what can we do?

what can we
do?

nothing?

no.

not nothing.

maybe something.

maybe something
one day.

that’ll be a good
day.

yes,

that’ll be a good
day.

it smells like smoke,
***** fog,
burning bodies
of wooden souls
scream out:

stop! stop!
no, spare me!
spare me!

as we throw another log
into the mouth of flame
their screams grow louder
then fade to nothing

tiny voices
each screaming,
begging:

stop! stop!
no, spare me!

fading like so many into
the light.
their bodies gone, turned
to ash, their existence
turned to the warmth
upon our
faces

tiny screams,
like so many of our own,
begging, pleading:

no! stop!
spare me!

I must always
remind myself
that the world
is not a perfect
place

lovers argue,
great days go
by without a
celebration,
and sometimes
it rains when
you could use
a little sunshine

when the thunder crackled
this morning, I saw an omen
in that

not from fear of fate,
nor from superstition

there was simply the
air of the future about
it

so I reminded myself
that this world was not
a perfect one

and what was once bleak,
now seemed a blessed gift
in comparison

so for first time in a week

I woke,
went to the bathroom,
drank some water,
put on some clothes,
and walked out of the
room like a normal
person

to say this is a miracle
is doing an injustice to
the truly ill

but to say it is something
I am amazed at, well, that
is only the truth

it is funny
to know just what
all those dying
people in the
books and
on tv are talking
about when
they say:

“I can never imagine
being normal again”

the room seems different
somehow, but you know
it’s all the same

the world seems different
too, but I suppose it’s just
that you can be a part of it

I awoke today and forgot
what had happened to me
a week ago

and to say that one of the
most amazing moments of
my life was simply:

waking, peeing,
drinking, putting
on clothes, and
walking out the
same door I have
for seven years

well, that would just
be the truth

he wore white sneakers,
and black glasses, and
played guitar and sung
the blues

he picked each string
and hit each note and
had voice like gravel
and a heart of gold

he was old but he was
chipper, he was broken
down but he still laughed
like it was 1923

he sung to the taste of
good food, he sung to
the taste of good beer,
he sung to the soul of
his old city, and he sung
for the sake of singing
itself

he, like each man up
there, was playing for
the sake of playing.
they were a quartet
of junker cars and
busted stereos

he sung those old time
blues, back in the days
of Robert Johnson and
racial inequality, back
when the water fountains
were separate but everyone
was still chasing a dream
so uniquely American

he sings and he plays and
his guitar is just smaller
than a normal


he sings those old times
blues with a smile on his
face, even as the world
writes new songs for the
next generation of gravel-
voiced blues-singers that
seem to enjoy life just a
little bit more than anyone
else

we’ll get through this
because we always get through this
again and again and again
we’re reminded
this too shall pass
and the very existence of humanity
could hang on a thread
and all we can repeat
again and again and again
is this too shall pass
this too shall pass
this too shall pass

the trees are wheezing tonight

their shadows shaking
taking deep, shallow breaths
in and out, because they know
what’s coming

I inhale wind and wake up,
understanding their fear

we remember blue skies
but will wake to gray horizons
the days will flow into nights
seamlessly

I am afraid because the trees are afraid
the stronger of the two of us is shaken

the trees are shivering tonight

their bare limbs remind me that winter
is not over yet

I wish I was mad

things would be simpler,
predictable.

