It’s a feeling that has no words to describe,
when the late autumn leaves fade color.
Quietly waving a final goodbye
in the chill as morning mist hovers.
 
It’s something between a pure feeling of peace
and a loneliness down to the bone.
Perfect tranquility rests on the air,
but the sadness won’t leave you alone.
 
Life has a way of drifting in waves,
up and down through the moments we live.
Yet lurking below in the dim and the cold
are so many things buried that give
 
hidden purpose to cry. Is there some reason why
we go on always holding it in?
We should learn from the trees who let go, so in Spring…
they can always start over again.

my writing is a blunt hammer,
a white void pounding
at the keys,
breaking off little plastic
bits of life.

this room’s full of them now,
the debris of dead thoughts,
ancient relics:
dinosaur guts,
fern dust,
fossilized failures.

the sun’s clawing its way
up again,
after all this time.
what a *******.

can you wait
for morning to sink
its teeth into you?

can we
stand five feet apart
and still meet
each other’s eyes
without flinching?

can I write something
that outlives me?
sure,
that’s the easy part.

but writing something
that lives
without me?
now that’s the trick,
isn’t it?

silk canisters and
ribbons marching like fools,
a casket dressed
in bright roses—
pretty little things
for the spigot,
the *****,
the inevitable hole.

wait another year.
or ten.
or twenty.
hell,
spend your whole life
waiting.

go ahead.
see where that gets you.

it doesn’t come.
it never does.
not like that.
never.

stop waiting
for:
someone,
something,
some sign,
some break,
some moment
to crack open
like an egg.

stop praying for it.
stop hoping.
stop wishing.
stop.

the work,
that’s all there is.

live for it.
breathe for it.
burn for it.
die for it.

if you have to believe
in something,
believe in that.

I don’t know
what that thing is for you,
but you do.
and if you don’t,
then maybe it’s time
to stop,

and ask—
what the hell’s stopping you?

It's not the time
it's the toll

You touched me
You filled me 
You stretched me



You go so deep when you read me

Even deeper when you hurt me

Deeper still when you want me



My body reminisces on the warmth of you

My hands memorized the feel of you

My mind is so full of you

Empty pocket and empty plates;
safely locked it away still it dissipates,
a climber of corpses climbs high to something great,
and the rest of us are buried standing within this fate.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
it seems to lose a lot of magic when you lose alot of money.
Life’s a ***** but isn’t she powerful?
It’s time to eat the rich because we weren’t born full.

The people’s scale is forever weighing
basic human rights against complete anarchy.
The right choice seems obvious to me, obviously,
but the indecision’s crazy with the lack of priorities.
A climber of corpses climbs high to heights we’ll never see,
I’d rather be a stone than those doing the stoning.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
I think that I’ve had it with their vinegar disguised as honey.
I won’t make another stitch in their golden wool,
it’s time to eat the rich ‘cause we weren’t born full.

A bullet in the street shot from behind;
validated and woke up millions.
No retreat and not changing their minds;
vilified for targeting their billions.

If they really cared they’d ask if you could buy morality,
though typically they’d see if they could find it on sale.
The funniest part is that they could acquire it for free
but it’d be just like giving an atheist the Holy Grail.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
it seems to lose a lot of magic when you lose alot of money.
Life’s a ***** but isn’t she powerful?
It’s time to eat the rich because we weren’t born full.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
more bills; they stack it and the weather stays sunny.
Rock bottom in a ditch, dazed and in a lull
now it’s time eat the rich ‘cause we weren’t born full.

Wrap this moment wider into time
Longer evenings would be sublime
To muse over all the fluff
These moments stretched long enough
To cherish and breath the cool night air
And believe I haven't got a care

Time is gone in the blink of an eye
No matter days be long, or days be short
Never enough time for you and I
Or for my mind to wander and transport

Air unempty
Life full
Another addition nearly in bay
Blessed aplenty
Glassful
The dance of Life, a riveting ballet

empty black beans can
full of cigarette butts the
smell is unnoticed

If you can no longer bear life's clenched fist, it's random smashing of all your hope, dreams, desires, and passion,
be drunk.

Be drunk on wine, music, poetry by the pages, or, on the agelessness of the silky moss covered pond or the fog thick meadows.

If you would not feel time's ticking brutality, be drunk.
If all memory does is remind you of the losses, the deaths, the divorces, the regrets, the remorse over your high ideals and standards, and your much lower behavior, choices, and antics; when life seems anti-climactic, be drunk.

As loneliness becomes like a rotten tooth, hot flashing pain, and the stain on your heart and hands won't come out, be drunk.

Whether it be *****, poetry, nature or music, be full, filled, consumed.

Until the glare of this cruel world becomes a soft gentle blur, be drunk and entombed.