You were with me.
That was true.
It happened; do not deny it.
Don't deny. Don't forget.
Leave it be. Don't touch it.
Put it on a shelf; stand next to it; and then staple yourself to the floor.
Forever in that moment is where you belong.
I can move on. You can not. You are not Allowed to.
I can scan; you can not. The field is mine. You are Benched.
This double standard is ripping us apart.
Or maybe, we're already torn.
No, we've been torn since we started.

Bookend
Last stop delight
Rock solid hold knowledge
Hold reality and sanguine
Start Souls

We have sacrificed freedom upon immovable alters
White runny paint is our animalistic blood
We decorate where we pray
frescos, mosaics,
Crete’s naturalistic landscapes
imitation only because we are unsatisfied with the un-safety inherent in Earth’s identity.

look at the wall
imagine your lover on the other side
hold your hand to it
imagine your finger tips touching through the plaster
now see her dead
mutilated on the ground
in a ****** pool
because you couldn’t reach
over the wall

the City is a masquerade ball
things hide behind brick masks
who knows
you could **** a tenement building with a Mac truck
like an aristocrat penetrating his princess
late into Moon’s rise
and find a thousand thousand beetles and cockroaches streaming out of the hole
and prisoners who haven’t seen the sun in years

we are humans
no longer natural, caged.
no longer aware, lost
no longer real, facades.

Remember home?
You could shed and fall to the ground.

The sun shone then
On clear skin
not stained black
by slow
full
tears.

You didn’t live for the chill.
Cold nights did not hold such a romance.
You sought warmth-
then.

Blooming lives wither
without sun
dreams die on fat-lips
and the broken feeling
wasn’t
so
familiar.

Over the ocean
we rail and scream

Timbers shiver timbers quiver
Groans grate our ears
with the wind whipping and wailing

Not the cold nor the rain
nor icicles on our backs
nor hammers on our limbs

A rusty machine
we churn butter
and churn
our wheels and togs and clogs and gears
turn

So the ship rolls over the ocean
leaps and bounds in between
like a gazelle at home
we the tics, the leeches, and the virus's
who cling to the host
for dear life

Poetry is not a joke
Wanna get metaphysical?
Wanna express yourself?
Wanna be real?
Wanna let the world know your pain?
Wanna let the world feel your happiness?
Wanna share your triumphs and tribulations?
Do it.
Live, love, feel, share.
Poetry is a joke; the punchline is, that it's the most important joke ever told.

Chances
We meet here again
Slimmer than I’d care to admit

Odds
Of us ever intertwining hands
In love?

Knowledge
Of how to break through the veil of acquaintances
eludes me

Go
Take the leap with me
Don’t let me regret

Never
loving your body
open your window

On the top floor
I’ll climb mountains
to love you now

The Queen went up the hill
with her gaggle of boys in tow

She sat in her carriage
and she had four men below

Up they went to find the gift
of knowledge only the Oracle bestows

At the top balanced a rock
with a goat to push it right down

The goats might and her strong horns
sent the boulder toward the procession

Down went the queen
as her men ran away

Not one slave left
no one tried to stay

Flattened she became
The Pancake Queen

Why did they run some query
Because she was so very mean

Travel the world
see the rainforests with full and pointed leaves
swim in the streams and feel the smooth mud
eat delicacies that make men weep
smell the refuse of a billion
lie in the arms of strange lovers
listen to the sound a rose makes when it bends in the wind
now return

See her there sitting between the stacks
the phosphorescent light is harsh on her skin
the world is laid out before her
can you tell her about the rain forests
about the leaves that fell with forceless precision,
about the streams that chilled your bones
and made you feel alive
about the food that drove you mad
and the blinding smells
tell her of supple foreign skin
about the rose so delicate that when it finally snapped
so did you.

Could she understand?
Would she care?
"What do you know?" she asks.

So you try to explain,
you paint the most vivid picture
of nature, man, beast, land, space,
love...

"What do you know." she says.

