writing poems about
odes about
codes about
nothing

sitting still
except the feel
of fingers typing
something

oh
give it up.

ever had those moments
of artistic remorse
where you want to burn
your imagination?

I want to burn this poem
I want to burn my poems.

I'm no poet,
I'm a ******* narcissist,
I'm a ******* farce.

*******.

We could just fall.
Of course there would be a beginning.
An initial "leap of faith,"
But there would be no end.
We would just fall together.
And never have to leave each others' grasp.
Into space we float.
Eventually stealing Orion's bow,
Just for a laugh- nothing more,
And using the big dipper to make pancakes.
We'd never leave.
We'd be eternal.
We'd just be falling.

Fall with me?

If I asked you to,
Would you follow me,
To the edge of the earth,
And trust me enough,
To jump with me?

I swear you're like the ocean,
A beauty on the surface,
Yet...
If I can dive deep enough,
I know that I will find,
A beauty that not many people will ever see.

at the psych ward with the client,
hardly anyone is quiet
they all say they feel okay
but 'they' don't even buy it.

here and there a light will flicker
pulsing on and off, I'm sicker
are these lights intentional?
pyscho-nautic centinnel?

calming, calming
smells like ****;
holy **** I need to sit,

who am I and who are they?
oh, here comes the dinner tray.

You're actually not perfect.
I finally found your flaw.
Which is ironic,
Because your only flaw...

Is that you're in love with me.

Are we not so different?
An angel consorting with a heathen,
A heathen consorting with an angel?
Both traitors.
Both committing frequent treason.
Both doomed to remain as static entities.
Unchanging, Unmalleable.
Opposite extremities,
Yet still on the same spectrum.
So what makes us so different?
Perception?

Funny. I have a similar problem. When a waitress drops in to take a drink order, I can never look her in the eye. Guilt, I suppose. There’s nothing she’s doing for me I can’t do for myself. Legs work. Hands work. Let me walk to the water dispenser and press the glass into it. Let me pick up my food. Let me carry it to my table. You take it easy, sweetheart. So, instead of meeting her pupils, I find myself reading and re-reading her nametag. A silent mantra. Tara. Tara. Tara.

Thank you for saying I should be “held by my edges.” That’s a candy-coated take on the truth. A more accurate description would have been “*******.” Oh, the toxic mix of shame, alcohol, and letter writing. I’m a new man, though. Cologne and everything. I’m even done drinking. Well, after I finish this beer. Still had one in the fridge. Anyway, I’m sorry.

No, women like Heather don’t disappear cleanly. Or with grace. In the silent moments, she always looked at me like I might hit her. She’ll probably tell friends I did. Everyone enjoys a good story. She called Friday. Said she’d taken some X. Dancing on her couch. I could join her or just watch. I just hung up. Did I tell you she’s really into Anime? And she attaches faux foxtails to her belt. I’m not sure if one of those traits is responsible for the other. Wish she didn’t know where I lived.