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.

You don't know what you got
'till it's gone.
As clichéd and overused a phrase
as anything I have ever heard.
And God, how I hate writing the clichéd.
But as true, is true, is true
you really don't know ****
until it leaves you.
Humorously enough though,
and I mean humorously in the most
ironic, sad-sacked way possible
it was I who broke it off.
In a nice way?
Hell no.
It was an over-the-phone
go **** yourself
that at the time I laughed at.
Well I still do.
But that's only when
I'm not looking at those
******* facebook photos
of her with another guy.
Sometimes I don't understand
my own sense of humor.

Sure it's bad
Sure it's bad
Sure it's Bad
Sure it's bad

but I won't stop
                                              till I'm ******* blood



sure it's Bad

And a bitter trust
decrepit
debauchery to follow
stay tuned in
or channel change
6,985 finger-licken flavors
choose.
Call that pro choice
-pro league
And never, ever ever
whatever you ever do
never decide
if it's right for you
Becuase **** it
it is
At least that's what they
told
me

No matter what ****
is about to
come up and
kick you in the *****.

No matter how nasty
and bleak
tomorrow looks.

Even if you are sure
it will be
the hardest,
and the toughest
day you will ever
have
in your entire life.

Know that eventually
the day
will end.

And the next one
will
be better.

The sapphire blue sky
Crystal clear,
Accent the mighty sun
Directly overhead.

Shining down
Radiation,
Warming children
Playing the green-blue
Waves.
And the parents, watching
From burning sand underfoot.

And I sit on a yellow and white
Chair,
rusty 'round the hinges.
Watching waves break
Turn to foam.
I hear the screaming and
giggling.
Shouts, and distant
Radio playing classic rock.

Thirsty, I pop open a coke.
I found one in a glass bottle.
Made in Mexico, with
Real sugar.

I take a gulp and I feel a
Bit cooler.
The puffy white clouds on the
Horizon
Now a little bigger
Begin to block the sun.

_____


The beach, now in shadows,
Sends families packing.
Bags filled hastily
with towels, sun
Screen and sand.

I sit back
An, look at the sand, and the
Sea.
Both the same dead-gray as the sky.
And I listen.



Silence.



Except
Waves crashing into foam.
And the hum
Of the wind,



Blowing

Across the top of my coke.

Death doesn’t scare me.
Neither does the process
of dying.

What terrifies me,
more than anything else,
is the thought
Of not being alive.

bitter ****** taste,
Defeat.
On the back of one’s tongue
Waiting
Stomach acid-like
to get you
when you are most lulled into your self-centered world
to soak you to your core
in cold, cold water
but you, oh noble you
waisting so much time in youthful giddiness about the job well done
now see it wasn’t
can take it back
well, no you cant.
but you can move on
that is,
unless you drown yourself in it
defeat.

**** 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 ****

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.

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.

God it is nice
lying
alone
in a big ol' bed
but
then again
it does
get a bit
tiring

March Madness

Villanova beat Pitt
I had no money on the game
I really didn’t care

Perhaps March with its
Big thaw
Always
Accompanied
By the frequent Colorado blizzard
Is its own madness

But I have no money on that game
either

Some *******,
*****, no good
*******
Puked all over
Our
Bathroom.

Again.

Normally I wouldn’t
mind
All that much,
But I really want
To shower.

Regret
It's one of those things
Get under your skin
Splinter-like
As ******* as getting them
old-broomstick style
Aggravatingly , not
Because they're there
But rather from how you got them
Poor. Life. Decisions.
7pm blackout in the scheme of things.
******* off, or on, maybe.
And the worst part
always being
That
You
Can
Do
Everything
In your own ******* right mind
To forget, or to move on
You can change your attitude
Your view on life
To reflect the "new-and-improved"
You.
But it will always be there,
Regret.

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.

Three
In the morning,
And I can’t help but
Notice that I’m a little too drunk.
Oh well,
I’m almost back at the dorm now.

I didn’t need to walk home,
But there is something
Comforting about the silence
Shattered only by a passing police car
Or taxi.

And my rhythmic breathing,
Steam from my mouth.
Snot about to drip from my nose.

And the weird shadows
That the streetlights give
To the grass,
And the trees.

It all might be forgotten
In the morning,
But for that walk home
It’s all I have.
And I love it.

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

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.

Seldom thoughts flow these days
Caught, up
in the inky tar and the
off-white pages
with their lines, black lines
separating
word from word
line from line
thought from liquid reality.
Or some reality,
For words unwritten
and thoughts unchecked.
Lacking color and opacity,
Failure to communicate
that type block iceberg.