I can handle insanity
and absolute
realism

but
not both.

a sentinel sits,
overlooking a river
protecting it
from time.

remembering it
for what it has been,
will be,
and
is

do we ask for fire?

hell?
damnation?

to die as a thousand
nuclear war heads explode
amongst the clouds?

just because it would
leave a bigger crater?

are we lost
or
do we know our destination?

the oblivion we run
towards faster every
day

what happened to the watchdogs?

the presidents?
reporters?
priests?

are they chained?
muzzled?

or do they bark
at a different moon?

towards armageddon,
forward to the pit,
they howl

that is the place us
holy men must go

am I alone?
am I the last saint?

am I the only one who
can rise above to see
the treasure at the end
of this map?

or am I a man awake
amongst the zombies
fearful of the waking
world?

what have we wrought

what fire
hell
damnation

do we seek

what do we want?

to die?

or die knowing there is
something (if no-one)
to remember?

there was a death in the paper today

an old man was hit by a drunk
going twenty-five over the speed limit
at approximately three fifty-eight
last Saturday night

there was a picture of the old man’s
kids and grandkids and everyone looked
very sad and very touched by this

there was no word
from the drunk’s
family

this story goes good with coffee
and a bit of apple ****

I read the last bit of the story
and head out the door

last I heard,
the drunk is in custody
and cannot make bail

what a shame that
I’ll never truly be
able to capture the
beauty of our own
universe

not in words,
not in pictures,
not in motions

but I see it

oh I see it

and it haunts me
so

just how beautiful
everything is

everything is unique
and interesting in so
many ways

everything has its
way and everything
has its purpose

everything is as they are
and I as I look out the window
and witness all of existence
I weep at my insignificance,
at my impotency in the
face of this marvel.

But Christ!

*how lucky we are to be
alive

I saw three men on the roof today
and there was another,
with a big beard and a bigger smile,
that oversaw a jerry-rigged machine
making terrible noises
hooked to a white pick-up
that fumed with dark smoke
and smelled of awfulness

they each seemed willing to do what
they must, and happy to do it in fact

three men on a roof
one on the ground
working on this gray
and dreary day

the future seemed simple then

I am not a man for superstition or the supernatural
but I am a man who believes in the inherent goodness
of the universe

what luck,
I think,
that I may be here,

alive.

feeling the damp rain
on my face

wondering at the way things
work and the way things are

grinning to myself,
quietly thinking:
*ah, who needs more
than this?

well I wish I could be happy like all of them
so full of childish glee and blind elation
but I am man too deeply rooted in his logic and his thoughts
and unhappiness is often the cost of intelligence

I desire to enjoy like they enjoy, lust like they lust,
feel like they feel, so fully, with all of their being
but I am a man too harshly in touch in reality
unable to turn off my mind long enough to enjoy
even the simplest pleasures of drink or another’s
company

there is a world filled with soulless faces
lurking out there in the void
and we dream of this world and have nightmares
about this world and we fear what sort of men
might inhabit it

so rarely do we wake up
to find
the world already
here

we, the monsters who inhabit it.

I want sleep

sleep is
easy

there’s no
pain in sleep,
no thoughts

I want sleep

easy sleep

sleep
sleep
and
more sleep

I would pay a lifetime’s ransom
for a lifetime’s worth of sleep

I just want to sleep
and that is all

waking is for the brave
and beautifully foolish

the tragedy is
not that I am alone

it is that I can
never not
be
alone

there is no way out of this
this time

I’m deep in the haze
of disparity,
lost in the truth
of it all

I would love to just say
hello and mean it
be happy to see others
to look at them and
see value
but I don’t,
I can’t,
I can’t fool myself
so willingly

the biggest tragedy of all
is that there’s no lying to
me

I’m a man in the midst of reality,
it’s hard edges cutting deep into
my soul, each nearly decent face
gives way to a dull and trivial
mind

I am guilty for
suffering

for hating

for the fires that eat
at my own feet

there is no way of this
this time

I have the few who (can)
understand me

and

those who love
me

most men only need one,
and, let me tell you, I need
mainly need the other

the simplest
joy

is

unzipping your
shorts

spreading
out
your legs

and letting
out a warm, yellow
stream over a
cliff

the true victims of humanity are the men strong
enough to forgive those who make them victims

less of an island
and
more of a
ship

moving steadily
across the
vastness of the
seas

less of a loner
and
more of an entire
crew within one
man

needless of others,
and thus,
not needing them
at all

I am captain,
first mate,
helmsman,
and
cook

I do everything I need
and everything I want

I lay anchor
only to get that which
I cannot provide
myself

like love, personality,
and sanity

if depression is a pair of sunglasses
worn over the soul

then to remove them is the scariest task
for fear the world remains dark without
them

sometimes
hearts die after
years of
caring too
much
and receiving
too
little

other times
hearts are never
born at
all

the sounds of
their beating simply
phantom rhythms
which compel
no compassion
and
look wide-eyed
when asked about
love

all she
could muster
was

my name

between

the moans,
gasps,
and

screams.

