Monitoring her golden
Who was having stomach
Troubles and leaving
Sticky brown puddles
Drying in the sun
With shiny green
Bloated flys swarming
I walked through the
Backyard with him

On the side of her
Shed a blanket of
Aphid pockmarked
Bushes hugged the
Plastic siding

And a single
Spindly branch
Covered in thorns
Protruded from their
Wilted clutches
And presented
One pink flower
Layered with satin
Petals to the sun
Bobbing contently in
The late morning wind

Even though she is inside
On the couch
Here
She is also with me

I carry this pit
With me everyday

Sometimes it's in my
Stomach
My back
My neck
The bottoms of
My feet
The back of my
Mind

It never goes
Away
It just moves

It seems to grow
Barbs when my
Thoughts shift
To it
As they usually
Do seemingly
Out of nowhere

Sometimes early
In the morning
Or late at night
Depending on how
You look at things
I can feel the pit
In mid transit

Looking for the
Discarded trash and
Snapped twigs of
A new nest
A new perch to
Take up residence

There is no point
To the pit
It is absurd
Because it exists
It is the
Materialization
Of all the

Rejected submissions
Sideways glances
Passing snickers
Passive aggressive emails
Shelves of unread books
Dust bunnies in the corner
Creaking of floor boards
Board meetings

Clenching of teeth behind
Closed lips

The fading din of a
Conversation as you
Enter the room

Obelisks of junk mail
That choke the
Arteries of the earth

Lies that canoe through
Your teeth into
The sea of
Pointless small talk

Time

A peach rotting
In a ceramic bowl
In a watercolor kitchen
Until the only thing left
Is the pit

Hey pineapple
I’m sorry I loved you so much
Before I even got a chance to meet you
And now your mom and I are here
And my diaphragm keeps locking up
My face slick with tears

Hey pineapple
I feel like I’m on a little tin row boat
With no oars but the water is calm
Still, I keep getting pulled away from you
And you’re waving to me from the dock
Not sad
Just there

“Bye dad”
“Bye buddy. You know how much I love you?”
“Yeah dad”

And the water isn’t moving but the dock keeps getting further away

Hey pineapple
I’m so sorry
I’ve been buying video games to play with you
And books to read you
Your mom and I had already started arguing about what to do with you when
The best time to take you target shooting
What to tell you about god (and my lack of it)
We got ahead of ourselves
Can you blame us?

Hey pineapple
I really hope that
Even though I don’t believe in a lot of things
I believed in how much I loved you
How great my life would have been with you in it
How happy you would have made your mom and I
How smart and funny you would have been

Hey pineapple
Did you know
Your aunt Sarah named you
It was the picture of you as an embryo
“I don’t know what I’m looking at, it looks like a pineapple”

Hey pineapple
I’m sorry buddy
I’ll just have to meet you elsewhere
Instead of where we should have met
In a stare while you lay swaddled in my arms
A small smile or belly laugh
Feeling you breath against my chest


Hey pineapple
I’m sorry

Hey pineapple
Its only been a few hours since you left
My chapstick fell over on the nightstand
Was that you?
Did you bump that on the way out of our room?
The tiny ***** popped out of my glasses
Did you do that too?

Hey pineapple
I walked past the empty middle room that was going to be yours just now
And grief hit me like a brick in the chest
I hurried past
I don’t like looking in there right now

Hey pineapple
I made my tea this morning like a drinking bird
Just dipping the steeper into the water mechanically
Staring intently at nothing
Like you had your tiny hands over my eyes
I have caught myself doing that a lot this morning

Hey pineapple
The house feels a lot stiller now
But there is no peace here
I can already feel my despair turning into rage
At everything and nothing

Hey pineapple
Sorry I keep reaching out to you
Your mom keeps saying “I feel dead inside”
We have to keep walking in on each other crying
And numbly holding each other
Everything is numb

Hey pineapple
I know I already said it
But I’m sorry

I have two things to say about planes:

1. Ginger Ale will never taste better than when you're on a plane.

2. Why the hell do they put the volume and channel controls on the arm rest of the person next to you?

Both these facts make no sense.
But they're true.

