Cold autumn day,
it seemed that the weather
decided to skip the fall
and move right into a cold and bitter rain.
Tapping down
on the hood of my jacket
and my rather-too-pronounced nose.
Stinging ever slightly,
I was distracted.
By the steam exiting my mouth
and the whine of a firetruck
racing off into the distance.
Distraction was taking me, reminding me
as cold and bitter as that rain.
I was not there.
I was half a year ago
with a girl I loved,
or perhaps didn't.
Together, on a twin mattress
listening to the patter of a cold, bitter rain
tapping on the window.

**** stinks but,
it is commonly known that
without ****, you
cannot have flowers, and
without flowers you
cannot have love.
But who in the world
would want something
that they knew
came from ****

I have no inspiration
so I walk down my street

but being suburbia, I
have no inspiration so
I drive to the end of town
where I can be alone except
for the occasional car
driving by,
and the occasional bird that
flies by
and perhaps the rabbit that
skips through the dry grass
waiting for spring to awaken it.

I sit next to a barbed wire fence
on a little rock
crouching, slightly uncomfortable, taking
in the moment.
Still no inspiration.

Slowly the dusty afternoon gives way
to a dusty sunset and
night eventually takes the land in its
purples and reds
and blues. And
I sit there,

shivering in the cold Colorado evening
and think.

Still no inspiration.

A rambling; no future.
Nothing to look forward,
I can’t even really grasp why
I’m here. But I am.
Ya, I sit and listen
Superficial.
Blackboard,
Professor,
Mind a million miles away.
A little drool at the corner
Of the kid’s
Mouth next to me.
Sick ****.
Those twenty thousand dollars
Burning a hole through my pocket.
Falling on the floor, right next…
**** bursar.
Tuition,
I could’a traveled the world.
Get out of this country.
But no, I’ll get my education.
Stick it through.
Thinking, all the time
That life
Is. Much. To. Short.
To be living in the classroom.

That's the problem with the internet:
Everyone can write poetry.
And a lot of 'em even get away with
it.

The old man sat in his
Little steel shed.
Under the light of a
yellow bulb,
breath foggy in the sharp
fall air.
Callused hands fumbling,
fiddling,
with a little fishing hook.

He coughed.
No blood.
Good, he thought.
I can fish tomorrow.

He was used
*****
Lying on the sidewalk.
Maybe sleeping,
May-be not.
But we won't know,
Nobody ever will.
It's easier to just
Cross the street
And keep on walking.