I cannot offer closure to
those who lose their loved ones
or whose children die
or parents die
or whose companies fail
or banks empty
or women run out
or bottles empty
or whose demons eat at them
or doubts destroy them
or whose lives are as hallow
as a Carron beetle cooked for
centuries under an unforgiving
sun

I can only offer a chance
to those who thought there
was none
to those who didn’t realize
there was a way out
or that they weren’t done for,
just yet

I give them a minute,
two perhaps,
where they can choose
to do
or
not

and this alone is all
the universe allows

the world
has yet
to wake
up

still hung-over
from last
night,
the gray clouds
wait with us
for the
pain to fade

(the eyes of the universe
scarcely notice our pause)

shame sits on
my couch
eating a
doughnut
complaining about how
the girls in horror
movies are
always
dumb ******

I can’t remember the
last time
I saw him
but
he looks
good

must have made some
strong woman cry her
heart out

that would make
anybody feel
good

it always amazes
how quickly he moves
in

setting up his cot
near the fire-place,
his toothbrush in
the bathroom, and
taking anything he
wants from the
fridge

not that I do much
to stop him once
he gets in

if he gets in

that’s what I’m good
at

keeping him out

most of the time
I just ignore him

sometimes he doesn’t even
show up

but sometimes he gets in
and I’m in no shape to
play his games
and
so I just lock myself
in my room
while he yells at
the television

oh well,
I think

he’ll leave soon
enough

off to ****
with a weaker soul
or perhaps just
kick a drunk
while he’s
down

writing poetry
is a lot
like playing the
piano.

it takes skill and
practice,
but the best of us
seem to be
gifted with it.

as if god decided
we were going to be
another Beethoven
or
another Bukowski

too many people never
realize this,
and continue to play the
piano or write their
poems
and always thinking
yes
yes this next piece
is going to be
the one
the one that makes me
famous

they write and play
and cast their eyes downward
each time they get
rejected by the producers
or by the publishers

always saying to
themselves
ok
it’s ok
they just don’t know
what they hell
they’re talking about
I’m great
I’m still great
I just need my break-
through
I just need my first
masterpiece

these amateurs are not
to be disregarded
or
looked down upon
though

for without them
we would never find
the Beethovens
and
the Bukowskis

it takes a million fools
making their
cacophonies to the
wind
for the miracle to happen
and the master
emerge

the one
thing
I will
never be
allowed
to be
is
myself

the last time
I slept in this
bed a wasp
swooped down
and stung me
on the neck

hurt like a
*****
and I didn’t
even ****
the
sucker

I was writing,
just like now,
so I said

“wasp,
you stay up there
and
I’ll stay down here
and we’ll both
leave each other
alone”

he called my bluff
and went in for
it any way

hurt like a
*****
and I had
never been
stung
before

I was sure
that I was going
to breakout in
hives or my throat
was going to
swell shut

it was a terrible
way to spend Christmas
Eve night

now it’s a bit
different

a beautiful woman
yearns for me at my
left

my body survived
the sting but has
grown older and more
tired

the world shifts
constantly

but this room

filled to the brim
with dolls and books
and old broken-down
knick-knacks that once
had purpose to some-
one

has not changed

four trophies stand
on a shelf across the
room

one lays on its
side

a broken camera
rests about me

two dolls hold hands
on a bench

pictures of people;
some that I know,
some that I don’t

and a pair of lamps,
both shades titled in
such a way that proves
nobody really
cares

the only thing moving
is the flies on the walls
and ceiling,
and the quiet, precise
movements of a man
trying to capture an
eternity

