I'm in love with the world but not all of it,
Got a new job, and an old news summer *****.
Got a nice place to play all my pretty songs in,
Made some mistakes/changes, we all living in sin.
Want to Tom Ford on runway, jet plane,
Wondering why I'm for it, cuz my dreams ain't far away.
I be working on it, no joke, like all day,
I'd be dying for it but I want to stay healthy.
Smoking cigarettes, blunt wraps, filled with all ****,
Super duper dank, got my syntax off play.
Off broadway, bring a new style of the same old thing.
Wanna make love but she always choosay.

Yu know when you know.
Then you know you can will it not,
In fact knowing is a matter of a 'proactively pursuit'.
The battle is your own laziness.
That's why it's good to be as keen on how they move, in the streets it ain't the same.

I saw you last year,
you performed a set--
all original pieces--
all songs. i couldn't take
my eyes off you.
you were outside of
the restaurant
Isaac's
downtown.
a girl walked up to me, or I to her. AW and I talked with
her--she's a friend, she's got a great voice.
there was a man who proudly
identified himself as a rapper
but couldn't spit a lick of rhyme.
i left in between cigarettes.
a year later I'm enrolled in
the local community college,
entering intro to music theory with PS
and
there you were. i didn't speak to you
because i hadn't remembered you--that's what i told myself i'd tell you if you ever mentioned seeing me before, you didn't mention it--
instantly i thought of every reason
not to talk to you and believed most of them.
weeks passed.
one week in particular you
had been absent. it started to happen again. i trashed myself for not speaking to you.
i was an idiot.
coffee & strawberry was a freaky friday coincidence
until i read the personality parallels.
i swear i just read them sunday.
if you're reading this. it's legitimate.
these things aren't just random.
unless they are

morality propagates.
if crumbs are on your hand, brush them off before someone sees.
tweet how you don't care.
wash your hands.
dry them with your shirt as you tweet how washing is overrated.
you barely touched anything.
crap luck--it's life.
how observant.
how in-attentionally blinding.
how to walk a mile in her shoes.
it's not good for the sole;
but it's good for the soul.
we are in his image.
be more like him.
draft an article with facts supporting his non-existence.
that was pretty heavy.
that pays rent.
prepare for ramifications.
don't have a smoke & a pancake.
the hand is only as deep as the ******* is long.
at which point am I paid?
love can be a box in an evidence room.
she murdered me and I'm still dying.
still love.
at the end does he die trying to get the girl?
no.
he dies clearing his browsing history.
he dies deleting photos.
that doesn't mean we stop.

I'm angry and agitated and pent-up.
ignored and perhaps forgotten—or thought of as if to regret ending something perfectly fine.
people are talking downstairs, saying nothing.
I don't want to live.
I want to die, and die well to make sure I'm dead.
I want to die and not haunt anyone or be a dust-collecting memory in a display case of what once meant something.
I want to die. So. Hard. I'm angry that I took 16 breaths just now.
I want to die and not have a funeral because I don't want people to be in that awkward position.
I want to die and not disappear off the grid but actually lay ca-put in a grave; my soul rejoices or cries; i don't know.
Throwing tantrums because life’s curtain has been reluctant to close is looked down upon in society—apparently.
I'm tired of 'white' 'black' 'hot' ‘unattractive’ 'poor' 'rich'.
I hope everyone has a ****** day tomorrow.
I type this on an imagined-into-existence phone—that has no service—by a guy whose name also means 'occupations'.
I type it on a phone because an ******* is hogging the outdated pc with a new battery pack because that same ******* wore the chord out.
it's not that I don't know what to do with my life; I just want to die.
that's what I want to do.
die.
that's all.
But perhaps be in a focused band that plays pretty good music, first.

pretty high and active, my friend and i, walked around the city neighborhoods with the sole intent to find drunk college girls.

we made a half-assed assesment of the comatose'd streets and walked into the park saying how the college girls missed out; or had already passed out.

on the way to the bench i fumbled around my jean pocket to grab my knife; picked up a long branch under a tree as we passed.

when i sat down i began to shave the branch of its bark. my friend took selfies.

