it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.

it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,

I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing

I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and *******
but found nothing

I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing

there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity

what I’m I suppose to do?

as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire

I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction

the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me

I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen

the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…

whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****,
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.

I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.

Thinking and writing
and writing about thinking
While sitting and thinking  
And thinking while sitting
about the feelings
(I feel)
when sinking in the seeking.

Life is a convection model,
Moving along constantly, randomly,
But that's the beauty of it right?
For if nothing ever got shook up,
I'd have nothing to write.

Two heavenly hands hold hues of their own
A hell in the night we live all alone
The greater and the lesser light will see
She here with her one and he with his three
He sleeps and wakes up to discover names
The unfortunate truths of life are blamed
When they choose to allow her to have this
Cathar reveals itself, tetractys
A maiden resides and is instead shown
Not pen, but pencil to see The Lupeon

Class, listen up,
The comma is vital to any kind of writing.
It signifies a small pause in the text, allowing a breath and differencing two of the same sentence.
Take for example the phrase, "I help my uncle, Jack, off the horse."
Now take away the commas and you're left with a very different sounding phrase.
Use commas!

A busway stops at a certain station
People come through
Then walk off
And the cycle repeats itself
Its the same bus .
Just different people
various stories and lives
I long to know
But will never be able to

It's really easy to write
Like you're for the hardline right
And far-flung conspiracies.
Easy to address as a member of the left
Like you believe in extreme liberalism
And wild ideas.
And then there's a center,
Or so I've heard.
For the intellectual or versus,
For the institution or against;
For the fascist,
For the anarchic.

It's all so archaic.

Poets coming into Rochester,
Welcome to the perfect poetic city!
We're dark in November,
Blinding in May.
Sleepy streets,
Winding roads.
Dinner at a diner,
Welcome to your second home, it's a winner's city for sure.

Bite not the tongue,
But latch the cheek.
Lash not the mule,
But strike the ***.
Ignore not the statistics,
But silence the opinions.
Waste not the seed,
But peel the onion.
Wantonly not dump,
But dispose of the garbage.
Carelessly not to jump,
But to gracefully land.
Rip them not off,
But open the lids.
Cause not interference,
But adjust your receivers.
Lose not the vision,
But get the picture.
Trade not for fidelity,
But increase your resolution.
Become not hidden,
But show the elusive.