Moths. One, two, three, twelve. I pause my midnight walk to observe them. They cluster and swarm the street lamp, casting tiny shadows onto the pavement below. I am unsure of what it is that they seek; maybe warmth, or light, or a familiarity to something in nature that they know only through instinct. Or maybe they seek safety in numbers. God knows how many predators they face. A stray cat lurking in the darkness. A nocturnal bird circling high above, waiting to devour the winged pests whole. I shiver at the thought. Brutal, but such is nature. Without food, like the moths, the birds and cats will starve, and populations will dwindle, and so on for the predators that hunt them. Even the greatest beasts rely wholly on this delicate food web. The survival of a great bear can be traced down to the success of a few microbes. Without the littlest and often least impressive participants, there would be no life to speak of at all. It’s fascinating, really— sort of like an intricate and vastly complex game of Jenga.

I turn my gaze to the dark, faceless windows in the houses near me and think: maybe the human psyche can be compared. After all, I believe it can be widely agreed upon that human beings are very complex things. What with all our politics, and game shows, and favorite brands of socks. So much goes into creating a person. But at the core of us all, we are just atoms and molecules, strung together in a million little building blocks of DNA that give rise to cells, tissues, and organs. Nearly 100 billion cells make up the human brain. These little things are responsible for how you perceive life. I am able to think these thoughts because of them, and am able to eat, speak, and breathe because of them. All good things; I should thank them sometime.

I sit then, feeling a bit woozy. Ah, for these cells can be responsible for bad things as well, can’t they? For instance, a chemical imbalance. A few cells stop doing their jobs and then— boom! The whole system is affected. You stop exercising. You eat and sleep too much, or too little. You withdraw from friends and family. You stop caring about your favorite brand of socks. You begin to drink too much. You may even stand on the edge of a bridge and find that jumping seems appealing.

Truly odd, isn’t it? How important the little things in a big system can be. Imagine what would happen if all the bugs in the world decided one day to stop being bugs, and to just drop dead. The chaos it would bring!

Test it out for yourself. Gather some friends and set up a game of Jenga, and then slap away all the pieces at the bottom of the tower before you begin. There will be no game to play, no tower at all, for it has nothing to stand on.

Really, I think, we are quite delicate creatures living in an equally delicate world. To exist is to be fragile. To become sentient you must realize that you can break, and will. You will live and then die. Presently there is no way around that. You will die because something small inside of you will break, and that break will grow, like a crack in a windshield. Like an unstable tower of blocks. Or maybe if you are a bug, you will just be eaten.

Ah, if only the moths could understand my thoughts. Perhaps they would be quite enlightened. I fancy they might say, “Stop with this nonsense, and go have another drink.” But I would retort, “Oh moths! Have you not thought of giving all of this up? This endless game of Jenga? You must grow weary of it!” They do not respond. They continue fluttering about, bouncing off of street lights as they do.

So I sigh, and burp, feeling quite unenlightened, and resume my walk.

the problem with alcohol
is that it’s flammable

you could set the whole town ablaze
if you started at the liquor store

you can set my whole
train of thought off the rails
flipped and on fire
after a few drinks

and when i drink i fall
prey to a different type of
burn than the one
in my throat

and it’s mean
a nasty little
whisper of a flame
on a petty match

the kind of burn
that destroys what
made it as it swallows
whatever is in its path

the problem with alcohol
is that it’s flammable
and it won’t cause an explosion
unless ignited

and the problem is that
i am the ignition

#1

I’m no good at merrymaking
I do it alone
I do it dark
And I go at it with rabid excess
I am fellow to it
Until morning
And I make the morning hurt
A mark is embed


#2

Amoungst great company
I am dog unwanted
In the comapany of one
I am villain bird
I am influence
I hit a drinking partner in the weak knees of weak truths
And things go madly south
But tonite I am alone
As I ought
And not sought out


#3

Astray from the fireside
Into the woods
In the territory
Where I fear to thread the pathways
I shall recover my work
In the graven woodland
I shall face myself down
And bed darkness
Where I am truely wed


#4

Thriving and well hausted
I strain and clamp upon the energy
I face my enemy
My power
I bide from his readings
I make ****** pleasings
Form verbal greeting
And extend a hand
For this
The first of many a meeting


#5

Upon this connection
This Faustian reflection
I make the primal
The woe in me
And the red wash of ravenous pages
My activity
My moulded tool
My rage
My howl against creativity

Sometimes I think that my depression fuelled my creativity.
And now that the dark times don’t need the help of bottles,
I cant help thinking that I running on empty, and I got nothing left to say.
Chasing the pain that is so deep within me, and the **** that shaped me
The images I made with my words and pens
Are nothing but a memory of a sad and lonely 20 something

But the clouds have broken, the rain is letting up, and the sun is peeking through
And all I have are the curiosities of what happens if I start drinking like I did.

I am no longer eligible for the 27 club, and Ill never be famous
And the hurt that I try to remember, will not make those images brighter
It will only hurt my friends and my mother.

So here is a sober, conscious attempt at poetry, trying to find my voice
Without the glass containers that used to help me forget.

I drank too much again last night.
Think I called you on the cell,
Said some words and caused a fight.
See, things for me ain’t  goin’ too well.
‘Nother job lost. Arrived too late
For a third day in a row.
I hit the sauce and left to fate
A future moving much too slow.
Then pawned my chains to pay the rent
Instead I bought more beer.
‘Cause sittin’ home is time well spent
To hide this lonesome fear.
I made mistakes with you, I know,
I wish that I could change ‘em,
Toss ‘em for the wind to blow
Or, at least, rearrange ‘em.
I popped another beer just now,
To quench this endless thirst.
So many emptied, still, somehow
It’s like I’m on my first.
So, I’ll drink too much again tonight,
Try to call you on the cell.
Maybe I can set things right,
See, things for me ain’t goin’ too well.

it's four in the morning,
and the man you left is sitting on the barstool still in mourning.
he's trying to understand how you feel,
but it's really difficult to do since when  it comes to shots he's had his fill.
he wonders what he did wrong in the your relationship that from his perspective is "ours,"
and what you don't see as you walk away is that he feels remorse so he'll continue this cycle for hours.

All I could feel was red,
from the trees
that had roared
like flaming manticores,
                                                     ­ to the sky
                                     who had bled
                                                      its final dawn..


The veins in my head cut sharp corners
through my temples,
trying to break free from the prison
of my mind.
Steam emits itself
from my ears.
The amber tea was ready.
Lava erupted
from my face
and through my head.
I felt it ooze
                                    through my eyes
                    through my ears
                   Even through the corners of my mouth.


My demons stayed dormant
no longer.
My fist shook holding them,
my mouth relentlessly
sewn shut..
I bottled them like genies
and stored them
in a cellar.
                                                         Hot-blooded merlot
              and Foam-at-the-mouth pinot.

After a drizzle
the concave leaf turns pitcher,
for tiny killdeer