the poet in me is quiet now
no longer does he sing words
of love and whisper songs of
passion, no longer does the
drive to create pull at my feet
and walk me into the pit of
fresh reality, no longer does
the relief come when the word
emerges on the page, instead
there is only dissatisfaction and
sadness.

the poet in me must have left
no longer friends with the beat
of my heart, no longer in tune
with the secret channels my mind
broadcasts, no longer demanding
me to feel that which I refuse to
even acknowledge, no longer
there reminding me that I am
more than a body of flesh and
blood.

the poet in me is dead or gone
no longer putting up a fight with
the destructive order of my soul,
no longer bringing out the human
side of my heart, no longer engaging
all of my brain, no longer pushing me
to be more than I am expected to,
no longer making me sing and
talk and believe in myself, no
he is too good for that now.

the poet in me is quiet now
and all we have left is his pen
and our memory.

there are some
that you owe your very first
and your very last
to

but to you
I owe not just that
but everything
in between

and I am more
than happy
to spend every day
of my life
repaying
you

you miss a lot
when it’s happening
as you hurtle through
the wonderful moments
of your life

looking back
you can see how it all unfolded

the little glances and motions,
the afternoons spent in thrift stores,
the evenings spent in movie theatres,
the conversations till the sun came up,
the jokes shared, the laughs enjoyed,
the almost, nearly, so-close chances,
they all flew by the first time around.

she’d laugh at me now
because she always knew
but I was too dumb
or too nervous
to know

(but I knew,
deep down)

and it tell the truth to you
it’s been almost four years
since I first fell in love with her
and I never stopped, not for a day

not through the cancer,
not through Christina,
not through depression

she was my core,
she was my life,
she was something I knew
I would always have,
even if I didn’t
have her,



so even if I missed some things
while they were happening
I want her to know
that I wouldn’t have seen anything
if she had not opened my eyes
in the first place

and for that,
and many other things,
I will never miss anything
ever again.

you’ll find me
on the streets
offering love to strangers
reaching out with my arms
with sweet words
bubbling out of my lips
but when you hug me
in relief
at having found me
I will recoil
scream
look at you
with wild eyes
and fear
wondering
who you are
my love
because
like a beast
I am afraid of fire
and I will try to hide it
behind my own flame
which offers no warmth
to anyone
and
you will wonder
where I have gone
and eventually you will
realize that I haven’t
gone anywhere
and you will
leave me there
to fend off the cold
in my own ways
and take your love
to someone not so
much a cowering
beast

I want to write a poem
about being swept away in the ocean
except everyone else is being moved
and I am the tidal wave moving them

but I am not the tidal wave
and you will not move for
me

instead,
we are both being moved
and the wave is something
greater, hiding openly in
the shadows of our lives

there are no unmovable objects
but there are unstoppable forces

so I wrote a poem
about the tug/push/shove/drag of
           the ocean
about digging my feet into the sand
           and finding just enough purchase
about seeing how long I could hold on
about feeling myself weaken and give way
about falling, eventually, into the sea’s arms
           and floating away, lost on the world

so deep under the ocean,
can you hear me? can you
see me? can you breath?
can you think? can you
understand? can you
tell me how you
got there? can you
talk? tell me,
are you still
there?

fear
only rewards
brutality

reading through my poems
I want to throw away all but a dozen
out of the thousands I’ve written
and maybe
that’s the way art is:
a process of creation
and then
destruction,
over and
over and
over
until the making
outweighs the taking
and my vision
can be
achieved.

or maybe
I just got lucky
those dozen or so times
and the other thousand or so
is really what I’m capable of
and I should probably
realize what that means
about
me.

or maybe
I’m just looking
for excuses to quit
because I’m so close
to being as good
as I dreamed
but now
the true sacrifices
must begin.

the greatest power the light of god ever had
was casting shadows on that which we did
not want to see.

count to one, two, three
take a deep, deep breath
expand your chest
let it all go slowly
take another
let it out
slower.

count to five this time
slap yourself in the face
does it sting?
if not, again
do it until
you wake
up.

