The cracks in the sidewalk are forming a pattern.
Keeping away those foreign to this land.
If you don't belong here,
don't be long here.

It is funny how the snow falls
over the trash and bricks.
A blanket of white that hides the problems.
The deafening sound of sorrow.

A retirement home retired.
Covered in graffiti and ****.
This talking must stop.
The sky is growing darker and the nights
they are below freezing.

Driving down alleyways and watching the apocalypse prequel.
Slam!
The car stops, not wanting to move.
The reverse went out long ago.
Everything that had promise
is broken.
Shattered glass reflecting hope back into the sun.

To all of those
who consider me a writer.
You are only fooling yourself.

Kneeling in the hallway,
in front of the Men's bathroom.
I hope no one comes out as I pray.
Please,
do not let my sins catch up with me.
Not now.
Never.
I can hear the church bells
ringing in my ears.
The path is laid out.
My choice is to have three crucifixes on my night stand,
use my finger to paint them in the soot on my car.
This will be my protection.

The world has forgotten about the moon,
which is fine.
Filled with holes and
long-distance relationships never work out.
The moon can do better.

Sometimes I look up into the sun and
wonder what the flames are thinking.
Imagination is a powerful tool.
An ally.
The sun never responds.
It blocks the view.
I can do better.

What happens when the dead come back to life?
Will we still watch reality TV?
Keeping up with the Corpses.
The strange will inherit the Earth.

The glare of the office's lights are blinding.
I wonder how many secrets
the wall clock can remember.

My cube neighbor and I have an argument.
I suggest that Spiderman is a terrible superhero,
he shows me his Brown Recluse bite.
I will still claim victory.

To the lady walking down N. Broadway,
pretending that she is a bird.
I get it,
I want to fly as well.
There is no will left to fight.

I will never reach my fullest potential.
That is something I will remember forever.
However,
I am hoping for the best.
A fool's errand.

Hope is something that
rich men talk about, while
flying through the clouds.
The sun is their ally.
Keeping the poor from dreaming.

My only plans for the New Year,
are sitting on my couch,
drinking beer, and
watching the walls dance.
Bubbles busting in celebration,
while I fall asleep at 12:01 AM.

Thus is the life of an adult.
Listening to the ruins of society,
waiting for the witches to burn.

This is a poem.
This is not a poem.

Broken glass falling on the altar,
trees sprouting through the walls.
The priest has long left.
This congregation
scattered to the wind.
Once a proud building,
a place of faith.
Saints and sinner coming together.
Now welcomes,
feral cats and one night sleepers.
Lying awake on
torn down pews,
staring up at tarnished murals.
Lord,
watch over us,
if just for tonight.
Jesus was brought precious metals.
The copper is stolen from the AC unit.
The structure is boarded up.
Shut out.
Remembering what it used to be,
trying to forget its future.

Lavish her with precious metals,
watch her sink under their weight.
Down. Lower.
The Tiffany necklace pulls her;
becomes the choke collar
you always wanted.  
Distract her with shiny bobbles,
tokens of your love and ownership.
What girl refuses that blue box?
Let her untie the white ribbon and
ignorantly open her cell.
Gladly fasten chains on
her dainty fingers,
her frail wrists,
her tender neck.

Get a tailor.
If speeches are edited, so should your clothes.
Suits shouldn’t be as big as your dreams.

Marry and be miserable;
or stay a bachelor and
bite the bullet at the ballot box.
Don’t love your mistresses.
Never let a mistress fall in love with you.

Cultivate coldness over glass of sweet tea
and write your principles in pencil,
but keep erasers handy.
Lead gets heavy with idealism.

Cover your tracks with charm,
but keep track of your steps.
Push down ladders as you climb them.

Finally, when you see your reflection in the gloss of your desk
and feel the smooth curves of your cherry bookshelves,
remember that under that finish are the remnants
of what once stood tall and proud.
A glossy exterior can only hope to mask a wild past.

And when you tire of tamed marble;
seeing yourself reflected in nature cut and polished,
come to the sea.
Cast off your leather shoes
– those casualties of your closet –
Roll your suit pants.
Stand firm and absolute.

You, the blond, bright-eyed pilgrim–
camouflaged in slate suits and
ties that hang like nooses.
Love the biting wind as it tousles your hair.
The coldness that demands to be felt.
Let it break like the surf, through your suit
and note the driftwood as it crashes to shore.
So smooth and strange.
A product of its past,
perfect in its imperfection.

If I had robotic arms... Man, a lot of **** would go down differently.