Feeling fond of my own two feet
I lock the bike, let the wind cool the heat
I'm the one with the illegible handwriting
writing, nonetheless, on the porch
sustained by cigarettes and self doubt
for how else do I know that I'm sane?

Thoughts on the page, a tricky task
ink implying some permanence
if I write it
it is
at least on this page

unnervingly nervous, even at the most receptive times
the thoughts have a path, but can you draw the line?
only one will fit, not two
if you find it or not isn't my concern
it isn't my concern at all

But still it feels good to let words fall
flat on the page, flat on their face
exposed for what they've been all along
just words, good words bad words
just words, no overarching ideas
archetypes cast upon sounds and letters

I wonder if I'll be able to read this
certain bits may become muddled but by how much
less, I'm sure, than by the reader
hello reader, yes you. yes me.
I don't address you often enough, but
it's certainly you and no one else that
brings me to life, back to life

These flat ideas, shadows of flatter ideals
toes dipped in self doubt, but only dipped
should we submerge them, or is that too

much.

putting the pen down never feels whole
maybe it's because I rarely write about anything anymore
**** it, goodbye, till next time, my dear

A place of many things
and a very changeable boy
and therefor, a great number of days

The navel gazer himself
liable to start each line with an "and"
is nothing its own?
each face like the last
each tree, holding hands underground
with all others he's encountered that day
each song, sung just for him
just for that moment

You are no culmination
no stress point, no break point
where do you find the ability
to perceive each stimulus as a reflective surface
the rain exists only to keep you in
and the sunshine, just to beckon you out
the wind to cool your brow
and the four walls just to keep you safe

The world wouldn't steal your bike in the rain
because it does not notice you
accept your place as a footnote
but don't accept that footnote's place
don't let others write your 15 minutes
not of fame, but existence

DON'T SPEND LIFE ON YOUR HEELS

I find myself
here again, the place after
the ride, the drive, the walk, the run
I know this is the place
because I see a man, stopped in a car
he drives away when my gaze meets his
as men in cars should

So I fill the position he vacates
I stop my (bike)
and I am here
the (corner) of the (streets)
with the (sidewalk) and the (flowers)
and the unimportant coordinates
less important, even, than the (layers of stones)
fencing the (yard)

But I am here, I brought myself here
not to get away from anything, but wholly to get away

I step into my childhood room
a long held breath, of which i was unaware, escapes my lips
i've only been home a few hours,
was drawn by my loved ones away from this place
this place that is so sacred to me
so missing in my life
its clutter of luxury
its clutter of history
the things and memories that built my character
the things i once found important enough to keep
nooks and crannies, drawers and geometry
closed space, owned space, locked space
full of secrets long declared irrelevant
personal achievements tacked to the walls
ribbons, creations on surfaces
interests displayed, magazine cutouts
all these things echo
Along with these, foreign artifacts, added by mistake
what seems the piece of another
entering my chapter
but isn't the heart of my kin my heart?
aren't the closets down the hall
bearing my signature as well?
how unknown can these additions be,
introduced in my presence or my absence?
we see our blood most clearly away from the vein

•  Old dresser drawers reopened
• silly, simple T-shirts back in style
• confusion of how the last 5 years of fashion
• abandoned honesty and compassion, straightforward presentation

• he swims into the swatch
• it fits perfectly, but what to wear with it?
• total mystery; his sleek, **** jeans?
• his soft, comfortable shorts?

• maybe this would be easier if
• he owned less costumes
• silently noting that nudists
• likely feel quite comfortable in T-shirts

• shuddering @ the thought of such vulnerability
• he sorts through another stack
• faded reds dredging long drowned days
• eyes closed, sun bleeding crimson, thoughts lofty

• wondering what the sneakers he used to wear
• really said
• long sigh, less than hopeful
• but these things are cyclical, you know

• what goes, eventually comes
• old pictures always met with "what was I thinking"
• with fashion, you never can be sure, not even later
• besides, one day you'll just wear a suit, so be simple now

pulling drops into my
infinite ocean of
mortality through a
cotton filter

the cost is clear
and true but
out of mind
for out of sight

pouring buckets into
her dark opaque lake
container inscribed
"I love you"

this habit's cost
never will I face
out of sight
out of mind

I walk into the rain-forest
and I scream
"I guess I'm more
human than I thought"

taking souvenirs
dropping Kodak moments
I wish to forget
out of sight

wind buffets my body
cigarette
between fingers
lighter clutched in right
hand, hammock holds
brilliant blue
skies open
copy of neil
gainman's gods
american
paradise
drunk but not
confused, I
create still
handwriting
large but neat
no, not so
mess contains
beauty yet
i doubt power
of words due
to overwhelming
fuzziness
just a break
life goes on
separate from me
aqua flip
flop, walk down
beaches, now
peaceful life
missing still
what I lost
every day save
this one here
I used to
live in this
paradise
("paradise")
plastic life
aqua is
the color of
paradise