there’s no more counting
get up, shake off yourself
become new, leave your past
there on the floor,
and see how different it is
how unlike you it is
how little it means
as you go
forward.

take one, two, three steps
with your new legs.
feel how your new feet
bury themselves
in this new earth.
start walking a new path
and find yourself a new
destination.

come on,
it’s time to go.

you know what?
**** it.

don’t worry about it.
don’t stop and think,
jump into your days with two feet!
if you’ve ever wanted to
you might as well
because really
the worst thing
that can happen?

you die?

so what?

if death takes nothing away
then it’s not really that bad,
is it?

so make life worth it!
play your songs as loud as they’ll go!
sing! dance! move! run!
take a chance! ask her out!
**** things up!
don’t worry!
never let anything
be boring
or
dull
or
pointless.

you are the master of your universe.
go out and make the most of it.

you should know
that those who take things so seriously
are usually the ones who can’t decide
if there’s anything
they really should take
seriously at all (at least,
in the grand scheme
of things).

I had forgotten
what it was like to bolt up
at three AM with the want, no,
the undeniable need,
to write
the feeling
you had at that moment
because it was all clear for once
everything made perfect sense
and you needed to take note
or else you’d forget it
forever

I had thought
I couldn’t have feelings
like this anymore
that through
growth and aging
I had become outgrown
or immune
to such strong
forces
and
yet:
here I am,
writing down
this moment of intense clarity
so that I won’t forget
that I am still human
that I am still feeling
that I am still making it
even if I felt lost for
these past few
years.

forgive yourself,
I realized,
and I had to take
note.

drive a knife into my hand
and I couldn’t tell you
if the blade
was sharp or dull,

if the pain hurt
or just sat there
existing,

if you should stop
or just go ahead
and try
again.

look into my eyes
and I couldn’t tell you
if I was looking back.

my mind is drowning
(nearly blacked-out now)
and everything’s deafened
(both the good and the
bad).

I can’t see and
I can’t hear and
for all I know that hand
you just stabbed could be mine
or yours or someone else’s
entirely.

please,
wake me up.
the knife didn’t work.

this afternoon,
I could’ve walked forever
down the streets of Athens, Georgia
soaking up the rays of the sun
as I finally felt at peace with
myself.

the skies turned gray
so I turned into bed
and laid down
with some soft music playing
that told me stories of anger
and hatred and love
and let myself drift into sleep
and listen to the same song
twice, three times, over
again.

when I awoke
it was for first time in months.
my eyes wide open, looking out
at the sky who had turned blue
again.

too late
I realized what had happened,
when I heard the same melodies
flow into my ears over and over
and I wondered if I should drift
back into comforting sleep
again.

this time though,
I knew my mistake
and I would not be making it
again.

Thomas told me
at the end of our conversation
about the improv club,
about how serious we should be
with following the classic training,
about whether we should try to do it right
or just do it the way we feel,
that I should just try
to have some fun
and then suddenly
I realized we weren’t talking
about the club
any longer.

I stand dazzled,
like a child,
at the brilliance of the world.

but,
I have never been
so stumbled before.

this is odd, concerning.
what now is different
that has left me
so crippled?

what has changed?
the world
or I?

are things brighter
or is my vision
darker?

though I cannot see
I can make out
those around me
moving away
further each moment
so far
I cannot even hear their voices
laughing and talking
and enjoying life

and just a few questions
run through my panicked mind
like horses through a battlefield
screaming,
“where are they going?”
“what is going on?”
“where am I?”
“who am I?”

“why is this happening?”

but the world cannot reply,
for the answers were never
within her.

