Good morning America!
Welcome to another day!

feel free to be yourself
do what you want
follow your dreams
be who you want to be
but be careful now:

be sure you’re being who
you really are

and for god’s sake please
don’t do anything
stupid

or embarrass
us

oh that would be
most dreadful

but anyways-

Good morning America!
Good morning to you!

all you happy-faced,
pale-skinned,
judeo-christian
suckers

I hope you enjoy this day
exactly as we tell you
to

my earliest memory…
was of playing with my first
set of legos, tinkering with
each brick, putting in the way
it should be, according to some
abstract and incalculable
method

things were so simple
then

everything fit together
so perfect

now I look forward to
a broken world

the former owners saying,
“it’s your problem now,
kid!”

if you read
enough
Bukowski
eventually find out
about his deep
and serious affair
with the feline
species,
one that he
kept up
probably
from the day
he got old
to the
day
he finally
went kicking
into
death

it’s really something
completely out of
character for him and
I think he knew it too

cats?
come on

what happened
to the tough-cut,
bar-fighting
drunk we all
know and
love?

off with his cats?
pfff

but its true
and,
really,
it’s less surprising
than you might
think

I think he respected
them

their calm
ways,
their toughness,
their ability
to come back
from anything and
never even look
scared

that’s what he saw,
he saw himself,
he saw some tough
******* and
they didn’t even
show it

he respected that
I respect that

and when the toughest
one of them all died

I think Buk saw himself
for a moment

cats,
you crazy
sons of
bitchs,
I swear you
know more than
any of us
men

and I salute you,
and I’m sure Buk
does too,
you delicate creatures
go take a nap
you understand more
than all of
humankind
simply by sitting
in the
sun

waiting

I see the apparitions
of a million mourning
people
standing here
amongst hundred year old graves
and hundred year old trees

they walk slowly
tears dropping
without ever hitting
the ground

one by one
flowers of every color
are put on grave
after grave
till this bleak
and dusty
graveyard
turns into a beautiful
arrangement of ornamental
and inorganic reminders

as each grave adds to the garden
of paper flowers each ghostly figure
of some mourner past disappears as
in a puff of smoke until all of them
have evaporated into the air and I am
left alone in a dusty graveyard adorned
only with fake blooms and overgrown
weeds

the sun beats down hot on my head
and I sweat as the sun comes level
with my eyes

a little girl toddles up to me
pointing at the petals adorning
a near-by grave

she asks
“are those paper flowers?”

I say yes
and comment
on the beautiful
day

“yes”
she says
“it’s a good day for paper flowers”

and I sat there
silent
watching the sun
set
on a beautiful
place such as
this

all the strong men,
now hiding in

cowardice,
religion,
and
ignorance

are no use to a
generation where
wisdom is as
scarce
as

humanity

what new Atlas
rises to keep the
world afloat?

not I,
you say.

not I,
they say.

not I,
says I.

the millions watch
as the statues crumble
the cities fall and
Atlas lays down
for some much deserved
rest

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.

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.

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

Peaceful songbirds
The innocent masses
The little kisses that mean so much/so little

The dagger black
The rare jewels in ancient tombs
Dead bodies leaving gaps for others to fill

We see them in silence
Quietly hiding away the lives we live
The smirks on our faces enhancing the lie

The reaper laughs his hallow laugh
We are blind to our enemy/focused on false goals
A blade ***** away our life

An imaginary shroud removes our whim
We dissolve to animals
These are the last days

I use a pile of lies, tricks, and hypocrisy as a throne
Some men scoff at me
Many more scorn my birth

One asks me
"Why use this as a ruling place?"
I chuckle

And answer
"Have you ever seen one made of something else?
I just don't paint it up in gold"

death came to visit
today

and now he sits,
smoking a cigarette,
in a chair
on the other side
of the room

he did not say
why,
simply barging into
the room
saying

hey
hey man
how ya doing
care for a
smoke?

he didn’t say much
after that so I went
on with things

read a magazine,
paid some bills,
made a sandwich and
ate it

still he sat,
just smoking and
smoking,
occasionally
asking me:

you sure you don’t
want one man?

