I am grim with reality

I seek something to blind me
but my hand trembles as I reach
for the bottle or the pen

I am awake to the world,
again.

law doesn’t really
exist
only the rules
they want you to follow,
their diligence in upholding
them,
and their willingness
to punish you
way beyond the bounds
of reason

because my poetry is nothing
because my words are nothing
because my computer is nothing
because my friends are nothing
because my life is nothing
because my acts are nothing
because my mind is nothing
because my works are nothing
because my hand is nothing
because my creations are nothing
because my criticism is nothing
because my fantasies are nothing
because my applause is nothing
because my books are nothing
because my wisdom is nothing
because my thoughts are nothing
because my punishment is nothing
because my rewards are nothing
because my brain is nothing
because my limbs are nothing
because my body is nothing

because nothing is nothing
because everything is nothing
because everything is everything

because nothing is everything
because nothing is everyone
because nothing is every-
thing it was meant to be

because my existence is nothing
because my struggles are nothing
because my help is nothing
because my actions are nothing

because he said so,
I am nothing.

it is when
logic flies away
that we at our
most powerful
and our most
vulernable

I heard someone
say
that they wanted to destroy
something beautiful
for no other sake
than the destruction
itself

and they continued,
it would not be the shattered remains
of whatever felt their wraith
that would be so perfect,
no.

it would be the act itself,
more beautiful than anything.
so beautiful in fact,
it would be haunting,
haunting for the rest of
their days.

If I want it,
I must take it now,
and seize it with
my hands

If I want it,
I must do the act,
and forget my own
fear of grime

IF I want it,
I must attack;
my friends, my
loves, myself

IF I WANT IT,
I must go soon
the time is short
the evening looms

IF I WANT IT
I MUST MOVE ON
THESE TEARS DO NOTHING
THESE TEARS NEVER HAVE

if I want it,
I can have it,
there’s a way
and I know it,
but I can’t face it,
- this gruesome act -
for I don’t want it
- bad enough –

to destroy everything
getting in my way
and by that I mean
- myself -

I graze now
boarding schools
of the highest
and utmost
quality

I want to run away
I want to start a new life
I want to create a new me,
in a new place,
in a new
world

I have reached the highest
point I can ever reach here

where can I go beyond this?

I’ve exhausted the resources
of my friends;
I’ve climbed the rungs of
power in theatre, poetry,
leadership;
I’ve created a society of
lies to protect myself and
hide myself from the truth
of the world, even as the
truth of my personality
slowly eats away at my
innards until I am hollow
and whistle in the wind

I do not take this act lightly,
I do not take abandoning my
friends,
my many years of work,
my reputation, good and bad.
I do not want to take what
I am away, but,
for my own sake,
I must

I deserve a new start,
a fresh start,
where I can be
whoever I want to be

I was gypped out of this opportunity
by birth, by my stable and even life
lived in only three houses, by my
poor luck to be so lucky, as to have
as good a life as I have been blessed

I do not complain about that
I complain about the jealousy
it boils in me for those people
whose parents are infirm and
irresponsible;
who are dragged from place
to place, never setting down
deep roots, by their owners;
who are given the opportunity
to be constantly dynamic whilst
my only option is to flounder
amongst a static tank

I am pained
by all this

by all this hate,
I have for the things
I love

by all these contradictions,
of the shoulds and
should-nots

by me,
showing, for once,
my human side
I cannot make sense
of the why’s and
the how’s
that my brain has
concluded thus
that I should move,
forget my past,
and start
anew

if it makes me happy,
it’s not good for me,
in fact, it’s worse for me,
because I get addicted

if it’s tasty,
I over-eat it,
if it’s interesting,
I over study it
if it’s fun,
I over-do it

if it appeases my addictions,
I’ll do anything for it

women
poetry
diet coke
sweets

these are all delights
I cannot have
for they are poison,
to me

I am best amongst strangers
who do not know my faults
and my tales,
who do not know what I have
done and what I might do to
them

I am best amongst strangers
clueless to who I really am
making friends with me based
on assumptions, mostly wrong,
who I can manipulate without
their knowing

I am best amongst strangers
whose judgments mean
nothing at all

I am best amongst strangers
so that I may hide, and they
may follow

I am best amongst strangers,
only amongst them can I
be true,
because I know, no matter
what, in a few hours’ time
I will but a speck of dust
floating on the winds of
their memory

blood in my teeth
taste so familiar
as I head into another
lonesome night

nothing is funny
or ironic now
only cold reality
offers a blanket
for the night

it is a red scarlet markings
as I bite into this evening
that sits in my once beautiful
and magical mouth

it is truth that runs forth
staining the white jewels
perfectly placed at the end
of throat

the evidence there,
in the mirror,
terrifies me

because it reminds:
I am flesh and blood,
not gold or steel.