~10 minutes of shaving later, i propped the branch against my shoulder to cut off a few protruding bumps--like baked moles.

he asked, what are you doing?

making a walking stick.

that'll take a long time.

i know.

mid-scrape i looked over at him and remarked, this is what it must feel like to play cello.

a man held a sign that read "homeless vet. anything will help. will work. thank you & god bless."

i told my friend that America has ****** up. he concurred, and added that he supports increased military spending to aid veterans. we drove off.

then he looked at me and said "you know, he didn't even look homeless"

somehow I blame this on the cancer causing chemicals in our food that is banned in every other country.

I still want to punch him. a black eye may help him see.

from behind    a locked door
I tell you to leave me     alone.

laying horizontally is an eastern
yoga relaxant for food babies.

I learned this while running in Chinatown
with stolen cash after a mob dinner.

the bodyguard knocked me out and my
stomach felt great as I layed their on the street.

aside from the headache,
and the mild Head-On addiction

I was fine and very sleepy.

laying horizontally is an eastern
yoga relaxant for food babies.

I learned this while running in Chinatown
with stolen cash after a mob dinner.

the bodyguard knocked me out and my
stomach felt great as I layed their on the street.

aside from the headache,
and the mild Head-On addiction

I was fine and very sleepy.

raised by a pack of cigarettes.
easier to quit--
tossed into a roadside ditch.
            •••

your attention span is horrible.
you just proved my point.
I still love you.
         •••

I'll be your empty glass bottle
collecting dust as you collect me--
you'll wipe me off someday
            •••

I miss the fresh air.
google searched fresh air,
ordered Febreeze.
          •••

I'm sleeping next to you
in the morning after
I'm that type.

the older ones are more sturdy;
you feel grounded when you sit down.
the newer ones are illusory;
you'll think you're grounded, but it's just way too comfortable to be sure.
if you sit long enough on the new ones you might fall through the expensive fluff supporting your inactive derrière.
the older ones won't do that to you;
they were hand-crafted with care, molded to never let your *** tumble to the floor
in a frantic attempt to grab onto something, or just to protect your heart from breaking on the splintered wood.
that and the new ones have a Made in China sticker on the left legs.

a kiss
one day I'll be nothing
the best days of my life have been embarrassing myself on social media
it's constant.

there is no sound in the world
muddy infrared generalizations recognized as awareness
in deep thought means I stare at an object in silence.

since then a spider has become more nothing than usual
I think I might have died too
passion for writing is the chemical decay so carbon dating is calculated through words

the truth has never emptied me so thoroughly
my headache is gone, I wish this was good news
a kiss is worth savoring like the number of days your friend's Netflix account stays active

what did God try to create
a reality where one can receive a MFA in loneliness and still manage to be unemployed
that is a distinguished honor especially since Facebook has been pivotal

she was my most loved rainy day--
on this day, as rain fell,
smoke rose above houses, engines whirled and honked, relinquishing fierce flames--
she passed like a hurricane with stronger winds than I had prepared for, knocking me down, cradling my head as I descended. if I was God every day would be torrential downpour, with me,
but everything good doesn't last,
even when you pray tears out of your blessed eyes.
until we are reunited, I await the next season.

this is why i'm not getting married
**** me
bury me with a teddy bear
it would be considered too hot for
more friction, the kind that doesn't result in
smelly sheets, obviously not here, to them.
**** me
bury me with earplugs but put them in after
I decide to leave
tell most of the women whom I would've loved if they'd let me
that I love them, if you're stumped I'll write a list:
Grace
Caitlin
Courtney
Aubrey
Kate
Malena
**** me
bury me with stardust so I can fit in wherever I'm going

What the hell are you saying nowadays?
Running off the children,
Tainting the allure with excessive fog induced effects.

Why should they want to hear you if they
don't know what you're saying?
Take a moment, wash your lens
with pristine sheen--clear the speakers.