I surely did my worst
when I arrived at this place
full of opportunity
and then sat around
and enjoyed
none of it.

not here,
in the present time
in my present place

I am elsewhere
in some other place
with some other people
doing other things
that are not the things
I am actually
doing

and if I am not here
and there does not exist
where am I?

what is fantasy?
and what is
reality?

what,
and better yet
who
really exists?

and where do I
fit into all that?

where do I exist?

upon departure,
we discovered that home
was not a singular place
as we had been taught.

upon leaving,
we understood that home
was anywhere where we
could be together again.

and we were just realizing
we would not be home again
for a very, very long time.

not yet, but soon
the rain will come.

like an elephant
down the mountain,
you will hear her first
then you will witness
her true strength.

a space man came back home
and looked into his love’s eyes
with a wonder she could not
understand, and, mistaking it
for disgust, she said, “I must
barely compare to the beauty
of the all those stars.” But he
chuckled and said, “no darling,
no, it’s not that.” and looking
into his eyes she saw the stars,
aligned there ever so carefully
in the shape of her face, and
she remember then how much
he loved the stars and realized
why he had had ever come back
home at all.

the troubles were gone then,
if only for a moment.
flown off towards the brilliant blue skies,
we took the time to turn up the music
as loud as we could stand
and drive as fast as we could
through those winding
Kentucky hills.

I was at peace,
for as long as I could
keep up the pace,
which turns out
was not very long
at all.

it’s all coming together
exactly like they said it would
perfectly fine, in the end,
despite how bad it seemed
how much skin came
off our teeth
it’s perfectly fine now
and nobody knows
quite how to feel about
that

the ocean felt much remorse
for the ships she’d drowned
trying to help them cross her
waters as gently as she could.

the traveler rarely thinks
of all the molten emotion
that forged the mountain
his trail cuts so easily
across

but the final problem was this:
I never was who I wanted to be.
no matter how much I changed,
no matter who I newly became,
I was not satisfied with myself

I peeled back my identities,
let go of my vanities, and
tore off my imperfections
and never once found who
I was looking for

and the final question became:
was he even in there? could I
exist as I wanted to? was I not
searching hard enough, or was
there nothing to be found at all?

the answer, truly, did not matter.
both were equally terrifying. for,
on one hand, I was pathetic, and,
on the other, I was simply worthless.

what does one do now? this,
finally, was my dilemma.

she might as well be a ghost now.
did she even exist? I don’t know
was it a dream? a terrible vision?
can someone mean so much and
then betray so fully? these questions,
I suppose, are pointless. flittering
doubts that will never finally land.
could I have known it would happen?
did I do something wrong? or could
I have done something to stop it?

what do these wonderings accomplish?
making me fear the sounds in the night.
making me worry over every step taken.
the ghost is no longer here, and maybe
she never was. phantoms, I’ve noticed,
only ever haunt believers. so thinking
back on her and all we were and weren’t
I can’t really say that I have any unanswered
questions, just a deep feeling of shame
and regret at the way things all turned out.
what more really is there to say?

tired like always
and I don’t have much to say
but I thought I should write again
just for the exercise, for memory,
for myself, maybe, or maybe
I’m just feeling my exhaustion
and wanting to let it go
and maybe that’s poetry
maybe

Chicago
city of working men
of bustling factories
and billowing smoke-stacks

tattooed with graffiti
filled with hearty, loud people
who are constantly going,
building, moving upwards

it is unlike Atlanta, my home,
because she is a conflicted soul,
subsisting for so long in tradition
and now she sits on the brink
of modernity, and cannot decide
to jump in

this city knows who he is
and though I might not know
who that is, I feel its confidence

in the noisy cabbies honking horns,
in the rickety trains on their tracks,
in the million different faces I’ve seen
already, I can see a bold identity

something I cannot claim,
and I will wander on without
forever

I found myself, today,
surrounded
by human trash

piling
higher
higher
higher

everywhere

in the streets
in the stores
in the houses

inescapable
undeniable

everywhere

and as I looked out
at the
human trash

piling

higher
higher
and
higher

I began to see

myself

in the trash

and

I
was

afraid

of what sort of man
could see trash
everywhere
he goes

maybe it’s a nervous breakdown
I am twitching a lot
moving my feet and hands
in alternate patterns constantly
and I can’t seem to think
everything sounds like static
so maybe it’s my body finally shutting down
slowly tearing down the whole show
letting people see how it really is
and I can’t figure out why
but something is definitely happening
and I’m sitting here, watching myself,
seeing all that I am come apart at the seams
letting loose what little I have within me
so that it can flutter off
into the dark and rainy
night

and some wonder, why I am amazed
when I look up at the night sky and
see a blackness that extends far beyond
what we can ever reach, and even farther
beyond what I can possibly imagine.