I am not perfect.
I am not immortal.

I am…
human.

oh, god.

I need you to
say no to me
because I need to
learn what I can’t be
and what I can’t
do

but if you don’t say
no
to me
then I will never stop
until one day,
very soon,
it will **** me

inspiration lasts
approximately
.03 of a second

any longer than
that and you’re
creating memories
of that idea that
burned just moments
before

this is why I don’t paint,
or write prose, or jot down
songs

because creation
can only be kept
up for an incredibly
tiny amount of
time

so tiny
that the creation
of a single
poem
is millions
of times longer
than the life
of the inspiration
that birthed it
in the first
place

so on poetry,
and why I write,
I say,

because I do get inspiration,
like tiny bubbles in a can of
soda,
and I have to do
something with them
or else it all spills out on the
world, as a sticky
mess

out of breath
the man in my music
sings and I sit
silently

I ponder
what I should
do and continue
to sit while
my music
plays

top to bottom
out the window
sun setting
eyes sighing
another day done
another day done

the colors descending
the day casting shadows
on the night
spindly tree fingers
reach out at the last
glimpses of the sun

good night
good morning
it is has and
was a long
day

the sun sets on the beaches
the sun sets on the forest
the sun sets

good night
good day
good bye

the sun is gone
without a
sound

as I walked up to the stage
reciting the poem again in my head
I realized how unprepared I was
and was afraid

how great was I?

as the words flowed from mouth
and the meaning flowed through
my body I did not feel confidence
nor did I dream of success

how great was I?

as the steps besides the stage
flowed behind me like a steam
I could hear the judge’s pencil flair
and the tapings did not sound good

how great was I?

as I left that place in a hurry
said good bye and good luck to all
I did not think of winning or losing
only that I must move on

how great was I?

as I hurried to the next thing
practice for a play
I sang and danced without thinking
of the poem I had just read

how great was I?

as the phone rang in my pocket
and I checked to see what it said
I saw my friends had sent me
news that I had not won

how great was I?

as I carried on with my practice
I did not clench my jaw
I knew what was is what it was
and knew I could only move on

how great was I?

but,

as the doors outside opened
and there stood two friends
who’d sent me that word
they screamed to me
“you won! you won!”
and I could say was
“what?”

how great was I?

as they insisted to me my victory
and told me of how I had been tricked
I could only repeat, mouth gaping,
“what do you mean I won?”

how great was I?

as they “yes, yes, yes,
it’s you! it’s you!
you won, you fool!
you’re act was great!”
I stared at them
lost of my voice

how great was I?

as I slowly sat down
taking the story all in
I wondered in my mind
not what I what next
but instead I was paused
and could only ponder

how great am I?

it is her smiling in the right
me smiling to the left
both of us playing,
and I literally mean this,
mentally-deficient
characters

we were in love,
so the script went,
but what do retards know
about love and being
in love?

how can two people,
so out of touch with
reality,
care for each other
and take care of
each other,
when we people,
so smart and genius
and perfect,
can’t do it
with ease or
grace?

I think I’ll always remember
this picture

the nervous smiles
the unkempt clothes
the ring of keys overflowing
on my waste
the façade of inability
so perfectly kept

but that’s not why
I’ll remember it

it was the love,
the true, unfiltered
love that those
two characters shared
that brings me
back to this
photo
time and
time
again

who are we to tell them
they can’t love?

I think perhaps we should
all look at this photo
and think again who truly
knows what love is.

it was a hedonist’s dream
a lazy man’s paradise
an infinite realm of pleasure
and time
where only death would halt you
and he often didn’t take the
time

forgiveness,
hear my cry,
as I writhe again
in bed
a spurning of
doubt
fresh in my
mind.

forgiveness,
see me now.
as pathetic as
I have ever
been.
I wonder if sins
really are
punished.

forgiveness,
feel my strife,
is your heart like
stone?
and cannot find
mercy for a man
over-punished?

forgiveness,
smell my fear.
a dank musk
of my being,
no number of bathes
may wash
away

forgiveness,
taste the bitterness of
me
and search your soul
to find some sympathy
and respond to me
at last

why do I hear nothing?
I cry
and still the silence
carries on

forgiveness,
has no cry,
it has a heart,
I know and remember this,
but it is not a lax
judge

forgiveness,
hears my cry,
and shows me a
stone-cold face
in the starry
night

I feel a small tingling
as new thoughts flood
my mind
I see again the boy I
once knew: successful,
happy, and forgiving
of himself