The whole point is to get them to see
not to beguile them into
your maddening twisted sickness!

For the world's sake brothers
For all of your precious ways sisters
Speak to the wind so that it may carry who you are!

Twenty-even nostrils in stale air
& not one of them flares--
so little that I'd lost
the jewel of their significance--

carrying upon them, then,
much of it--
continuing in spite--
in a sense, meaningless.

for instance, a grand trine--
time reading, time writing,
time dismissing it as *******;

all frivolous & thus comes wisdom
from temerity or
thought plus action in callow degrees--
such Incoherence derives out of tumult.

A foreground.

Four uneven walls make their own doorway to heaven
because the gates are resolute in steadfastness and I'm becoming impatient.

No woman
loved
a penniless prince
is the title of our children's
child's book
because the truth should be told
before a smoking barrel
sings the eulogy of
a rejected Romeo.

Not a poem goes by
that strikes me violent with life
as if the author murdered to
enchant each word
& each letter testifies against him
& his mother cries in newly purchased fabric--
she instinctively wore
no make up--
& his guardian angel shields its eyes, pureness tainted,
obligated on strict orders to stick around--
wings wet in the rainfall.

I'm not a poet
of my time just because
I go on long walks.
I don't see anything or hear anything that
a real poet would,
I just sing to myself.
Most often singing softer than the thud of my footsteps.

You're a teenage boy,
She tells me,
You're just having puberty mood swings,
She tells me,
If you do decide to die write me a note,
I stop.

Poe--Whitman--
how I cradle your aesthetic!
I sing my body in electrical wires
& hurry the darkness in,
as it is late.
Ms Dickinson,
your fly is now upon my window,
perhaps teasing me at the
sound of my pleas.
Where are you?
Ginsberg you're not talking
to me about god & beauty & life;
Neither shall the
romantic maniacs, nor any
prissy royalty who loved living
their wealth.
Mr. Frost I choose life at the dead end!
Mr. Faulkner I choose to hate you!
Mr. Bukowski I'm sorry you couldn't make it for coffee
you wouldn't have enjoyed the
waitresses anyway.
Neruda, you taught me
nothing of love--you should have--
& W.C. Williams
reading you would defeat
the purpose of trying to die, so as much as it pains me
I'll have to pass,
maybe tomorrow though.

I pick up my
phone and try to write
a real good poem, something
with substance &
all I can think about is the girl
who lives across town,
who stays in her room,
who proclaimed that she could sleep in my hugs forever,
who told me that we were going to be best friends for a long time--
& if she couldn't stand all the "other guys" then she'd marry me
at 40 years old,
who doesn't talk much anymore,
who was ***** as a child,
who cried on my shoulder--arm around mine--
and how much I love her
but can't because she's afraid
of males.
I don't think she sees how much it
kills me to know she suffers
and I'm not able to build a time machine.

night has passed
clanking and exhaling,
small talks of large projects, conundrums;
oak wood canines roam in bliss
new found love found lager
new found lover found a big stomach in the morning
and a smile on his face, not penetrating his soul.
deep and shallow, bodies of water dig going with the flow.
perhaps a bowl of cereal is in the general direction we're floating,
huzzah, brumah, and lack-lack.

I draw a blank--cheap printer paper--
Every time it rains, as if
the liquid slapping sounds; the trickling down avenue sounds,
clear my head space so I may finally hear God say something.
Whether he speaks volumes or not
his lips are moist enough to spit.

The world ended,
I ruffle my blanket to
cover
my cold feet.

A lovely
soundtrack of birds
chortle outside; never mind the mechanical
croaks & ***** howls.

I haven't seen a human
all day. The most underrated
turn-off is a mirror,
as I think to myself.

She must be distraught, on the
other side of town,
while I am loosely here
& not a text to cool me down.

The train conductor ***** the horn quietly, to not awaken the babies
a mother next door has cried over for weeks--
A response team arrived twenty minutes after gas crept from the walls in satiated exultation--
Our sky wishes to be alone tonight--
It turns out the water heater was inexperienced and quit.