I long to be aside the trees
By the river that I once knew
Before the storms had stripped the breeze
And the fog had stolen the dew

Once, I returned to that old bed
That captured my time as a boy
I thought the trip would clear my head
That the sun I could still enjoy

Laying upon the cracked, dried clay
Where I’d sit all those years ago
Wasn’t the same as in my day
When my heart knew nothing of snow.

Life is a multitude of refusals
I am not this, I refuse to be
For this is not enough.

First I must be something other
Than what I am-
Then I’ll be me.

I am not your brother,
Not today at least
For this is not enough.

First I must become
As the others are, and
then I will be me.

I am not a dancer,
Though I move my feet-
For this is not enough.

First I must be educated
On that which must be free,
and then
I will be me.

I am not much of anything,
As far as I can see
For this is not enough
For somebody to be.

First I will move somewhere
Far away from me
Where I no longer see myself-
Then I will be me.

Lion and lamb, lover and fiend
Steam and shine, fine and crude
Through this and more I would careen
To be to you what you’re to me-
Sweet fantasy, from dreams removed.

Looking at you, i have to wonder:
Can you see both of me?
Like watching a ragged little dog
Chasing itself around the base of a tree-
Head, now tail, now head, now tail
What must be going through its mind?
Because right now I’m all head, I’m sure of it-
But last night I was all tail, did you know?
Helpless little thing could
Spin itself sick with this
Round-the-tree
Is-a-friend
Got-to-get
Round-the-tree.
So if you’re watching,
Just give it a shout
Or let it run
Until you’ve seen enough.

It could be
If you would allow it.
That mural of fantasy
Running along the lazy arms
Of this day’s familiar clock.

It could be
If you would allow it.
The precious musings
Of that mind, so unoccupied
By the safety of this routine

It could be
If you would allow it.
A failure in a beautiful place
Or even a tragedy,
Altogether fruitless

But until then-
This is.
You allow it.

There is a power
  In the slightest smirk
At the dour face
  Of the reapers work

A hopeless joy
  That can't be crushed
Or ripped apart
   By vicious rush

With that seed
   In soil- defeat
Sprouts ropey vine,
   Humanity.

And so it goes
   Until the end
This bitter fight
   Of death and men.

The world has no
Negative numbers.
Things just add up,
or multiply
Until they're inevitably
Written over.

We know this,
Late at night
Hoping for a
Take back.

I could've been anything.
I was so sure of it
before I knew the first thing
about myself.

I could've done it all -
with time to spare

Left the mundane
somewhere near the start
so I would know if I was
walking in circles.

I could've written
my story,
now it seems
I'm no longer
the author.

I just have to look
at you
to feel it.

To know it
I have to look
away.

Like the pages
of a book
mid-tornado,

Fragments of
information, the pieces
all out of place.

Still,

I believe you
beg to be
read.

This is tiresome

The thrashing energy
The struggling concepts of
This interior and that exterior

The back and forth,
The up all night but
Still dreaming

The "am I crazy?",
The hopeless spirals
That circle and drain into
The soil, and plant
The "It's gonna be ok"
That sprouts a new day

This cage is sound proof.
When I feel the need to say
Something nasty
I scream it until my voice
Is nothing but
A hoarse
whisper.

I could say the meanest,
Most unsavory things

And you'll never hear them.
Unless you find
A way
In.

If you have one too,
A cage I mean,
Scream in it.
Then listen:
Nothing.

In my mind
Everything has a cabinet
Separated, organized,
Tiled clearly and labeled with
Well written titles
For easy access
When needed

Then you happened

Now the aisles of mind
Are covered in all the things
I organized so finely,
And I can never find
The things I need to say
Because they're all
Mixed up.

If you could be anyone at all
And walk any path
Who would you be?
If you could see the world
As it is
What would you see?
If you were me
And I were you
What would I dream?
Of love and confusion?
Of untidy rooms lazily
Letting the days pass by?
Of the end of the world
Or at least the end
Of a world?
Or maybe someplace better.
If it didn't end would there be more?
Or would it all mean less
When the mornings never end?
If life wasn't brief
Would the immortals be seeking
The fountain of sleep?
Whether it's meaningful
Or meaningless
It may be better
Than what it isn't.