I heard a girl
With her leg drapped
Over her boyfriend
On the train

"And like
I don't know why
I'm responsible for
The rent, chase
He should pay
All my rent and---"

Her boyfriend nodded
His head like an
Obedient boyfriend should
Many
"Yes babe"
"Chase should pay"
"You're the best"

I looked out the window
We had been stalled in
The sanguine of the
Penn station tunnel for
Fifteen minutes

Lots of trash
On those tracks
The smashed husks of
Super sized sodas
And the yellowed
Flayed remains of
Plastic bags

The materialization of
An entire species
Concentrated apathy
Decorating the lowest
Circle of its
Most desirable city

We pass an empty
Adjacent train
My eyes dart from
Window to window
The vacant seats
Face their respective
Directions and
The windows
Are still stained with
The fog of human heat

I think about
Islands made of plastic
In the middle of the
Ocean
And
How chase should
Pay the rent

A woman at my work
Resigned
Amid many tears
And bouquets of
Flowers

She'd been with
The same company
For twenty years

She made an announcement
To my coworkers and I
"Tomorrow everyone is
getting together at the
Tap house, you guys are
Welcome to come"

My one coworker
A bean pole with
A ***** blonde
Ponytail and goatee
Agreed to go
Before she had even
Finished speaking
He's 37 and
Still lives with his
Parents and has
No desire to do
Anything
He once told me
That he didn't get
Why people went to
The beach

"Why go to the beach
When I can sit by
My pool? There's nothing
The beach offers that
My pool doesn't"

Anyone that can't tell
The difference between
A chemically shocked
Puddle in a backyard
And
The vast living
Expanses
Of the ocean
Should be considered
A danger to public
Health

Plus
Like people with two
First names
I don't trust men
With ponytails

I figured I'd go
I don't mind most of
The people I work with
Except for the
Ponytailed ***** boy

But then I started
To think about all
The times that this
Woman had:

Purposely stepped over
The morning
Paper so that I would
Have to bring it in

Threw her hands
Up in disgust when the
Copier was out of paper
And told me to fill it
Over her shoulder while
Walking to her office

Told me to fill
The coffee maker
With water while she
Clicked her tongue
And painted her nails

Threw work on my desk
Without a word
Wandering off to a
Higher floor to
Chortle behind a closed
Door with one of the
CFOs or CEOs or
Whoever the ****

But worst of all she
Thought ventriloquists
Were genuinely funny

I figured
That after two years
She was the one
That should buy me
A drink

I fall like rain drops for you
And collect like puddles under your feet
Fetid liquid hoping just to feel
The sole of your shoe
Or to kick up onto the
Fresh shaved softness of your calf

Even after the rain stops
I will always be present
Like silent buttery flashes
Of lightning in thick clouds
Painting the interior of your car
And the lines of your face

Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning

"**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching

As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen

I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction

But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana

While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin

When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied

But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air

I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were

Hungover in bed
Sharing last night's
General  Tso's
With one ***** fork

A buddy of mine
Hes gotten into some real bad ways
You'd never know it by looking at him
He seems nice
Put together
Smells like Irish Spring
Packs his own lunch
Keeps a girlfriend around enough to call her a girlfriend

We grew up together
He taught me about a lot of things
In my innocence and subsequently
My stupidity
His views were always skewed
But they were pure
He just said what he thought
We consummated our friendship by ramming our bikes into each others shins
Until someone bled

Eventually, like most people
He took on a nasty habit
Of regurgitating other peoples opinions

The girlfriend that he keeps around
He got drunk on new years
And passed out on the couch
And woke up in such a rage
That he smashed most of the furniture in his apartment
And bit her on the hand

He never told anyone what he was so mad about
He just pleaded with the cops not to take him to jail again
Last time he was there he was so hammered
That he masturbated in the corner of the holding cell
While screaming about fascist pigs
I think the cops were relieved when she didn't press charges

He also thought that she was ******* her brother at one point
He was completely convinced by a few misinterpreted words
And cried so much at work that they had to send him home
Turns out it was completely fabricated  