I imagine
madness looks
quite like
anybody you
might meet on
any street

their clothes tattered
or freshly pressed.
their faces muddled
or beautiful from so
many years of life.

yes, madness,
must be like
anyone else.

simply living,
surviving,
through this big,
bad life like the
rest of us.

music notes
on a musician’s
libel

hunter’s bow
on a hunter’s
clothes

***** shoes
on a *****
man

a chair’s legs
on a god’s
body

a pope’s declaration
on a blasphemer’s
cry

an english ship
on a world’s
sea

a child’s book
on a child’s
desk

a belonging to,
and reflection of,
thyself

I walk
down the
street
in the summer
sun
and the person
I nod to,
walking past,
does not see me
and I do not
see
him

I’ve
got to
wonder
what’ll happen
when all
the Bukowski
runs
out

he,
despite my best
efforts,
is the single
greatest wellspring
of inspiration
I have

it’s not what he
says
or who he
is
it’s just,
every time I pick up
his books
and turn to any
page
and
read
I am
always
inspired

the poems
flow,
like a river,
a rushing river,
out of my mind
and onto the
page

he knows,
where ever he’s
at,
how painful
it is for me
to be so
dependent
on one
man

I’m sure he
smiles, takes a
drink, and
laughs
up in heaven
or where-
ever
and reads over
my shoulder after
I put down his words
and quickly,
like a feral dog,
spill out
mine

a neon
wolf
howls at a
xenon moon
my poems
seem so
similar
at
times

today
is not
going to be
a good
day

that little tingle,
that tiny nudge,
that niggling pain
in the back of
my mind

it’s doubt

it’s fear

it’s just
enough
to knock me
over the
edge

I will plummet

down into the pits
of my depressive
self where I will
die and be reborn
and die again

nothing will happen

time will not stop
but my eyes will
only see visions of
hell

today,
may be
****

it may be
terrible,
and horrific
and leave me begging
for death

or maybe
not

maybe,
I’ll rise above

maybe,
I’ll be happy
despite the
doubts

maybe,
maybe
I will.

to thy son
from thine father
and from his father
and up through the
years

bits and pieces
of each other
every family is imperfect
and beautiful

I smile at my cousins,
and my uncles, and
my aunts

they,
all pieces of me

me,
all pieces of them

come together
every year
to love,
be merry,
and celebrate

each other

and the little things
able to keep us
together

dwelling in the teary memories,
doubts of my past and lost decisions,
I freeze as the world moves on.
even the stones of the wall
and the branches of the trees
move into the future faster than I,
so I cast aside my worried mind,
take heart that I can get past this
and jump into the snowy day
to prove my boldness correct.

there amongst the snow
a tiny island
all to itself
a single flower
peaks it’s head
and says
forget me
not

this strange and beautiful sight
of a bloom amongst the ice
could be called a miracle
or an accident but in practice
brings hope to all the others
hidden in their struggle below
the ice

and the flower was called
daisy,
or sunny,
or jane

she was the lost ones,
the ones we wished hadn’t gone
but had

so there alone
a splash of blood
on an otherwise blank slate,
and she controls the
world

whispering,
forget me
not

she knows,
the flower
floating
alone,
of her power

but as you or I
or he or we
shut the door and
walk away from
the windows, she
begins to yell:
forget me not!

and we ignore her
despite the pain

and she screams,
forget me
not!

and we grit our teeth
as she bellows
one last time,
I cannot be forgot!

it is then that we can be calm,
come down from the agony and
return t our family and other
loves

and there alone,
still out in the snow,
the flower we barely
recognize sits and
plots her revenge
without noticing
the avalanche coming
quickly from her

True
False
True
True
True
False
True
False
Ah,
erm,
True!

Poetry­!

I listen to
a little imp
inside my head
who hates my heart
and loves my body

he knows the treachery
of letting me run amok
with women or pleasure
or pain

he says no,
no no no,
that’s stupid,
you’re stupid,
I know what’s best
you know that.

