you know, it's mornings like these...
lonely mothers on a bus
a man whose expression says less than I do
forlorn looks, contagious
passing from face to face
on air so thick like syrup
leaving impatient hands and eyes
sticky with fatigue

and comfort I take
for granted with ease
but on mornings like these...

out a window
I pick a fight
with an absent god
he stares back

and wary feet carry me here
I've never seen a place like this
so many people, their minds
somewhere else or maybe sleeping
they don't want to be here
who think of nothing but
what they don't have
and where they aren't

I pass my own eyes
a symptom of stillness--
the disease that kills itself
on mornings like these...

this is a place dead and thriving
a city hope-barron, bustling
blank, blank faces
float on a restless breeze

moving, always moving
but going nowhere

this ghost town abandoned
yes, but no one ever left

learn the world
inside and out
read the book
          through and
                    between the lines
gather your moments:
with those of chaos
                    put to rest
with those of silence
                    build safety
                    a sanctuary

I know that I belong to the ocean

that I belong to the gray
to the ankle deep foam
to the barnacles that cut tiny feet
as they scurry, searching for tide pools
to the miles and miles of sand and stones
and plastic memories of boat parties
to the age old trees washed up like whales
as dead as whales
to the treacherous rocks
jutting out, the bones of the earth
that are islands when the moon says so
to the things that live just out of sight
to the pebbles and shells in hands and pockets
to the cold that bites in the crashing waves
the mist of watery knives, cutting at my face
the seaweed pulling me down
the riptide stealing me out to sea

to the ocean, the ocean
alive beyond the sum of it's parts

hands
relics and rebels
count time in small cuts and hangnails
know more than their wearer
see clearer the pinprick of life
the pain emanating, stinging
and with grace
cautiously teaching

I always find myself
alone in my room reading
craigslist missed connections

it's better than books

it's an endless list
of lost, lonely, and lusting people

there are the one's who just want to
find that one smile again

there are the one's who made mistakes,
full of heartbreaking apologies

there are the one's who are posting
to the wrong page, they want something else

my favorites though
are the one's who aren't calling
for a lost and fleeting love,
or for anything
they encourage, praise, adore
the faceless stranger

these rare and beautiful people
selfless enough to take on
the loneliness of hundreds,
nameless
and thankless

my eyes hurt
and
   my head hurts
and
   my doubt
   my contempt
   my spite
              hurts.