Like his mother
He feeds into baseless paranoia
It's eating away at his brain like a fungus
Branching out into sticky webs and toadstools
Choking off the few emerald vines of sanity he has left
Until the ends turn brittle and snap like matchsticks

I feel bad that I ignore most of his texts and calls
But I don't think that friends should try to use you
The way that a panicked airline crash survivor attempts to use their seat cushion
When they're navigating flaming wreckage
In the middle of the ocean

That said
Sometimes I still see the person I used to know
His doll eyes soften and the cataracts of self conviction clear
And it's like watching someone crawl out of a bomb shelter
And see the sun for the first time in years

But then
Half a fifth of liquor is missing
And he's ranting nonsensically
Peeling the paint with his breath
And I do my best to laugh along until I can slip out the door

On my way home
With the windows down and the sunroof open
With the cool air rushing around me
I usually realize how I could have been dealt the same hand he was
And I stare up at the hole punched stars
Until the car drifts onto the gravel covered shoulder
And the rumble strip makes my tires groan

Red tail circling
Your cry echoes through the trees
Who do you call for?

The mariachi band
Is playing dizzyingly
Next to our table
The guitarists
Hair wetly slicked
Back

"We live off of
Tips sir,
Anything
Will help.
Now, something
Romantic for
Your woman"

When they are
Finished their frantic
Strumming
I had him a
Folded 5

They dash off
To the next
Table

I slug a pounder
The beer inside is
Warm and the water
That runs through
The city is the
Same color as the
Water in Disney
World
Dyed that sickly
Turquoise grey

Tour boats cut
Small waves that
Lap the sidewalks
And the fat tourists
Feed tortilla chips to
Swarming clouds
Of small brown
Birds

Another warm
Swallow of beer
And the sunglasses
Perched in my
Greasy hair

Who needs a
******* job
Give me warm
Beer and sickly
Fake water and
A table with her

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.

Every time I'm drunk
I get really excited
About being drunk

I have seen many non wild things
Sorry for themselves
A privileged middle aged man will scream and ***** about trivialities
Having felt nothing but sorry for himself.

Watching the train tracks
Kiss and retract and
Kiss and retract
They meet and depart
Like a pair of silver lips

In the distance there are
A huddle of crumbling buildings
That used to be factories
Or warehouses
They're now bleached bones
Under a dusting of February
Snow

There is a silhouette cut out
Of a dog that stands in front of
Them, closer to the tracks
So close I almost missed it
I wonder what purpose it could serve

I suppose
To remind someone of
What once was
Or what could still
Be
A solid shadow to stand out
Against so much bleached
Bone

Waking up
Worrying about money
Collecting funeral home cards with a saint on the front
Picking up the phone
*******
Thinking too ******* much
Pouring valuable time into invaluable pursuits
Fleeting glimpses of fulfillment
Things that make you feel more empty than before

Complications
All types of complications
Disease
Hunger
Lack of motivation
Mostly, it's a lack of content
That is the real side effect
The thorn with canines in your side
Telling you that it's never done

Be the best
Or the worst
Or anything
Please, be anything
It's better than being nothing
A lack of a person
An oxygen bandit
Another festering fat bag
A talking recycled opinion

Having a few too many drinks
And acting like a sage
The very act renders the desired result useless
Acknowledgment of enlightenment
Can only confirm
That there is so much more to learn.

Steam on my window
The alarm had been silenced
Rain showers clover

There is a point in your life
Where you should focus on the immediate

Job Searches
401 Ks
Retirement plans
Everything that makes you ******* miserable
To think about in the least

But you will always have the id
The uncooperative
You will do the things you want to do
And you will hate yourself for it

You will play Rocket League
And you will watch **** and ******* insistently
Because your girlfriend is two states away
And everyone likes you
But they like the cardboard cutout
The mutant
The heretic

There is the real you
In all its whiskey soaked glory
Behaving
As Elliot said
As the wind behaves

There is no rhyme
Or reason
To happiness
It is a spent cigarette ****
A used ******
An empty beer bottle

It is whatever makes you forget
Let it detach you
Let it separate you
Breathe disgusting, choking clouds

