I had this friend, he liked to scream
(every kind of scream)
He screamed at police cars, screamed at incoming phone calls
He screamed at the mirror, screamed for ice cream
He screamed over the sound of the vacuum, under the sound of collapsing walls

Sometimes the sound gathered crowds
(it was a truly remarkable sound, never even slightly modest, entirely desperate)
He screamed his nightmares, screamed at those pills
He screamed at his feet, he screamed at the clouds
He screamed at my hands, at the dust gathering on window sills

He screamed his laughter
(what a *****, haunting melody)
He screamed my secrets, screamed into the carpet
He screamed at the ball drop, before, during, and after
He screamed at that word, screamed at a kiss on the television set

He screamed that he wasn’t crazy
(through the crack under the door)
But they sent him away anyway
They told me he wasn’t real

I know that’s a lie because I can still hear him

I wait at the window and I watch her sitting out there in the air, empty and open to the early morning.

I am motionless and I wonder if I went out there and stood looking at her if she would feel in that moment that life and death themselves were the simplest things anyone would ever know and that questions were more fulfilling than the answers. That our brokenness was our only claim to existence.
We would be aware, but untouched. One second would trip on the next and we would surface and the roar would fill our heads again.

She blinks and focuses, she sees me. She looks at me with an apology on her face, waiting for something readable on mine.

Well, I guess I always thought it would feel different in the moment when someone saved my life. I thought I would feel more than this, but all I feel is white.

I'm in love with a balloon
who's always confused
we blew him up with our mouths
so he just rolls around the floor
I used to think we were good friends
but when I left he stayed
I tried to keep in contact
but he never had anything to say
I knew the weeks would pass
and he would slowly decay
but I still can't help but miss him
Francios was his name

The woman on the corner forgot to shave her legs,
but  men are only interested in  soft women,
inside and out.
She couldn't  go home, or call,
because she didn't have a phone.
So she sat on the corner
with nothing to keep her warm
except the hair on her legs.

A man walked by who wanted her service,
he had a bag of lemons and an old watch,
she noticed he was wearing shorts,
the amount of  hair on his legs made her feel better.

I can't stand it when people bite their nails
or when children grow up;
I hate to see grown men act
because, frankly, they are bad at it;
I don't like girls who are phonies
or guys who are flits;
I certainly do miss Jane,
but by now I bet she's forgotten me.
As all people will,
as I sip my fifth cup of coffee
and drag on countless cigarettes
and meet exciting hookers
and become a super hero,
I only think of how I like no one
and how no one likes me either.

I guess I left because I needed to be depressed somewhere else,
I wanted the chance to forget everyone I knew so that I could find out what I wanted.
For a while I liked things, then I thought they were okay.
I got really into it for a while,
then when I stopped liking it:
I said it was interesting,
trying to avoid any real answer
(or commitment).

I got really sick of looking in the mirror,
but I couldn't get rid of it,
so I bleached my hair,
which was a waste of $13
because I cut it off the morning after.

I was really embarrassed when your friend came over,
he was cute,
you told me there were clothes in the trash bags he carried.
(apparently they were for me)

I decided to clean the kitchen for a few bucks
so that I could get a wig at the local thrift store.
(I figured he wouldn't want to date me if I was bald).
When I got to the thrift store it was closed
and there was a drunk man passed out by the front door.
I thought about waking him up, but I was too shy.

I ran home
because it was getting late
and I'm afraid of the dark.

The first thing when I got in the door
I went to get a glass of water,
the sink was full with all the dishes I just washed.
(apparently they weren't good enough)

I never realized that hot water could whistle,
or that it could hurt so much.
I washed through the pain.
When I got to the silverware
it reminded me of a conversation
that I had with some close friends.
One of them told me they put one between each finger
like a claw,
I tried to do it
but my impatience got the better of me.

We're romantics,
pretty gossipers.

We try as hard as we can to escape the world with pens,
and we soak page after page,
imagining the ink to be our tears.

We're depressed,
lost travelers.

The words; each hand picked to portray something only we can understand.
Our desperate search for empathy is sickening,
and yet it continues.

We're sweet,
helpless lovers.

We fall in love with every person we see with a symmetrical (enough) face.
Picking up habits that we've read in books,
or saw in an old film.

Why are we poets?