Poem to a Friend
Dear Friend,
I'm lost. No I’m not, but I’m clueless and facing huge decisions. My heart is in one direction by common sense tells me another. Does money outweigh artistic freedom? What defines happiness? Where am I going? Do I need to decide now?
I'm not looking for guidance, merely an ear. Life is staring at me. I want to ask for help but I know I'm a hell of a lot better than that. I know I'm stronger than that.
But I like to think back and reflect, it's cool man, thinking of my childhood. When I was younger it didn't matter. None of that **** mattered and that made life so easy. A job meant dressing up as a fireman and laughing- not a 9-5. What is a 9-5? Am I ready?
Time will tell.
I'm going away soon. Life matters. Life is hard.
I'm not depressed. I'm not dying. I have just been hit in the face by reality.
The best part is, I'm man enough to have a strong right hook to throw back.
Look out world, look out strangers, look out mystery, I'm here; and I'm excited.
  
Yours Truly.

go to college — study what you love,
get a job — don’t worry about money,
start a family — focus on your career
eat healthier — try our new stuffed cheesy crust,
make time for loved ones — provide,
spend more time with her — give her everything,

the gristle is all that’s left
when you’re eaten alive

Cover me in a shroud
poke out prying eyes
don’t let them see my confusion
all that lies beneath is hollow

Press me into a corner
batter my body against the brick
break my legs
just tell me
where I am

let the sky fall
and crush us both
now you feel
and now you know
the crush of a body
no longer limitless

In fertile ground when you plumb the land
don’t be surprised if she drowns

in the nest with the other chickadees
far above the forest
the cold still penetrates down ****
the chirps are fewer here
each intake of breath is sharp
small heads peer about
not yet old, not yet wise, not yet ready
to fly

but there she is below you
peak for a time
she laps at the well
poisoned by dung
she’s purple and gangrenous
yes gangrenous for the way’s been difficult

she says goodnight
and nestles into the underbrush
fading light ushers in white flakes
it’s quiet, her eyes won’t open again

the well floods
and rivulets spread down the hill
she is too cold to feel water slip up her nostrils
into her lungs
too numb to question

there she lies
drowning in her own silence
there she dies
too weak to scream

It's that time of the summer
when in increments,
slowly,
ever so slowly,
friends depart.

I'm growing up,
but I yearn for a time when I didn’t want to sleep in,
for a time when decisions were out of my hand.

Everything is different
we have licenses
we have jobs
we have new friends
we have lost old ones
we go to see colleges.

No one is staying here.

We are all leaving one after another;
I just wish it were on my terms.

I'm aware
that I'm writing the word "aware"
with the letters A-W-A-R-E
awareness

Near or far,
I'll be there.

It matter not where you are.



Think of me in the flutter of your hair;

leave not my memory behind.

For here lies my soul bare.



Memories and years intertwined,

A bond we do form,

Perfection I do find.



We have weathered many a tremendous storm;

you are as mesmerizing as a rose-

unbreakable, beyond the norm.



Our book does not close.

A new-separate chapter,
enter the future with dignified repose.


I wish you full bellied laughter;

for we will meet again after.

A tourist asked me directions.
He made these assumptions:
A man on park bench writing with a book next to him must be a Native.
Sitting there so at home must indicate that he is home.
I didn’t correct him, didn’t bother, just sent him in the right direction.
I find it odd that I can be so easily contented and comfortable in so many places
thousands of miles away from home.

I can't write a love poem
I'm missing a muse
I'm also afraid of cheapening the art,
of being generic.

I can't write a love poem,
but I'd love to…
why am I afraid to try?

Near or far,
I'll be there.
It matter not where you are.

Think of me in the flutter of your hair;
leave not my memory behind.
For here lies my soul bare.

Memories and years intertwined,
A bond we do form,
Perfection I do find.

We have weathered many a tremendous storm;
you are as mesmerizing as a rose-
unbreakable, beyond the norm.

Our book does not close.
A new-separate chapter,
enter the future with dignified repose.

I wish you full bellied laughter;
for we will both meet again after.

Do I care?