I hate that little imp.

for america
I sing of a land far gone
without a Wal-mart

to keep poems in
to get poems out

to keep my thoughts in
to get my thoughts out

to keep secrets in
to get secrets out

to keep myself in
to get myself out

help me decide

I am caught between
happy nothingness
and
uncertain bliss

the former,
an option of continuing
my current situation;
peaceful and
certain and
wonderful
though
bland

little happens
except for “hi”
and “hello”
and “how are you?”
and answers
to that
question

but,
as you can imagine
this is the best
feelings
I’ve had
in a
while

yet on the latter,
it is born,
from my internal desire,
that fire that always
wants more,
and I wants

her

it lashes at me
and
screams to me
and
tells me
“get her”
“get her”
“get her”

help me,
I beg you,
dear reader,
tell me
what to do.

if I deny it
this fire will get me
but if I bend to it
and try and make her mine,
even if she agrees,
I know another shadow awaits me
that terrible phantom,
guilt.

“hell,
is your destination.”
he says
to me
so sure in his
rightousness
that he does not
consider
his acid-throwing
even possibly
wrong

“you sinner!
you blasphemer!
you blatant and
obvious servant
of Lucifer!”

“burn,
you shall,
in the depths
of the devil’s
cavern!”

“you should know
better
than to ally with
anyone else
but Him”

“beg God,
beg Him,
for forgiveness
and maybe,”

“just maybe,”

“you might
live in limbo
or correct
yourself within
purgatory”

“confess yourself,
young sinner!
confess yourself
and be free!”

he yells to me

so what you say,
I respond,
is that
I cannot
be anything else
but hell-
spawn?

for what?

for doing what
I think is right?

for coming up
with my own ideas?

for thinking that,
perhaps,
I can be happy
without an
imaginary
friend?

“IMAGINARY?”

yes!
yes,
imaginary!
fake!
ma­de-up!
a fallacy!
an abortion
of some terrified
cave-man’s
brain!

He
is not
real
but we,
we are!

“you’re going to hell”
he muttered
under his
breath

no I’m not!
I responded
I’ll just be
dirt and
dust and
be fine
with that

what better heaven could there be?

stupid

stupid
stupid
stupid

you idiotic
little piece
of-

arg

why?

why
did you
let this
happen?

again.

love

you know
better than
to let it
happen

you know
what can happen.
what does
happen.

you know this
you know this
you know this

but you let it
happen again,
didn’t you?

when will you learn?
when will it hurt enough
to make you stop for good?
when will you realize
that you can’t win,
that things don’t
change,
that your dreams
will not be
reality?

when?
you idiot!

so sit there,
smiling like a
fool
trying to act
like you’re not
dying inside

we both know
how much it hurts

so stop!
stop sitting there
looking so happy!
so content!

she’s gone!
gone for good!

and! hey, what’s
with that gun?
why, why are
you pointing it
at me!?

this weight
upon my back
where has it gone?
it’s gone so fast

I did not talk
I did not know
this secret world
I carried, alone.

can’t stop moving,
jittering,
twitching

no need
no need
no need

but I can’t
stop

moving,
jittering,
twitching.

we’re moving too slow!
I scream

come on
come on
come on

let’s go
let’s
go!

moving,
jittering,
twitching

hands,
feet
body

stop
stop
s­top

moving,
jittering,
twitching.

growth and development
will not come in one big rush
not on any single day
or any single moment

no,
it comes
much like the tree grows
or the tide grows
or the rock
grows

never noticeable till done,
before and after barely
seem different as they
transform into one another

we cannot tell you went it all changed,
but we can always remember when we
noticed

food chart’s coming
plane’s shaking
zune’s nearly out of power
P.A. just told me keep seated

honest truth:
the P.A. interrupted me

I was gonna write an intro
go ***
come back
and write some more

it was probably gonna be crap
but now
at least there’s a little
drama

nine poems written now
boredom on the plane helps me
why haikus I ask

exits are both ways
they need more food on here
grumble grumble my head says

I’m
running
out
of
steam

so
I
write,
one
word
per
line,
everythi­ng
that
pops
into
my
head

pickle

see?

a coke,
some groceries,
and a
mars
bar

I pay
and walk
home
though
the
cold

throw the coke
on a trash pile
before I round
the corner to
the flat

I like this european way
to get groceries
every other
day

I eat the mars bar inside
warming myself and
surfing the net

wonder where
I can get this
in the states?

this
must
be
the
waters
built
up
behind
the
frozen
face
now
flyin­g
over
the
Atlantic
back
home

“who needs
love?”
some ask
sober from a long bout
of drunkenness
on the fine sprites
of the finer ***

“I can go on!
I will go on!
alone!
I shall!”