some wonder, why it can bring me to tears
when I think of all that we can and will do
and still see so many, never even beginning.

it’s no mystery, why I am amazed,
at all that is and all that can be, and
do not wonder why I stare at the night,
frozen in awe at the beauty of it all.

the future is never owned by
those obsessed with the past

if I were a cactus
would I be easier to take?
because you could see
where my spines were
where I could hurt you
and you could hurt me
where I get my food
and where I lay my roots
so that you knew everything
and I could only steel myself
would you like that?
to be in command?
fully-responsible?
just remember that I can wait
through the longest droughts
and only die when the rains
come

it is time we talk
about all the things
we can’t stop thinking
about

there’s that feeling
that comes with the sun
as she shines
across a blue sky
that slowly fades
to white

there’s that feeling
that comes with a new year
as the days
begin to get brighter
and we can imagine
all we can do

it must’ve rained
those days Jesus was dead
nobody probably knew why
or even that it mattered
but when the sun finally shone
through the clouds on Easter
I’m sure someone
finally realized
that it was a big deal

we face a choice
not between two options
but between what we can do
and what we must do
and I cannot tell you
which must be chosen
but you must make your decision
and stick to it

do not shy away
do not regret
the choice was made
and only the present
exists

fear not yesterday or tomorrow
worry only about today

you’re still breathing right?
still reading this poem?
still sitting in your chair?
still loving your loves?
still existing?

keep that up

keep making the choice
keep trying to be better
keep being yourself

we face a choice,
but trust yourself
to make the right
decision

and
you will.

is a spider
who lives the bath tub
I have can’t use
anymore

he’s a wolf spider
of some sort

he eats the bugs
he’s big enough to eat
and is very territorial

he stays in the same spot
front legs raised
ready to pounce
but does not spin a web

he’ll live there
protecting my bathroom
and I’ll keep an eye on him
whenever I take a crap
or go in and get my
towel

but one day
I’ll decide he’s just
too comfy
and go get a shoe
or book

and I’ll end him

and that would be the life
of pet

things will not be well
things will be awful
things will go bad
and things will
end

let this happen
be brave
enjoy what you can
and do not dwell
on anything

roll with the waves
sway with the wind
ignore the sun in your
eyes

plant your feet
and
keep growing

the sun will rise
tomorrow

you’re lucky, kid,
pretty lucky,
too lucky,
remember that,
kid.

you’re lucky
that nothing has ******* up too bad,
and that you born into a whole freaking lot,
and that even though some ****** things have happened
(what with Christina and the depression and the cancer)
that you’re still not bitter about them.

maybe it’s that you know
how lucky you are,
or maybe you’re just smart enough
to enjoy good things when they
happen.

either way,
you’re luckier than most.

you’ve had love,
from the day you were born to just moments ago,
and you’ve seen the world and all of its beauty,
and more than anything you appreciate it all,
at least to some degree.

but you’ll get greedy, kid,
start thinking you deserve the sunshine
and blue sky and other simple pleasures,

but nobody does, kid,
the human race traded in for that long ago,

we wanted more, and we got it,
but we’ll never be clean of what
we had to do to get it.

so be happy, kid, be happy,
because you are
lucky.

you’re luckier than most
and your luck isn’t going
to stop soon, hopefully.

stay smart
stay alert
stay focused

don’t let this
go to waste.

people mill about,
most tourists, some locals,
looking at all the shiny jewelry
and the hand-made palm-frond baskets,
feeling the money in their pockets
and the sun on the back of their necks,
and somewhere else in the world
the president plots a drone strike
on a desolate desert in Asia,
and two Dutch florists make love
after a beautiful anniversary dinner,
and a spider dies silently after falling
under the sandal of a Brazilian child,
and somewhere there is an old rotting
apple left out from the morning meal,
and somewhere a scientist is weeping
with joy at his or her new discovery,
and somewhere there is a boy weeping
at the loss of his first and only love,
and somewhere people make a toast,
and somewhere someone drinks alone,
and somewhere there is a man writing
poetry about a place he just returned
from.