I wanted a
coke

but
the only ones
we had
were
out in the car
and my dad
had the key with
him
upstairs

so I search my
grandpa’s fridge

the same
one he’s had
for..

as long as
I can
remember

three half-emptied
bottles of whiskey,
bologna, condiments,
empty ice trays

only thing to drink
is pepsi and ski

I choose ski

a local concoction
of orange and lemon
flavors

I open it,
leaning back into
the worn furniture,
waiting on a phone
call and
writing down the
little adventures
I manage to
have

oldest distillery in
the country

still using the
original method
of cooking,
fermenting,
distilling,
and
aging
in
new oak
barrels

the nectar of the hicks
of the world
brewed
in such a beautiful
and natural place

future and past
fused together

quietly keeping the
whole world
wasted

ah, if I could love like
you

my whole life
would be so
different

ah, if I could love at
all

but even that’s a
struggle

he’s a hoax

a big phony

he can’t be trusted
and he’s *******
for fooling us
this long

he’s evil

he tricked us all

he told us he
loved us but he
can’t really
love can
he?

he’s too smart

he’s too conniving

he knew just what
we were looking for
and gave it us,
he played us like a
game of
chess

he knows it

he’s not stupid

he lives with the
guilt but he deserves
worse than that
for what he
did

he’s a liar

he’s a thief

he came in under
false pretenses and
stole everything he
could

he left

he just left

he couldn’t say anything
except that he couldn’t do
it anymore

he was honest

he was true

he left because
he cared what we
thought and
he knew
he wasn’t good
enough

he’s a hoax

a big phony

he thought he was
one of us

what sham
he was living,
trying to be someone
he wasn’t

(and succeeding
anyway)

I know how it
feels to not
feel anymore

an emptiness that
fills you up,
consumes you,
burns inside of you
but only makes you

angrier,
sadder,
more confused

it’s like you’re the fish
and reality is beyond
the glass

there’s this big quiet

everything seems to
move in and out of
focus so fast

people’s words mumble
through the water
and seem foreign or
even alien

you look them in the eye
but they have nothing to look
back into

all you want to do
is sleep

fade into the
water

die

if you’re lucky,
someone will notice,
slap you across the face,
pull you out of the water,
and shove you down
the road again

if you’re like most,
you’ll keep walking

maybe even begin to
run or skip as you
go

but you’ll fall back into
the ocean

the world you once knew
seeming to flood,
moments float by,
days fade to weeks,
and you’ve long passed out
from lack of air

I know how it feels
to not feel at all

my miracle is that I have
never had to swim out of
that sea again

I’ve had a lot on
my mine lately

too much really
about too many
things

difficult,
unsolvable
questions

constantly vexing
me

sitting in my new chair
I wonder what I should
do

I get up,
take a ****,
and
come sit
back
down

it’s bit cold
and it’s Christmas
so I decide to go
find something
to eat and
leave
the questions
for another
sleep-less night

we were brave once

but we were told
to be sensitive
and empathetic
and walk a mile
in another’s shoes

and now ignorance
is mistook for brilliance,
and the only risks we
take involves which
flavor of cheetos
we get from the
gas station

we were great once,
I remind you

plastic bags for
plastic sandwiches,
cardboard bread
and pseudo-meat

how do we fill
ourselves on air?

