tsk tsk asterisk
        chk chk clap blam boom

sik click arsonic
         grip glap drap gloom

wix wax anthrax
               hop leap woosh slam

sip spike archetype
               cough crash anagram

hark bark blue monarch
            wrapped in a summer's day

tick tack heart attack
            passing the cabaret


she used to say words like
            bump, beep, buzz

until flutter fizz crunch chirp
            fell beams of a truss

and tenderly did hum zap sing
            in little vrooms and snags

did she meet unfortunate ends
           woof, crack, thud, down crags


shimmer shingles whisper dust
ugh, agh, yawn, sigh!
her eye sockets gathered such beautiful rust
and did crunch clink, flick and eek
to crack the numbing morning moon
but break, snap, bash, sink
into the hyphenated royal lagoon.

The story I've been telling is becoming less close to the chest.
Curious nature is that of a private man openly speaking tragedy.
Delivered with an uncomfortable smirk, because humility is foreign.
At this time, respectively.

It began with short sentences. Small worked because it was never enough to give insight into
the whole picture. Of course there was source material. Coincidences occasionally, but my sources were
always kept hidden. My skeletons, some would say.

Then the sentences became longer, if not, the paragraphs would.
Every now and then a hand cramp would delay the process, but
the mind kept going. What else did it have to do, but think?

But back to misplacing a humble way.
As soon as you state that you are,
you have become a contradiction,
a liar,
a cheat,
a thief,
the **** of the Earth.

But what do I know?

I'm only trying to be humble.

disappointment is like that 7th glass of ***** you shot back.
in the beginning, the transparent liquid seems enticing, your heart beats
with new rhythm. (your glands water, your pupils dilate)

1 shot in, it burns…but slowly disappears.
instantly your brain forgets, your vein longs for the torture

2nd shot in, the burn is like fire, your lips smack with disgust
but you can’t stop there

3rd shot in, you taste the gasoline at the pit of your stomach,
fueling the flame that you know will eventually eat you alive

4th shot in, your brain is sending signals, telling you to jump
while you still can, but your arteries silence it, and all you can do
is laugh

5th shot in, people’s faces blur, your tongue is thick with regret.
your stomach is ready to empty the lies you previously swallowed

6th shot in, the floor moves. you have to hold a chair to steady yourself. people’s voices sound like boom boxes at full volume. you cover your ears to stop the pain

7th shot in, you’re on the ground, watching the ceiling float away. you
feel the previous shots try to find a way out.

disappointment hid itself in that 7th shot, entering your bloodstream quick and painless. you are lethargic, your head pounds like construction during a too early of a morning.
you sink into the couch, into the carpet, trying to regain previous emotions, movements.
disappointment travels your veins, gleeful with the free ride, the new
habitat.

(at some point, you’ll have to get rid of him)

I am surrounded by remnants
of you. Every morning I wake
and drink my coffee with
your cup, your spoon,
your opinion that coffee
should be burnt and strong
and crude.

I even eat meals
among your fallen soldiers
of furniture, the ones
that got left behind. The
ottoman you never could say
goodbye to, the one
that you have nightmares about, you
wonder where
he is now.

I walk up the stairway
of your fibers, old hairs and
samples of your DNA
are mixed in with mine
in the layers of sediment
carpet. Your toe nail clippings
petrified into the
concrete.

I avoid mirrors because
my ghost image
reminds me of you,
something false, a reflection
that I will stare at
for the rest of my life
and still never
truly see.

Little accidents,
like the purple umbrella
on my bookshelf that
you bought me many months
ago, to keep me dry on
one of our many
rainy days. Now
you'll keep me
dry forever.

This is not a poem
about the weather.
This is a poem about the
ruins of you,
the staples
that hold me
together.