I was sure
and after the fourth
or fifth time he
asked me if I wanted
to go somewhere


“a little noise will do us
good man”

“this place is quiet as
death”

I realized slowly he didn’t
mean for us to return if we
left

as I write this
he’s still over

smoking and smoking
and smoking

I weigh my options
as the sun sets once
again

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.

imagine if they hadn’t
found the dog

imagine if I had to console
her with all my
might

imagine if
our one summer together
was forever tainted by
this

imagined if tears
was all I would
remember

imagine if god was
cruel

imagine if god was
real

imagine if my arms
could heal and my hands
could soothe

imagine if happiness
could spread like a virus

imagine if her eyes
never knew what tears
were

imagine if the storm had
gotten him

imagine if the body
turned up in some gutter
by some stranger

imagine if I had to help
her through that

imagine if she couldn’t leave me,
for fear of facing facts

imagined if I couldn’t look her in the eye,
for fear that she’d she I’m powerless

imagine if they hadn’t found the dog

imagine if I didn’t get to see
the change in her face

imagine if she hadn’t hugged
me with all her might

imagine if shouldn’t hadn’t kissed me
like she actually wanted to

imagine if none of this had
happened,
that in the midst of this storm
all we had left was our
imagination

when it comes
to art
I always find myself
gravitating
to the *****,
the make-shift,
and the
simple

art,
I think,
should
be about life
not about
“high”
life

that is why I read Bukowski
and admire street art
and lawn art made of
corrugated metal
and adorn my walls
with miss-matched posters
and write about things
I do instead of about
things that mean
anything

art,
I think,
shouldn’t need
to be explained

so when it comes
to art,
I always find myself
seeming quite pretentious
in an untraditional
way

the way in which a teenager
scorns main-steam music

the way art critics ostracize
their ex-lover’s work

the way I refuse to write sonnets
and write about cereal instead

we had beauty once

everything was art
and we carried about how,
why, what it looked like
in the end

now all we have is
crap

plastic shells on
plastic souls
make hallow sounds like
empty buckets aching
for water to fill
them

there is no art
there is no purpose

there is nothing
but the desert
and
our fading tracks in
the sand

we had beauty once

it was all grand
and our childhood was
well-deserved and
yet to run off into
the
sunset

morning,
don’t come too
soon

it’s 3 am
and it’s Sunday
when I wake
up

I don’t have church,
I don’t have school.

don’t got theatre,
or work,
or socialization
either.

it’s my day off.

when I’m irresponsible
in a responsible way

but morning,
take your time getting to
me

I need some rest
after the week I’ve
had

and for all those days
I wake up earlier for
you;
you can surely
give me one Sunday
to get some much needed
sleep

at midnight,
as I take off my shoes,
my coat,
shirt, tie, vest,
socks and
pants,
I am caught in
the delirium
of
revolution

this revolution
takes place entirely
within me

my kidneys are
attacked in destructive
raids,
my knees knocked
and sweltered with
war,
my mind shot at
and frantically
mended,
my heart has
seen much better
days

it is an uprising against
myself

a war
to overturn
the old thinking
regime

outside of me,
I can feel the sting
of bullet and
blade

inside of me,
I can see the pain
of evolution and
change

I rest my weary head tonight
drunk on thoughts of an end
to all this

by the morning’s
cool touch
I will find myself
rid of such
thoughts

wondering only if
she’ll be there for me
when I call her twenty;
thirty; forty years
from now

I watch the night turn about me
and rest my eyes for the first time

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

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

the cigarette
of our pent-up passion
in your mouth
is the only light
in this dark place
the world
has forced us
into

as you slink down to me
somehow seeing
through shroud of black
your cigarette illuminates
a knowing smirk
upon the red lips
of your face

those lips tantalize me
making requests
I can’t hope to fulfill
and begging questions
I refuse to answer