tasteless,
bland,
empty

sick on it
and yet we keep
on eating

bite after
bite after
bite

one day, it’ll end up
on the floor or in the
toilet (if we’re lucky)

plastic gourmet,
bag and all

tasteless,
delicious,
poison

I hope that
sleep will bring me
me answers
tonight

or if not,
a direction,
or suggestion,
or tiniest
hint of
where to go
next

and if that’s
too much,
ok,
I suppose
I’ll need the
rest to conquer
these looming questions,
constantly blocking
out the
sun

we were raised to be unsure

to be doubtful
and confused
and trustless

to wonder

but only because we
cannot assure
ourselves

we were told to be quiet,
sit silently, and do good

we were never asked
our opinion and we
never asked why

we were told:

we need to listen to our parents,
our teachers, our papas, mamas,
uncles, counselors, and bosses,
to the politicians and back-alley
preachers because they know it
all, they’ve been around the block
and seen the world, and they know
how it goes

we need to believe their advice
and do what they say because
god is always watching you
know

we were raised in a
universe devoid of
reason

we were left pursuing questions
without ever knowing there were
actually answers

we, the doubtful,
confused,
and trustless

how to do we know
anything?

too many,
I say,
look skyward for
their answer

only to miss,
a tiny whisper,
constantly
humming out of
their hearts

I am a tired soul
awaiting the end
of an endless life

my hull has battered many
more storms
then any single ship
should ever have
to weather
and
still
I have a whole
life left to
live

I am a tired soul
awaiting a port
to finally dock in

my mast has been broken
over and over,
the sails
torn through
one too many
times,
and
the lower decks
leak with an
unnerving
drip

I am a tired soul
floating about on
a deserted ocean

my fleet is gone,
my crew abandoned,
and I have only
time and
the sea
as a companion
into the
adventure that
is death


I am a tired soul
facing the kraken’s
wide, gaping jaws

my time has come,
as the story
goes,
but in my
final moments
I can attempt one
last show of
bravery
and
jump
towards my
fate

steal brandished

my mind is dying
with the poison of my
existence

I am sick of being
sick of myself

out, I say, out
reaching back into the
dark, untouched recesses
of my being

the pain is hidden by
euphoria

up and out and everywhere

everything

every toxic habit,
treacherous friend,
and bad decision

up and out and everywhere

I feel empty
inside

my life has been a series
of encounters,
each one between me and
the truth that
I discovered much
too young
and,
truthfully,
wish I never had
at all

it is impossible
to escape that ghostly
truth

he is patient
he is smart
he is fast

and

he is right

(but I can still run
from him)

and I do run:

into women
into poetry
into the arts
into new locales
and exciting
venues

I run and hide
and hope

hope that truth will
leave me alone for-
ever

(but we all I know
he can’t do that)

eventually he’ll find me,
walk leisurely up, grab
the paper out of my hand,
look at it, laugh at a story,
and throw it the ground

then he’ll say it:

you’re going to die son

and nothing you ever do
is going to stop it,
and nothing you ever do
is going to last

you know as well as I do

this “life” thing is all a
sham

so come on, come with me,
I promise you the darkness
isn’t as bad as they say it
is

(but somehow I never take
him up on that option)

I always run

I always distract him
(just enough) and then
bolt

it’s all I can do
it’s all I’ll ever be
able to do

my life is just a series
of encounters with that
truth and his solution

trying not to believe him,
trying to defy myself

something died
or
something was born
after something died
or
something was born
from the something
that died
or
something has changed
and I feel like I’m newly
born and yet as if I have
died at the same time

something has changed
is all I know

something snapped
or
something broke
or
something burnt up
or
something exploded
and is still raining
down upon the land

something is different

something has changed

but the world has not changed,
there is a comfortable fear in
that

it isn’t the first one
I’ve ever gotten

certainly,
not the last

hell, I’ve even been
rejected by these people
before
just at a much earlier
and less shameful
stage

but it still hurts,
those words

“we’re sorry
we’re sure you did your best
better luck next time
there’s no shame in this
again, we’re sorry”