How was it?
Why didn’t you call?
Why didn’t you come?
Why didn’t you go?

**** her.  *******. **** me.

No.
Stop.

Drink, drink, stop, don’t, stop, stop.
Why?
Just let me-
No- I want this.
Fine.

Get out.

I’m sorry?

My pen moves lethargically, when you are gone
My stomach is weak,
poisoned with thoughts of you and he,
not sad, no, your caress, his,
dare I moan a wish?
To be yours, and you mine…
To lay with you, rest…
To siphon your stresses into a jar,
seal them tight.
And then, we’ll scream together,
as we act, react, and sway,
they’ll scatter, shatter, deep… in the night.

I soared through the clouds
felt their cold tickle my face,
nerves spiked,
freedom in my nose and my veins

I lay in the jungle
the sweat clung to me like Velcro
a grassy rug underneath
bugs clicked, ticked, tickled all around

On the beach
the water was too cold
and the sand too hot
but where were the sirens?

I walked onto the highway
for my first drive
attraction consumed me
coarse asphalt tripped me

The lights passing held allure like no other.

My clothing was too heavy
so we took it off

My roommate was too close
so he turned away

Our lust was too strong
so we let it burn

And it consumed us.

I don't have a pit in my stomach
my stomach is a pit

and tIm-stop
dots-wIt pup

I know how to ask the questions —
asking isn’t the problem.

Listening is easy —
just be still.

Is it there?
In her shrill voice in the twilight
in the bark below my window
in the cry next door —
of exultation, of pain, of sorrow, of life
why am I silent?

In my own mind
I have answers
to questions not yet asked,
for fear of death or deep despair.

Do you know where I wander
when my eyes are glazed
and my scowl is set
it’s foreign there
would you follow?
would anyone follow?
why won’t anyone follow?

Where are the answers?

It's cold.
The trick to staying awake while driving is to open the window,
because you stay cold.
In the womb we are rocked to sleep in the warmth.

I just threw a sweatshirt on.
The cotton is soft on my skin,
so inviting,
I had to.

If that doesn't work,
put music on.
Sing… and loudly.

But instead my eyelids drooped.
The rumble strips rumbled,
and the car-horns blared.

Luckily, I was blissfully asleep behind the wheel.

"If there was money in poetry,
I'd be a **** sight better at it."

- The Misguided Man

Wall
Slate Gray
Holding separating defining
Walls are all we are
Partition

Words can be sprinkled over anything
They describe, they encompass, they detail, they define, they refine
They express love, they make love, they end love, they are love
Words shield children from the harsh and expose men to the truth
Words are like gold powder covering a varnished surface.
They make something already slick- glisten.
Venturine is to wood as Words are to the world

It’s terrible to be alone

to be high
when you wish
to fall



It hurts
to search
and
not find


to see
and not know


to fill
and feel everything rush
like a sieve


to wake alone
       and eat alone

              and watch alone

                     and sleep alone

                            and think alone


and to be crippled

and to not know



It's terrible to be alone

The stone is cold against my cheek
bring the glow closer
I can feel the heat
hear the spark
smell the fluid
see the flame

Slowly the rock glows through my skin
and burns
the sharp touch signals
a rising nether
where thoughts float free
and men don’t cry
and I don’t care

The fire burns low
and the stone grows cool
I am left
exhausted

Was I flying?
I never left the couch.

In the city
searching

Locked within its walls
she awaits

For her knight of the night
in dressed garb

Luckily
he is searching for her.

I need more therapy.
I have to stop getting so **** emotional over nothing
I have to stop closing myself off from every little annoyance
I have to stop being so attached to girls I barely know
I have to get my head on straight
I have to stop letting other people dictate my mood
I have to take control
I need more therapy.

I don't understand why I'm confined
this **** hotel room
I want to be out
only 24 hours in a day...
eight hours of sleep?
let's try four.
I've done it!
I need to break out
I've learned not to sleep.
To make the most of my time... I guess that means poetry
Poetry in Paris...
I'm sure I'm not the first one who has had this idea....