Understand that
No matter how many people
Or how many organizations
Or how many missed strokes you have on the keys >/0-
Or how many publishing companies
Or corporate
******* bloodsuckers
Tell you how useless you are

You are a beautiful mixed bag
Something so complicated and implicit
That you can not be defined by a single term
Take pride in that
And **** everybody else

Leave all the bloated corpses by the wayside
Take vacations
Drink good *****
Play video games until the politicians
Consider you a threat

Stop considering everyone else
And consider
Just once
Yourself

Put another record on
While I pour another glass
And fill that clouded
Empty expanse
With a nice amber
Hue and we can talk
About god and music
Until the sun comes up
But no song or god
Will match the tangerine sun's
Corona as we fall asleep in the
Night's dew
Put more metal on
Put more Bowie on
Put more classical on
Put more punk
More hip hop
More Wu Tang
More Big L
More pop
More hair metal
More classic rock

More who gives a ****

My teeth are numb against my lips
And everything sounds good
A proposition
A song
A liquid taking up empty space

Just keep me here
Next to you
The rest of the world looking
Up or down

It didn't matter then
And it doesn't matter now

Shhhhh
Let the carpet slip from under my feet
Let the wall pat my back like an appreciative friend
Let the stairs seem long and winding
Shhhhh
Let it all be caught up in the back of your throat
Sore and raw
Keep it away from those you can
And those you can't

Wake up with the regret of the morning
Spilled across your face in
Buttery swaths
Drink deep the pain of happiness
Tasting ethanol on your breath
Like a can of unmixed paint

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.

Koozies keep the beer cold
They keep your hand warm
And your beer cold
Which is nice
When most thing are more complicated
Or more intricately disappointing

I find little to do
Besides stare from one screen to the next
And back and back again
Rechecking the same websites
The same hiss of the tab being popped

Sitting in one room
While thinking of many rooms
None of it really makes any sense
This inherited feeling of unease
Wanting just to be close to you
To actually kiss you
Meaning it
Having some feeling behind something

Not wanting to rush from one thing to the next
Just wanting to be stuck in that one moment with you
Tasting your saliva
Feeling your tongue, probing
Like some rogue octopus tentacle

There is nothing that fills the hollowness
Like you  
You are the echoing clatter of pebbles
Thrown down a dark ravine
Replacing space with substance
One haphazard toss
After another

My dad shouted up that the
Space Lab was passing overhead in
The next few minutes

I put on my adidas and a hoodie
And stood in the snow and mud
Of the front yard trying to find the
Passing station as it traveled past
Hundreds of miles up

It was more excited than I had seen
My father in a long time
And I was glad to be out there with him

We almost missed it
But I caught it in the chalky
Luminescence of the moon
It glided past easily
And my father shouted excitedly
I stared straight up and took all the air
Into my lungs between the passing station
And my body on the ground

Until it was lost
In the sanguine of the night sky
Like my father's excitement
It passed too quickly

And we ventured back inside
To watch TV in separate rooms

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

We're there early to set up
As they tow the cars
Parked along the street
Adorned with bright red
Tickets under their windshield
Whipers

A man appears from a
Windowed apartment building
Door yelling in spanish
He gets in one of the cars
Gets out and takes the ticket
Off the windshield
Gets back in cursing
In spanish
And peels out of sight
Around the corner

The front of the place
Smells like buttered
Noodles if you served them
In a shoe
The carpet is brown
To hide stains
Half deflated balloons
Dance sadly under the
Air vent

"So sorry, food will be out
In just a minute!"
She runs back from
Behind the counter
Into the kitchen
The cooks and her
Arguing in mandarin

That's fine I say
I'm not in a rush

I sit on the leather couch
Across from a cloudy tank
Full of fat bright orange carp
They swim lazily in circles
Bumping into each other
And the glass, not understanding

Breathing their own ****
That tumbles in the air filter
Bubbles at the bottom of
The tank

I think about going to
Sit back at my desk
While locking eyes with
The fattest one of the bunch

There are worse ways to exist
At least my ****
Gets pumped into someone
Else's tank

I browse through jobs that I
Don't want

Test Analyst
Engagement Leader
Enterprise Architect
Device Administrator
Knowledge Engineer
Application Consultant

