You
Are beautiful.
You
Are funny.
You are dynamic, and nuanced.
No one knows how to see the world
The way you do.

You don't give yourself
Credit.

You don't think you're
Worthy
Of good things.

You believe,
And heaven forbid these words,
But you believe
(Whether in some immense degree or a smaller, subtle way)
That you
Are
Worthless.

Oh, my beauty.
Oh, my dazzling darling.
You are more than you think.
You are so much more
Than you have let yourself
Become.

It's not too late.
Drop those weights,
Those heavy, dark thoughts.
And remember who you knew you were when you were too young to lie to yourself.

You are amazing.
You have flaws and they
Are wonderful.
You are not a magazine.
You are not a Barbie doll.
You are you.
And that is what makes You
So very, very
Perfect.

"You're afraid of growing up."

Perhaps
but I see no shame in that
why would I ever want to grow up
if it means being
miserable
lonely
and drunk
like you,
Dad.
-

It was your birthday yesterday
You would have turned 19
I would have gone to your party
and we would have been drunk
girls would be kissing you
and you would be king
but we put you in the ground
two and a half years ago
-

He yelled sober thoughts when he drank.
Inked honest words when he wrote.
And if I had one wish,
I'd bring Bukowski back!

Bukowski

your
seductive
stinking
honesty
makes my sanitized life
a lie

(poem dedicated to the late Charles Bukowski)

You wouldn't believe
the difference
a year makes.
Old faces stare back
with strange smiles,
trying to
fill holes that you
don't remember being there.

Everyone knows you,
you're no stranger,
--though it sure as
hell feels like it--
It's high time for
a new town,
high time for
new faces,
ones that don't
dare stare back
or smile at all.
Ones that can't
see scars.
At least pretend
not to notice.

A new town
with a good view.
Lots of taxi cabs
and tree tops
to watch,
leaning through
and above the traffic.
A nice pretty picture
to paint,
out the window
of a hotel room
as the people pass,
looking like flowers
at last.

Such beautiful flowers
through the glass.

don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.

There’s something burning on the
Blackout strip of highway.
Light and movement
Frozen in a momentary
Dance.

Her eyes are wide and full
Of the emptiness that
Looms before her.

Nothing moves
And I step with it,
Carefully
Through the
Shards of suspended glass
That slice open the freezing night
Air.

Metal is bent and crushed
Against itself.
But for now, the
Ripple of the
Fatal shockwave
Stands
Still.

Her eyes are wide and full
Of the light tearing,
Imposing
Through the windshield
Into what remains of her mind.

I feel the moment
Of absolute stillness
Beginning to slip and I open the
Door.
Detach her soul with a
Kiss gentler
Than Life could ever
Offer
To save her from
The crushing mayhem.

Take her into my arms. She
Sleeps, as they all do,
Her head against my chest.
I turn away.
I leave the scene of force and
Fragility and, with my
Only mercy
Cradled in my arms,
Have no power but to let the
Scene behind me
Attack itself and
Consume.