**** you Halloween
It's Gobstoppers and Sweet Tarts
For breakfast, I guess

Ah **** man, my bad
I wanted to write something
And now I'm too drunk

I was at an art museum and
I saw these girls snickering around a
Collection of black and white photographs
In a corner of the gallery

As I approached they moved on
But not before I heard one of them say
"Who wants to look at pictures of an old guy's ****"

The photographs in question did have a rather large picture
Of an old man's *****, but there we’re others
Pictures of his hands, feet, face
All zoomed in enough that you could see his skin
In detail

In the wrinkles, freckles, and weathered lines
Of this old man you could see an entire
Lifetime on display
The time etching into his surface
Like the needle into a warm wax cylinder
The song of his years played as lines and furrows

A venerable road map of a life lived

As for the ****
I'm sure that thing had some miles put
On it too.

I woke up this morning
Depressed from a dream

In the dream, I was cradling
A little yellow bird
In my hands
I could feel a strong attraction
A bond
Love
For the small yellow bird
As it cheeped gingerly
In my cupped hands

I was walking through a vast field
With a carpet of waist high grass
With the little yellow bird


I told it to fly
And opened it's makeshift cage of
Flesh blood and bone
And it took off

But it had only just left my hands
When it dropped dead
Its tiny body being lost
In the gently blowing
Waist high reeds

I bent down and picked up its limp frame
One wing splayed over the edge of my palm
And I wept

I dropped to my knees and wept
The grass touching my face

Then I woke up
And I looked out the fogged, wet window
But outside
All the birds were black.

Life is
Time sitting
Stale on the back of the tongue

A lot of it is not worth tasting
Like when a girl says she doesn’t
Love you like you love her
Or that she has your baby
And its only been a few months

It’s stale on the tongue

Why taste bitterness
When you can taste nothing
At all?
What’s the point
Of flailing in the void
Paroxysm on the floor
Of the pit
As opposed to passing
Through the afternoon air
Like a shadow in summer:

Stale on the tongue
Easy in the mind
Numb like a
Curled autumn leaf in
The swirling winds of autumn

What does one write when the feeling flows through them
But the words keep getting sifted out?

A blank canvas
Is a blank canvas
Is a blank canvas

It's hard to write something that
Really means anything
It sounds cliche
Because it is

"Buy into my creative work
Because I lack the creativity
To make it genuine"

But really
Sometimes I feel the current of
Violence
Creativity
Passion
Rip through me
Just under the skin and
I can't find the words that can make it
Mean something to anyone else

So here is to all the unwritten words
Hidden grins and
Bitten tongues
For those that feel the wave
But can't figure out
How to ride it.

Yeah, it can get rough sometimes
But one day
You'll learn to **** on
Your own stings
And you'll swim uninterrupted