“but you’ll not be moving
on”

sweet bull-****
to make the medicine
go down

that awful elixir of
you ****

sometimes they’re wrong,
sure,
but most of the time
they’re not

most of us aren’t worth
**** and our whole society
is built around telling us
that we’re not

bull-****
to hide the
bull-****

how quant

I am reaching
the end of the longest
and most arduous chapter
of my young
life

I do not know how
it will end

perhaps in divinity
perhaps in destruction
perhaps in death

but I do know it is
fast approaching

I can hear it on the wind,
whispering,
that voice
that reminds me
when things aren’t going
as planned,
that things must
change,
that summer must turn
to fall,
fall to winter,
and the leaves must fall
and the trees grow
bare

I can see the storm brewing
as the first flakes of snow
float down and melt upon
the ground

the only thing to do is pull my coat closer,
bear my face against the piercing wind,
pray for a home ahead, forget all that I
worry, and remember all the good I know

the chapter ends in whiteness,
a static out of which anything
can emerge

I wrestle with myself
tonight

I fight with my darker half,
my bleaker thoughts,
my niggling doubts

he throws punches,
jabs at my ribs,
socks my eyes,
kicks in my knees

sometimes he hits me too hard,
in too soft a place, and I snap

I erupt

my rage boils over

I barrel back at him,
fists and feet blazing,
my arms stretching out
and then back but never
ringing true to flesh or
bone or anything

there is no way to fight
him because he is right

he’s a master at turning this
all against me

he knows what I know
(how hopeless this life
thing is) and he reminds
me each time I fail and
each time I am just weak
enough to believe him

he loves it when I try
to prove him wrong

(because I never can)

I wrestle with myself
today

I fight against the certainty
that death is the end

that darker half,
those bleaker thoughts,
my purposeless existence
and each constant
reminder

I wrestle with him
each day

he grabs my collar,
shakes me about,
spits in my face, and
calls me a coward

he laughs and
waits for me to burst
into that perfect
inferno

but I don’t, most days,
certainly, not tonight

he’s not getting to me
tonight

so I get up,
wipe his filth off my face,
shrug my shoulders
and leave

he smirks, knowing another show-down
is only a bad day or bad moment away

I needed it,
you know

I needed you to tell me
to shut up,
that I did good,
that despite all my doubts
and worries
and fears,
I probably made it
through

but instead,
you told me the truth

I probably ****** up
I probably failed
I probably ******* myself
for the up-teen millionth
time

and that’s not what I
needed

not then
and
certainly not
now

I needed to be lied
to

I needed to be told
I was wrong

but instead all you did
was shrug your shoulders
and said, “well, you’re
probably right”

I watch myself go through
this pain:

I am slamming down
the phone

the tears of my
anger, grief, and confusion
spill out now

the voice on the telephone
still tells me to keep waiting,
keep waiting, keep waiting
keep waiting

I am slamming my fists
against the wall

it hurts,
everything hurts,
I yell at the gods
and curse fate

I am lying alone
in the darkness,
silently wrestling
with my demons

I am confessing all my sins

I am asking her what she
thinks I should do

I am listening to her,
hanging on each word,
each thought

I am fighting back,
correcting her mistakes,
trying to make her
understand the state
I’m in

I am crying in her arms
and she whispers to me,
“ do what makes you
happy”

I am fighting with that
wise advice

the truth and the bitterness
in it

the fire as I must drink it
down

I am taking long swigs of it,
cringing as it runs past my
throat and into my stomach

I am feeling the relief
of decision

I am slamming down the telephone

I am listening to that voice
deny me

telling me “keep waiting,
keep waiting, keep waiting,
keep waiting.”

“everything changes in time”

I am looking at myself in disgust

I am looking at the future with disgust

I am making my case once again,
this time in person,
this time
not to a voice
on the
telephone

I am making them believe

I am feeling the relief of approval,
the cool rush of recognition

I am still shaking

I am still not done

I am still watching myself writhe
with guilt and struggle with doubt

I am now confident though

I am now sure of the path I take,
of the future I pursue

I am watching myself
go through this pain,
again

I am slamming down the telephone
and redoubling my efforts