I look through these meaningless
High paying postings
Dedicate a fraction of my life
To it so that I can accumulate
More stuff

Surrounded by stuff
Shelves and drawers full
Of stuff

My stuff grows exponentially
Like voracious kudzu
It smothers my space
Blankets my floors

It seems
The more stuff
The less substance
But even this simple reality
Doesn't hinder my want of
Stuff

After I die
My stuff will sit
In a room collecting
Dust and maybe some of
It will be worth some money
To someone and then they'll
Have my stuff and the person
Who sold it can go buy their own
Stuff and I'll be in a box in the
Ground and then
Finally then
I will become just another layer
Of stuff

Unexpected warmth
The sun hanging comfortably in the sky
Porches hidden in the shade of their roofs
The smell of damp earth
The high green hedges hiding it from
Everyone on the root raised sidewalk

There is no comfort
Like a Corona with lime  
Shucking corn outside

Old ladies talking
The corpse of conversation
Is picked to tatters

The fact that everything
Is born apart
But then returns
To the whole
Is maddening
Fulfilling
Hollowing
Frightening
And
Satisfying

All this from a day
Below 95 degrees.

You and I
Temporary

This house we sit in
Temporary

The love we share
(As strong as it is)
Temporary

All the skyscrapers in the world
Temporary

The streets and the sidewalks
Temporary

Every law, speech, and right
Temporary

Every person you pass on the street
Temporary

The piles of bills and gold hidden away behind massive vault doors
Temporary

The pain of a particularly bad day
Temporary

Every mistake and every triumph
Temporary

Your inclinations, opinions, and habits
Temporary

The ghost and the shell
Temporary

The printed words of men long since dead
And long since correct
Temporary

Every thick, coppery, snaking trail of blood
Every minuscule globule of spittle
Every boiling, salty tear
Temporary

The hatred of every person in every place in the entire world
Combined into one stinking stream
(As strong as it is)
Temporary

The soil that has run through your hands
The sand through the hourglass before it is flipped again
The rain that falls on humid August days
The whistling of the wind through broken windows panes
The sneaking of weeds tendrils through cracks in asphalt
Temporary

All
Forever
Temporary

I knew there was
Trouble to be had
When they called me
Up to the executive
Floor and sat me down
At a mahogany table
Long enough to seat 12
Across from the
Stoic HR lady

We sat alone
Save the head of
My division
Who wore a thin
Line of a mouth and
A loud red vest and
Matching bowtie
He rested his bony elbows
On the table and said

"Too many mistakes
Have been made
We've decided to
Terminate your
Employment"

This came as somewhat
Of a shock to me
I didn't like my job
Few people do
They wouldn't pay
You if it was fun
But still
I showed up
On time
Greeted the customers
Counted the money
Locked the vault
Did what was expected of me
And did my best to
Exceed that

I guess those were all
Mistakes

"Ok"

I said
And the HR lady
Jammed a hammy
Opened hand into my
Face and I shook it
Numbly

I followed the flaming
Red vest down to the
Lobby where my
Staff watched me
Clean out my desk
Everyone had a
Strange sourness to
Their faces like they
Had smelled a **** that
Hinted at some deeper
Health issue

I turned my keys
And combos over
Told my staff to have
A nice weekend and
Walked out the front door

When I got home I
Stood in the hallway
Not sure of what to do
Next

My dad asked from
His office

"What are you doing
Home? "

"They fired me"

"Huh. Well, no worries
Everyone gets fired at
Some point"

I walked up to
My room and put
The box of
Coffee mugs
Hot Sauce
A Death Valley
Postcard from
My mom that I
Had taped on
My desk
Down on my
Bed

After two miserable
Years of my life
The only thing I had
Gotten from that place
Were a few coffee mugs
And a constant weight on
My chest

I sat down on the end of
My bed and felt that weight
Melt like warm butter
Off my chest
Down my legs
And disappear through
The cracks of my
Hardwood floor

My friend works at
An old folks home
Makes his living off the
Constant enterprise of  
Death and disease

"It's a dark place"
He says
A parliament light
Between his fingers

He tells me about
A twenty five year
Old who has
Muscular dystrophy
Named anthony

"You should see him clam
Up around this aid, Caitlin.
All he wants to do is talk
To her."

