a congregation for the lonely
is all this place can ever be.
dead hearts and broken people
spending too much on rent,
like an eclipsing sky line
could fill the holes we've dug.

well, everyone lives there.
of course they do
where else would we go?
we come with nothing
so that anything we have
is nailed to the floor.

my head
is too big
to fit the helmet
thats supposed to protect me.  

i found out today that i am not immortal.

i still dont know
how to deal with
learning something
you thought you already knew.

i found out today that i am not immortal.

if i could
wear a mask
every day
i know that i would.

i found out today that i am not immortal.

if i could
do it my way
every time
i know that i would.

because i am always right
until someone points out
that im not.

my head is a beach where hope comes to flourish,
where the water is warm.
until someone reminds me
that they hate the beach
and i cant help but agree.

Turning the pages of Sunday’s paper,
eyes spilling tears upon reading
of the ambush killing of a local cop,
and  elsewhere, cops as killers,
the horror of the murders
of twenty angels and their guardians
at a small-town school,
people just having a holiday party,
going to a movie,
people attending church, for god’s sake.
I make my way to the sports section,
that fantasy-land of touchdowns,
home runs and slam dunks,
only to find stories of drunken outfielders
and homicidal/suicidal linebackers
wielding pistols
followed by a half-page ad
for the Guns and Gear store,
urging me to get in on the deals—
an assault rifle, only $649.99,
semi-automatic pistols from $319 to $549,
all the ammo a person could need
to shoot up a school, a theater, a mall, a business,
a synagogue or mosque or church,
even an army base.
My sorrow vinegars to frustration and anger,
that my letters to so-called representatives
must be written on thousand dollar bills
to even get a reading,
answered by a staffer’s reply that says nothing,
and, in the end, dear god,
I’m left with prayer and poetry,
the children of necessity, drowning in futility.

just what i needed
a storm through my room.
my clothes
on different parts of the floor.
it was a mess before you rolled through.

she dances
sober
and smiles when she does it too.
its really a sight to see.

it's great to be here.
i always say it's not
and i never feel like it is.
but its great to be here.

everything ive ever loved is here
in the meadow,
swanning for all of us.
singing our names.

i focus so much on the cold
i forget july
i forget august.

its great to be here
its always great to be here.

tell your friends you love them today.

i had another writing class
above the pharmacy today.
we watched a movie about bank robbers.
and in our discussion our professor said

there is so much evil
in the world
i dont even wish
to understand it.

i dont know if i agree or not
i dont know if thats the right answer.

//

eighties ladies
spray their hair back
wipe the snow
off the mirror.
march on.
glitter and sparkles
can always make
a dead thing look alive.
right?
youth and marriage.
love and wonder.
age like bread
on the windowsill.

there's something
worth loving
in here.

in this thrifted sweater
and black and white floral skirt

in my soft and faded yellow
and on those pastel clouds
with my daydreaming eyes

i wanted a cheap ticket

you see,
i wanted a one way trip
to heaven
so i could stand protected
so i could stand behind
the holy gates,
bathing in gold light.
in my sweater,
wrapped in light
and safe.

little did i know i’d feel safer that day
that i’d taste some of heaven
in that sweater in late november
with your arm interlaced
in mine
like fate
had planned
for that to be
the moment our stars
aligned

you were a sunbeam
my sweater was security
and your arms beheld the stars
of the heavens
to me

and can i tell you something?
they were all
so
*yellow

she said
i wish there was two of you
i told her to cross her eyes.

she walked around like that
the whole day

i burnt the roast on christmas day.

my loves sat in silent pain
waiting for my neck to crane.
summers night and winters rain
couldn't cook this ******* roast again

i cant believe i burned the ******* roast.

each of them had different reasons
to feel so **** upset this season
it never felt right to believe in
love that can feel so uneven

ive cooked this ******* roast before i dont know how i ****** it up so bad

these seconds will never pass
table breaks the hourglass
my wife she's a lovely lass
why didnt she cook the ******* roast instead

**** **** **** **** **** ****

a look of sadness on my face
anxious forks hit sides of plates
i look to my loves and say
im not sure there'll be roast today

how could you burn the ******* roast on christmas?

the wine was almost nearly empty
most of it from my aunt wendy
whose husband left when she was twenty
but she brought some new man lenny

who also drank most of the wine
and was also upset that i burned the ******* roast

i didnt drive all the way out here
just to drink a couple beer
i know it may not be premiere
but bring that ******* roast out dear

okay mom.

i went back to the kitchen to get the burnt ******* roast

i found my wife her head ashake
frowning down to my dismay
you burnt the roast on christmas day
we'll find the love in your mistake

she kissed me
i tasted the roast and it wasnt that bad

i mean, it was pretty bad
but it was still there.

all those chairs, a different person
neither in their finest version
let my love be a diversion
**** you from your introversion

i burnt the roast on christmas day
lets find the love in our mistakes