The 'ists keep talking to me
Reciting from memory
Something that came to them
When they needed it

They tell me I need them too
Their 'isms
Because if I don't have an 'ism
Then I must be miserable

I nod my head
Single syllables are enough
To give them the feeling
That they've helped me somehow

Despite their insightful 'isms
They're easily agitated
By something as common as
Another 'ist

You've been dying for some time now
Stooping a little more each day
You are
A reminder for the old
An adventure for the young
An eyesore for those who are neither
And now that you've endured
Years of negligence,
Centuries of singularity
You're scheduled to be reduced
To rubble
To be buried
Under an usurper who is
Clueless to what lies ahead

A pretty stranger
Walked into my life
And took photos
Of things I see
Every day

If you should see them
Would you let me know
What things I see
Every day
Really look like?

Birds are singing lullabies
To these weary ears of mine
As the rest of the world wakes

Strained eyes track the silent climb
Of six little legs that stride
Curiously up the wall

It must be hard to be small
Or to clamber up my wall
Only to find the ceiling

But size hasn't changed my climb
I'm still tired, spending this time
Staring at the ceiling.

Smoky little bar
In my head, How far away
You must be from here

Tomorrow is just
One more step towards that place
Where I'll rest my hat

Until I arrive
I hope those doors are well used
And the nights go on

Ill see you all soon
Sharing old stories in that
Smoky little bar

I just need
a guiding light
that doesn't
pretend it's better than
I am,
I'm not far, but I've passed
that point.

That pointless
pointing and swearing
that others are missing the
answer
you've found on
signposts a few feet
beside the highway.

Thing is: if you're
where you need to be
you wouldn't still be
driving.

There are places on earth
That carry the song,
The story of the common
Curious adventurers
Who've come
Who've gone.

There are miles of land
Upturned, destroyed
Tamed and revived
To house the inhabitants
Of a younger kind,
Timid eyed, though
Bolder in time.

There are streets filled
With a daily tide
Of do-wells, lookers,
And passers by
Who beat hides strung
Taught across habits
Long refined.

There are minds
Constantly eyeing
The time,
Buying ideas,
Borrowing lines
From the lyrics
Of the song
So peerless and fine
That drifts from the evenings,
Days, years of convening
Spirits
To the ears of you and I.

You hear it too,
Of course you do,
You're a note
Or a chord,
Or a melody true,
Crisp, settling into
This movement
To tell the next
Troupe
A little bit
Of me
Of you.

Tires
Slipping
Into casts
Of crackling,
Crunchy
Slush

Problem being
I move from
The bottom
Up,
Not the back
Or front

With each
Rotation
I get just
A little
More stuck.

I said what
I said,
And yeah,
I meant what
I said,
But,
I didn't say what
I meant.

It slipped out
Like silver
In the wash,

Forgotten until
It started making
Funny noises.

If you're so
Intent to receive
Your ten cents,
Feel free,

It only proves
That you're
The one who
Needs change.

How will
It end?

Like a fly
To a lightbulb

Or a hand
To a burner

Persist
Or learn?

As you stay in the past
It grows,
But you don't.

Forget remembering.

A man sat in his study
Pulling lines and textures
Across canvas hearts
And clay faces.

Each detail complicated
the puzzle behind his eyes
Which he could only finish
With the piece he couldn't find.

And now the man is gone,
But the cage he once tended
Is filled with countless tenants
Each beautifully unfinished.

If it's there
Under
That hat,
Give it to me.

So I might
run with it
Somewhere
Better than here.

And bury
It among
The important
Little details.

Been planting
Three
For each
I take,
And now
I have
more trees
Than space.

Scrubbing pans,
Shelving plates,
Furiously throwing
Myself into the day
To get through it.

Everything's clean,
And I'm sweating
But nobody can tell,
I'm supposed to be wet.

Maybe I'll save up,
And I'll get out,
Or I'll give up,
I'll drop out
Of this thing
Back to nothing.

But nothing puts
A chill in me
Because I'm afraid
Nothing could be worse.

So here I'll stay
Until nothing
Comes to me.

Another advertisement
Shamelessly attacking
Empathic people
With the capacity
To give.

I just wanna burn it.

Another persons corpse,
Crushed by the
Curse of the first world:
Consumption.

I just wanna burn it.