and somewhere there is a day,
and somewhere there is a night,
and somewhere the sun is just setting,
and somewhere the sun is just about
to rise.

watch for the water
it will draw out first
and you will feel it pull at your legs
begging you to venture out into the sea
but you will overcome it
and that is her
trick

she will come back
with all of her strength
and you will be weak if
you are not careful

don’t get caught up in the tidal wave
when you feel the water drain away
dig your heels in deeper
tense your muscles
grit your teeth
brace yourself

watch for the water
it will draw out first
and then come back
with more strength
then you could ever
know

hands black and red
stained with work
and self-fulfillment

when you walk through your days
in the company of shadows, peace
will settle over you eventually, so
that when the sun returns, revealing
all that you could not see, you will
beg for your eternal night, once again,
wondering how anyone could stand
to see, every day, that which you now
are seeing for the very first time.

those who live in the light are strange
to you, they seem sullen, hateful, and
angry, they look at you with contempt
like old enemies, how rude of them,
you think, that they should turn guests
away like this, how rude of them to
sully our name, this must be effect
of their world’s ugliness, it must stain
them like wine, leaving deep, red marks
that can never come all the way out,
ruining them, forever, no matter what
they do.

and it is with this new perspective
that you return to your world of
dimness, happy to know that light
only begets harshness and despair.
it is with this new perspective that
you will remain in your shadows,
never changing, never wondering,
never worrying, keep it up, I say,
outside your path there is only pain,
and the tragedies of doubt, suffering,
and reality.

let me look at my hand
and see what I see: on it,
a blistered mass, healed
somewhat, but not fully,
and I can remember
the knife sliding in, so
easily, so effortlessly,
like it was meant to.

it hurts, the wound I bear,
and this is not the only one.

most of them are hardly
visible, hiding in my body,
in my mouth, in my heart,
and most of them are old,
no longer holding pain, only
disfiguration.

let me touch this wound,
feel it move with fresh
blood and toughen under
my pressure.

like all of them: it will heal.
time will give this flesh new
life and its stiffness will fade
eventually.

this hand has not grasped
its last knife, and not felt
its last cut.

let me look at my hand
and see only a scar, not
a burden.

it’s dark
and the heater is humming
too loud for me to hear if she’s
sleeping soundly or
lying awake
waiting for
me

either way
she says my bed
is not nearly as comfortable
without me

that’s a good thing to hear
and it means a lot to me,
it really does,
but it doesn’t do much
to stave off the
doubts

who am I?
to have her sleep
in my bed like
we’re all
grown up

who am I?
to dive right back into love
after suffering through
such a catastrophic failure of love
that most sane men
would swear off it for
life

who am I?
to stare into her eyes
and pretend I am good
enough for
her

nobody is without fault
but I am with too many

greed, envy, shame,
wrath, hatred,
self-hatred,
sloth, guilt,
delusion, dishonesty,
lying,
and a laundry list
of pettier sins

while she has only been the victim
and had to cope the best she could

I know
she’s waiting for me
to work this
out

for me
to come to bed
with a fresh smile
and a clear head
full of love
and passion
and confidence

but I know none of those things
and I’m afraid it’s too late to learn
them

so don’t wait too long,
my dearest of all dears,
this old dog may well
be destined to die alone

take what you need from me
and fly off with a better soul

there was a red bird
sitting on a branch not ten feet
from my porch
and I thought
to take my pellet rifle
and shoot it dead right there.
it would be an accomplishment,
taking calm and precision,
and it would leave an impact on this world
but not too big of
one.

that red bird
begged of me though,
reminding me of my mortality,
how someone else could take their pellet rifle
and aim their sights down on my chest,
ending me, just as I could end that
bird.

so I sat inside
and watched that red bird
from the window of room.

I let him live, and realized
I had accomplished just as much
and yet nothing at
all.