I know
I know
It’s not surprise
but riddle me
this:

why would you want
to?

forget logic
or sense
or thought
or doubt

we’re talking love!
the most powerful
lack of power known
to man

what else can make you tremble,
as your love’s voice on the telephone?
what else can make you wonder,
like the idea of even holding their hand?
what else can hurt,
worse than hear hearing her say
“no”?

we embrace it because we cannot
refute it

it is the mongol horde
and we are the simple
farmers

but this army does not come
seeking destruction,
though it does posses,
and often uses,
that power.
Instead, it seeks to create,
in you and in others,
a realization that the world
is more than dirt and gravity
and science

“there is more to be found,
so find it”
love says to you

and coming up from your stupor
you do not yell as you just had
and instead nod silently and begin
to run in no particular direction
at all

essentially,
each day I learn
new and interesting
ways that I am
completely worthless
and
unnecessary

whether it be complaints about
my speech,
or my attitude,
or my
personality,
all I keep hearing
every day
and
every
night

despite my small victory,
in getting the part I wanted
in the play,
my life has quickly
and steadily spiraled
downward
each time I check
back in

I want succeed
to stop all this
but I have arrived
at the conclusion
that it’s me
not someone
else

me,
good ole
caleb,
is the
problem

and I know I can’t change
enough to fix all these
problems
so I sit in bed,
starring at the
stars,
wondering how,
I got here,
why I was born
like this,
and who decided
I deserved this
or something along
those lines

and she said to me,
“I’m tired”
so I said to her
“go rest”
and she said to me
“I can’t do that”
so I said to her
“ok”

she said to me
“I’m hungry”
so I said to her
“go eat”
and she said to me
“dinner’s coming”
so I said to her
“ok”

she said to me
“I’m dying”
so I said to her
“don’t die”
and she to me
“that’s impossible”
so I said to her
“no it isn’t”

I sit reading
poetry at the
lunch table
some time
in january

it’s too cold to sit outside
but I remember later that
day I did the very same
thing in protest of some
club

and this guy I knew,
knew pretty well at the
time,
started rambling on
while I kept reading
my poems

“the girl I once
loved is still there
without me”
he said

“she sleeps at night
and doesn’t think about me
she goes through her days
without a care
she doesn’t wonder
what I’m doing
she eats her meals
and I cannot”

“and no,
I don’t go about my life
fretting over her
but every time we talk,
a not-so-rare occasion
now-a-days,
I get pangs of anger,
at myself,
and pangs of doubt
too
and
I know
there’s nothing I can
or could’ve done
but I still lost
and that…”

“*****”

yeah,
pretty much
I said,
licking my finger
to turn the
page.

I’ve opened up
to the possibility
of being

of being something different
of being something new
of being something nobody
thought I could be
of being something beyond
recognition
of being something beautiful
of being something wonderful
of being something I am proud of
for once
of being something above
what I was before

I dream of this
I wish of this
I know of this
I act on this

I dream to be a singer
of unimagined tunes
I dream to be a winner
of contests unknown
I dream to be a leader
of people without
the ability to move
forward
I dream to be a teacher
of unspoken things
I dream to be a successor
of every free-
thinker and
innovator
I dream to be an original
in a world bent
on unoriginality

I want.
I will.

be.

all of this.
every last bit.
I will be.

I will be.

I am being,
all of this.

all of
it.

it hangs
to my
right

it says
“keep calm
and
carry on “

the union jack
sits behind the letters
a white crown
sits on top of them
it against my blue wall
screams its message so
quietly

maybe I should listen more
when I’m feeling down
or glum or depressed

or maybe I  can’t listen
maybe I’m deaf
maybe all those encouragements
fall without a sound on my
ears

and the poster
still sits there
saying:

“keep calm,
and carry
on.”

and I wonder
who could say
such a thing
when all anyone
can ever do
is
panic

an artist trapped within his skills
a lizard caught in snow-storm
a book that’s been read and quickly
thrown away
a face on a sleeping corpse
a piece of gum stuck to everyone’s
shoe
a chair that never seems comfortable
but is always sturdy
a man standing without any hint
of what he’s thinking
a coffee cup filled with disgust
a bug landed on the wall
an injured horse that knows it’s
fate
a cologne nobody wants to, but
must, wear
an elder and a boy all in one
a double-think dilemma
a knowing that red and blue
make purple
a muttering doubt hidden in your
brain
a looming challenge, belittled in
self-defense
an enemy accomplished of little more
than existing
an attack from all angles when you’re
most ready for it
a neutral mask
a human being behind a wall
a quarter quickly slipped into the
vending machine
a picture of wasted opportunity
a movie about nothing

a look into the mirror
a prayer for a lost soul
a remorseful refrain
of self
a poem about me,
and others,
and all of
us
together
through me,
only me,
only
me.