If slashed prices
And nice discounts
Outweigh the lives
Trampled out,

If going without
Luxury is harder
Than going out
Of your way to help
Others who are on
The precipice of
Helplessness,

If this is what
Christmas is,

I just wanna burn it.

Of a few things,
Rarely true, but
Stinging of what
Blues singers sing.

I'm aware

Of pretty faces,
Saying things,
Going places,
Never placing
Their bets.

I'm aware

Of racing hearts,
Stationary minds,
Never finding
Time for breath.

I'm aware

Of quiet lives,
And daily drives,
Of hard work,
Of lonely nights.


I'm aware
Of all these scenes
But they're never as
The blues said they'd be.

Writings state:
It can't be that bad.
The pearly gates,
Or the pen and the pad.

Experiencing nothing
Is troubling because
Experiencing something
Is spoiling us.

The things we see
Once never were
And now that they are
We're left unsure

If the nothing before
Could be compared
To the nothing after
The grave is prepared.

So what is this?
Will we remember it?


Or is memory just a
Consequence
Of being conscious
Of this thing?

A house full of
Old memories
And
Photos full of
Young faces.

What'll they do with them
When we're gone?

I don't care.
Can't live in days past.

I may only live right now,
Right here with you.

And I know that our story
Is more than photographs.

It is love, freely given,
And precious.

As long as that endures
We will live on.

What will you eat on the day that you die?
Will it be savory?
Sweet?
Pan fried?
Will you try something new?
Or maybe decide
To skip the dining and get through
To whatever's on the other side?
Sorry, that was a bit morbid.
I've been mulling over this, preoccupied:
What I will eat on the day I die?
Now I've finally made up my mind.
I'll stay true to my favorite,
Just a burger and fries,
If I can choose what I eat on the day that I die.

I won't find you
In the passenger seat,
In passing faces,
In passages
From past
conversations.

I won't find you
In these places,
But I'll look.

The rich do it,
And so do the poor.

The greatest, The brightest,
All nothing more

Than a wick, ignited
And struggling for

More air;
More time to discern

What will happen
When there's nothing left to burn.

Time has the tendency to slow a man down.

When he tries to find a way to forget it,

It's quick to grab him, wrap around

His wrist and say

Watch.

I've often been told
I look better
minus my glasses
but then,
so does everyone else.

You remember him
Up before the birds would sing
It was all for you.


The lights are still on
The camera keeps rolling
It's not gonna end.


Mark your calendar
Wait enthusiastically
Then find something else.


An apology
To the world and it's faces:
I'm doing my best.

I could pretend to be asleep
Pretty easily, wrapped up
With sheets and distracted
By dreams, breathing deeply.

I could explain what it is to be
Comfortable, forgetting common
sense and getting caught up in realities
that slip away with the covers.

I could define words like "snore",
"rest", or "relax", but it seems
That when I seek to end the day
The finish line looks a bit dreary:

Another day of the same people,
The same fears, the same problems,
and the same yearning for something
I don't even recognize.

Walking in yesterdays footprints
so closely that with practice
I may be able to step on
My own heels.

I could go to sleep I suppose,
But I fear that might bring
Another day.
So for now, I'll stay awake.

I wasn't a man lost in the desert,
I was a man who did not believe in water.
I walked barefoot on the sand,
A merchant's caravan with nothing to sell.

I wasn't trapped in a dark place,
I simply never sought to open my eyes.
I betrayed the darkness with my skin,
A sickly ghost in a sea of shadow.

I stumbled along seeing but not looking,
As my uneven gait slowed to a drag.
I pulled lines through the sand
With two uncooperative pens.

I wasn't there
As I fell to my hands, and then
To my face, as the grains washed
Over my cheeks and filled my nose with brine

I wasn't in need of water,
I was in need of a boat.
Awash in monstrous waves
That tore away the world.

The very thing I needed
Was now threatening to be my end.
I closed my eyes and held my breath
And decided it wasn't real.


I wasn't a man lost in the desert,
I was a man who did not believe in water.

The sand burned and bit at my toes
As I stumbled along the dunes
The world thrashed, and in its throes
I found myself trapped and marooned.

You weren't a lake,
Nor a great typhoon,
But one cloud who would take
My hopes and dash them as you moved.

As you were swept away to new places
I cried my last tears, my water wasted.
You drifted off to wet ungrateful faces,
But you could've been my oasis.