A man
A boy really
Two years younger
Than me whose body
Decided to eat itself
One day
Who still gets nervous
Around pretty nurses

"He'll be dead in five years."

He tells me about Joyce

"She collapsed in the
Airport on her way back
To England. Shes been in the
Home for seven years. Her
Family doesn't have enough
Money to bring her home.
She told me it's all about the dash."

The dash? I say
Tipping the green
Bottle up and draining
The last warm slug of
Beer into my mouth

"Yeah, the dash.
On your tombstone.
It doesn't matter what date
You were born or the date
You die. What matters is the
Dash in between them."

I leave later than I should
When music comes on
The car radio I turn it off
And drive with the windows
Down.

The floors are always too clean
So many feet and not a scuff anywhere
And it's too hot
From the crowds and the heat
Still cranked up in summer

All the store displays look the same
Ridiculously dressed mannequins and
A bunch of prepubecents
Cluttering around the entrance
Or worse
Pubescents spending their parent's money
To look like the mannequins

There is nothing of value on any
Of the three floors
Yet it's all marked up at a premium

I am no different
My eyes jump from window to window
Face to face
My mind working over time to take it all in
In my confusion maybe I'll start
Handing out my credit card
"Give me three of those"
"Six of these"
"As much of this as I can afford and then some"
"Thank you, thank you, thank you"

We can all go home mannequins
Faceless and frozen
We won't scuff the floors
Or crowd the stores
Just remain on display
A cheap plastic statue

It's hard to focus
When the fan blows hot trash smell
Through the apartment

Life will be better
When you shatter the mirror
And walk the mountains

Another work day
As the hummingbirds
Peruse the bending
Backbones and
Wilting blooms of
The tall spider plants

White and purple

Hammocked on two beanbags
With a glass of cold beer
And a magazine
Splayed across my lap
The silence in the apartment
Making my ears ring
Too many local metal shows
And shooting guns without
Ears on
So now a phantom
Traces a musical triangle in my ear
Always

Just as well
Silence
True silence
Is supposed to drive people
Crazy
And I don't need
Anymore of that

My girlfriend and her roommates
Will be heading back from
Work soon on the subway cars that
Constantly hold the stale smell of
People

"This is nice"
I say outloud
To no one  
And by acknowledging
The moment so I have
Adulterated it

Existential crisis aside  
This is nice

I find you everywhere
In a bird's song echoing down a brick laden alley way
In the pitter of rain on a slate roof
In the cold sting of an abandoned bobby pin stabbing the sole of my foot
Left from your last visit
But I feel you most of all in the cold spaces
The empty indent in my bed
Makes me realize how empty my life is
Without you

Humidity thick
A fallen leaf with curled sides
On the puddles edge

When I had a job I felt
Like I was always grasping
For time, any time that I
Could pull towards me
Like air bubbles drifting away
From deflating lungs deep
Under thrashing waves
I don't know what I wanted to
Do with it I just know that I
Had to pull it towards me

Now all I have is time
It is a comforting and alarming
Concept

Now, what is the excuse?
Where is your novel?
Why aren't you in shape?
Why haven't you gotten your flu shot?
Why isn't the house clean?
What's your purpose?

Meditating on these points
In the syrupy folds of the clocks
Hollow ticking
I find that life is
Boxes to be checked to keep
Everyone else off your back
While you try to figure
Where to even start

I’ve been known to steal
The cashews out of nut mix
I’m quite the *******

What am I really
Thinking mass in a vacuum
Life is painfully short
Everyone understands
But pretends not to

Oh!
Why must all lessons worth learning
Begin with pain?

An empty playground
A multicolored hijab
Rainbow on asphalt
Rain drops wetting the sparse trees
Their leaves sounding like drum heads

The sound of a plane
And a robin's egg blue sky
Peppered with pink clouds

Is it creation
Or are all of our poems just
Cheap emulation?

Sometimes I can’t write
You get lackluster haikus
A lot like this one