I cannot see your eyes
but I know the future
they see

that cigarette burns in the black
teaching me the meaning of love

as you crawl forward,
awaiting the final pounce,
I know that your cigarette
will fall to the ground
and like our pent-up passion
it will turn the room to fire
and the world will soon
catch too

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’ve been called a dog

what does that mean?

does mean I’m loyal?
loving?
unswerving?
always forgiving?

or do you mean to say I’m dumb?
loyal to your enemies?
unswerving in my path to bring you down?
never forgiving for the things you do?

I suppose I am a dog then
in both senses
but I’m not dumb
that’s how I know
I’m a dog

for the
idiot
is the
one
who’s
confused

the
one
you
want
me
to
be

my face is covered
in white
cream

a blade waits in my hand
and I look in the
mirror

my sad eyes are there
so are my simple ears
my nose
barely visible over my
temporary
beard

so much there
in my
face

I move the razor up to an
inch away

I stop

I look in the mirror again

my eyes scream something
like the depressed, silent child
screams something

I listen hard but I can’t
hear it

I move the razor to my face
take the first long drag
off my right cheek

I look at the scar
now I am imperfect

I look at my eyes once
again
now in comparison to my
jigsaw makeup

I listen
and I hear my sad eyes
scream

this is what I’ve been waiting for
the freedom from perfection
my jigsaw face seems better somehow
my eyes for once seem bright

I wash the razor in the sink
and go on shaving

they carried guns
and bottles of beer and
boxes full of expensive
china and glass

their feet spilled
out in front of them
and their goods
out to the
sides

the sirens
whined somewhere
offstage
and
they were
lost in the
escape

these men would never
be more alive again

there are turtles
imitating floating logs
and
shiny fish fluttering
just underneath
the water

there is a family of ducks
sunning on the shore
and
an old pontoon caked
with dirt and
mud

there are trees of many kinds
and
light glimmers
off its wind-blown surface

there are beads of sweet
on my face
and
my heart is
pounding

in a few minutes
I will see one of my friends
and
wave to her and her
dog

there is not much here,
in reality,
but
a whole world
seems to bloom in the
afternoon sun

It’s been awhile since I looked around here,
at the hats, at the socks,
at the tv, at the books,
at the chair and the bed,
the pandas and the globe,
the mirror in the bathroom,
and the boxes in the closet.

there’s something odd about
all this ordinary stuff, even if
at one time it didn’t feel
ordinary

like this computer I type on now,
at one point it was a foreigner
to both this space and my
fingers

and yet there are hidden things too,
even they feel ordinary,
now.

maybe you have something you hide?

like:

the letters from lovers, the
diaries in drawers, the drugs
you keep secret, or the obsessions
you wish to hide

I have stuff to hide
(though none of it’s
on that list)

no,
what I hide is much
closer,
much more
dangerous
but harder to find than
anything in here

everything about my life
is strewn about this room
and I look at it all with
fresh eyes

I count it all up and think
perhaps this is my whole
life

except for a few things;
those I keep locked up
in my mind

those things

like:

what I really think, how
I really feel, why I really
write this poem, and where
the key to my heart and mind
really lies

a fire truck blasts its bullhorn on the highway
an ambulance siren follows right behind him
I think about the dragster I heard five minutes ago

I take a drink
look out the window
and think it’s such a beautiful day

I am the silent boy
the one who sits with his book
the one who’s face is still when others laugh
the one who does not expect a response when
asking “how’re you today?”
I am the silent boy

I am the tired boy
the one who sits while others run
the one who hangs his head at the end of the day
the one who does not engage and neither does he
go after
I am the tired boy

I am the saddened boy
the one who refuses love
the one who had his heart stolen
the one who’s eyes gaze downward
as the sun sets on another day
I am the saddened boy

I am the boy
the one who is silent
the one who is tired
the one who is sad
I am the boy

