my gut.
The longer I ignored it, the angrier it got.
Until I could not hold it in any longer.
So I sat down.
I worked it out-
I stressed and pushed myself
harder and harder
until finally -
Release.
Catharsis.
Expelled out of me and into existence.
I looked down at my newborn poem
and became overwhelmed by a putrid sense of shame -
It was ****.
I flushed it.
"It's April."
I tell myself.
"They can't all be winners."

Blues for the bluejeans
with holes that are worn
but not earned

Follow the fireflies
Eager to show you something-
A stillborn bunny

My ship
drifts swiftly,
slowly sifting
shifting,
lifting,
split ting,
sprouting wings,
and finally
flying

free.

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.

I left you
scrambled on the wall
naked for all to see.

I called it art
poetry
even, honesty.

but it was only brutality
only ill-informed and unformed mess of ideology
only the reaction of little boy
to a trainwreck.

I won't say the word regret,
because I don't
I won't say the word sorry
because I'm not.

I will say that with age comes perspective  
and with perspective
comes introspection and --

well, we've all had too much of that today.

Mid-April in northeast Ohio.
She’s bitter at the cold,
for overstaying its welcome.

The snow obscures the line
between the sidewalk
and the Devil’s Strip.

There’s a long line
of determined footprints
punched into the snow behind her.

Halfway through a song and a cigarette,
the CD skips -
figures.

These library disks never play for ****.
She ***** her fist
and whacks her Walkman.

Across the street,
in a wifebeater and sweatpants,
he people-watches from his front porch.

Sipping ***** and orange juice
from a chipped mug -
World’s Greatest Dad.

In his driveway sits a ‘97 Cavalier
with a plastic wrap passenger window
he’s hoping holds up to the wind.

Will this ever stop?
he says to himself, toward the falling snow.
A passerby might think he meant the weather.

Next door, she’s been up all night
with her newborn tornado siren
fruitlessly singing lullabies off key.

Six cups of coffee
keep her from collapsing
into a pile of ***** laundry.

She thinks about herself as a kid.
Thinks about how she used to like to
walk with her eyes closed.

How she used to like the thrill of it
the uncertainty and doubt of it.
This is like that. She tells herself.

She almost believes it.

In a sharp night light
shaking away a long sleep
the moonflower wakes

Wise words once whispered:
Only a **** eats and drinks
Granny's flesh and blood

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

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

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.

This morning,
I swallowed the entirety of everything,
swallowed it in one swift gulp.
washed it down with a tall glass of Milky Way.
I was ready to greet the day,

But everything gave me gas
that (knotted up inside me) sang
so I let it out with a big bang --

and watched the particles disperse
to form themselves into a universe
with me at the center -
on my throne,
self-appointed king of this nonsense poem

Dear Reader,
Run away.
Run as far as you can.

Board up windows.
Burn all your books,
dear reader.

I am poetry.
I will **** you.
You will let me.

Run.
Run far away,
Tear off your rearveiw,
Just go!

Or don't.
It's too late for you anyway.
I'm already eating you
From the inside out,
dear reader.

I'm poetry.
You will starve to death with me
inside of you.
And you'll love it, too.

It's two o'clock - Post Meridian
Time to raise a glass
Of wine or flask of gin
To the Good 'Ol Gov
And Marvelous Dr. Acton

Take action, Homebound Heroes
By extensive handwashing
And endless binge-watching,
Baby Yoda and the Tiger King

One day eventually
There will be
Cause to celebrate,
Gather outside
And roam

But until then,
For Grandma's sake, people
STAY THE **** HOME!!

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

The only thing
that can be heard for miles
is the screeching of the metal ropes
of the playground swing

and the laughter of the little boy
whose feet are just barely long enough
to push the ground away

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.

Her forehead is planted against the glass
window of her school bus
her curly black hair
tied to false extensions, and pulled back into a pony-tail

The rain beats against the bus window
there's almost a rhythm to it
the chatter of the bus populace being almost lyrics
and the engine being almost the passionate guitar
this morning is almost a song

Bright pink ear-buds separate her
from the almost music

She looks like she's staring at something
that dimly glows off in the distance
it's something she knows she can never have

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.

coffee spitting.
clicking.
fingertips stumbling ever so awkwardly
across the keyboard.
slightly stale leftover love.
making memories
drift in from the other  room.
secondhand bassline
like an artificial pulse.
incomprehensible morning chatter
rising from the carpet
tickling the bare feet.
neutral silence
running noticeably
underneath it all.
like an omen
or a prayer.
a lost soul’s secret. desire
untold, and thus forgotten

or maybe just silence.
and nothing more

When she was little,
she tried to count the stars,
lost track at 236,
and started over.
This has been a recurring trend
throughout her entire life.

She would search for four leaf clovers
not because she believed in luck
just for the challenge of it,
like hunting for needles in haystacks
just because – why not?

She loved to challenge of impossible tasks.
She was never angry with herself
when she failed -
because she wasn't stupid
she knew what impossible meant.

But every time she did find a lucky clover
or counted even just one star more than last time
she’d smile to herself,
having beaten the impossible.

All she wanted was
proof that she isn't doomed to fate -
proof that she is more
than a infinitely tiny speck of carbon
living on a mite larger speck of carbon
floating in a vast sea
full of impossibly massive specks of carbon
that too, are infinately tiny
when compared to the sea,
in which we all swim.

So when she made it her mission
to steal this boy’s heart
it wasn’t about love.
Not that she was intentionally cruel.
Just that she didn't see the world that way.

It was the fact that he was so distant,
so out of her reach,
like the incountable stars
hanging above her head
every night
taunting her.
She couldn’t help herself –
she had to try.

She took her victory
and his virginity
in the back of a Dodge Neon
parked in the shadow of an abandoned factory
on a dead end street.

Afterwards, they sat on the roof of her car.
With eyes soaked in that teenage sappy first-time kind of love,
he gazed upon her glory,
like she was some sort of angel
sent to save him.

She was too busy counting the stars to notice.

It's the first good day in a month.
After two weeks, bedridden
I finally have the energy
To take the dog around the block

She stops to sniff
Every single tree,
Patch of grass,
Stop sign, and telephone pole.

Normally, I'd be annoyed
Angry even
"****** Anna!"
With frustration, I would bawk.

But not today.
It's fifty-five degrees outside
And I'm not in pain
So sniff up enough
- to fill your little doggo soul

Just don't pull so hard.
I know, I know. You don't wanna stop.
Ok, Ok. Just one more time
Around the block.

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

Thumbing through yellowed
crumbling pages of schoolbooks
meeting ghosts in the margins

I envy those birds
They have not yet trapped themselves
In the cage of time.

I don't think you exist
there, it's been said out loud
please don't hate me

I envy nature
that has not yet trapped itself
in the cage of time

The sun strikes my eyes
    Violent as a sword
This holy morning

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.

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

O death, I see you
walking slowly to my door
humming a sweet song

It was found today
An old leather-bound journal
All its pages – blank

Man, I'm just like so totally, like -
you know what I mean, man?
Like, everything is like, just so....
Ya'know man?
And everyone else is like,
Totally just like -
PSHHHH-
ya know what I mean man?
You know what I mean.

It was found today
A leaf, crumbling the sun
Scattered by the wind.

Beauty deep like
Mother Earth's
takes more than seven days

It was found today
The body of a woman
Killed softly by life.

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.