My friends.
They used to help me
Expand my imagination
explore new worlds
maybe learn something on the way.

But now my friends are a crutch
They help pull me away from this broken world
instead of taking in a new imagination
I sprint through the different worlds
hungry for more, more, more
My friends keep feeding me release
and I keep needing more

More and more places to run to
worlds that can me only mine for a short time

Places to escape to

Anywhere is fine

Anywhere but here

I could kiss you
                            and
touch you
                  and
love you
                for my life time
and more.

Something about you
                                      brings my body
to life
           and my brain
flickering fast
                         and
my heart
                beating like crazy.

Love is quite complicated
                                              but it seems as if
we fall gracefully on top of
                                                each other
as if we were the
                              m  iss     ing       pi       ece
to the puzzle that is
                                    human souls.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.

When you ask of me, why poetry
I'm not sure you understand
That it's the center of my universe
The very depth of who I am

The molecules in the air I breath
Oxygen pulsing through the veins
The storm brewing beneath the surface
The pounding of the rain

It's the timeless anticipation
Of the thought that's yet to come
The tearing open of life's seam
The beating of the drum

The first peak of the desert flower
When it feels the gentle touch of spring
The smile in the eyes of a child
And all the joy it brings

The in and out of the tide
In the pulling of the waves
When you ask of me, why poetry
What more is there to say

cover me up*
cause i've had enough
of this so called life

to add to the gloom
before you leave the room
please shut out the lights

to keep up the pace
of standing in place
can be a daily affair

it's like i'm not here
it's like your not there
it's like i don't even care

to add to it all
before the fall
life seemed to be working out fine

took what love i had
spent it like cash
down to the very last dime

so cover me up
cause i've had enough
of this so called life

to add to the gloom
before you leave the room
*please shut out the lights

First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.

Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.

Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.

Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")

Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.

Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.

Remember me as I was.

I was warming up tea and I put it in for a little too much time.
But it was too long so my tea boiled over and made a mess.
But that didn't mean I could never make tea again.
It just meant I had to wipe it up better and be more careful next time.
This reminded me of life.
That sometimes things bombard your life and everything happens at once.
And what happens?
You break
You boil over
But no matter what it is, not matter how much it hurts.
You just have to pick yourself up.
Brush off your hands.
And smile a little longer.

It burns.
Badly.
The burning sensation
Can take over and ****.
But  you begin to like the burn.
Even crave it sometimes.
It's the kind of pain you secretly love.
Kind of like when you hurt someone you love,
Or when someone you love hurts you.
You know it's bad.
You know it's wrong.
But you just can't stop.
Because even though it's awful,
Even though it's painful,
Even though it's lethal,
It all hurts so good.

{alaska}

Oh symphony of swirls sweet and sour,
Sing of simple solutions to a broken heart.
Save me oh saint and savior of sullen souls
Save me so my soul may survive another battle.

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

"Hank!"

Hank won't
answer.

it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.