I am the hopeful boy,
the one who speaks despite
the silence others expect.
the one who runs despite
the protest of his own legs.
the one who smiles despite
the urge to frown as he looks
out at the world
I am the hopeful boy

I am the boy
the hopeful,
hopeful boy

let’s get this done

let’s knuckle down
man up, and go for
it

let’s conquer like
they did in ancient
times

and skipping out
into the sunset, I
planned to do just
that

the day is winding down
the household says goodnight
the dogs and cats and mice and bugs find their nests
the people choose their beds

I look out the window
and the little clouds
that gather just before
the night takes control
look at me with rosy
cheeks and wide smile

behind that cheery face they talk to me
saying “goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
sleep well, we’ll see you tomorrow!”

I wave to them in shock
having never talked to
clouds before but I tell
them: “Goodnight to
you too”

They don’t talk any more
and just sit there smiling
with their big, rosy cheeks
as the day becomes the night
and the pink clouds go to
sleep without me

Oh,
****
you.

I don't give a ****
about what's wrong
or
what's right

what you think about me,
or my acts,
or my
kind.

oh,
*******.

with your giggling
and
your condescension

I really don't give a ****
but that's a lie,
because
I wrote this poem
didn't I?

I flex my hands for my eyes
to see; each tendon stretching
and unstretching while the
world seems to sink all around
me

I float upwards as if the air
were an aquatic pool

my feet leave the ground
my body feels weightless
my mind strains trying to
comprehend

then it stops
stops cold as death
and I smile;
I will not
question
this

+

the hooks flew out of nowhere ,
slashing my skin and clothes
and pulling me down against
the force lifting me upwards

I was frightened for a moment
but upon gripping the ropes of
the hooks firmly all fear drained
out of me as the color returned
to my face

I pulled on one hook,
jerking the holder up into the air
and I saw it was my enemy, the
one who hated me without reason
but who scurried away with what
was left of their devilish tentacle


Next I pulled on many hook,
out came the people I did not care
about much; my boss, my teacher,
my acquaintances, my co-workers
and they too scurried away as the
ropes snapped and the black hooks
dissolved

there was but one hook left,
and I felt the pull of my up-
ward force more than ever.

but this hook was different,
its rope was not weak and
its gravity was greater than
all of the other hooks combined

I tugged on it,
it bugged but
did not snap

I pull hard,
grabbing hand
over hand,
trying to see
what black
thing weighted
me down so
much

with one final pull it came up,
lunging at me in fact,
but time seemed to slow
as I looked in to the eyes of that black thing
(as I looked into the eyes of my dearest friend)
but without thinking,
as if it were meant to be,
my hand ****** out,
reflecting the beast
and sending my friend
on dive towards the
earth

+

I watched it fall;
that beast,
that friend of mine
but the force moved me faster than ever
and what was left of it
quickly faded away

+

When I stopped moving I had reached the clouds
there stood a throne, decked out in gold
and I approached it, wondering who it was for

No one was around,
no one seemed to be watching,
so I sat in that throne,
just as if it were for me

It was funny then:

I was so high up,
yet I felt lower than ever
why did all those people
throw their hooks into me?

was it jealousy?
was it rage?
was it hatred?
or maybe even
love?

what do they know that I do not?
what is this throne?
what was that force?

I can see the world I just left
and I can see the new world
I have just risen too

this chair is too big,
this air is too cold,
this world is too empty

I hang my head
I look over the edge
my foot inches closer
until,

I fall
a blissful smile
masking the
terrified
child
inside

so now in these times
when the corporations run our lives
and the religions run our after-lives
we are faced with the touch stone
of both factions

art

painting
sculpting
dance

theatre
film
photography­

music
writing
and
poetry
too

art

by any measure
the difference between us
and the chimps in the jungle

but in these times
of corporations and religion
run by soulless men
who have no time for excess
and no time for
thought

where can it
exist?

art is the essence
of human over-flow

now not always fighting for food
now not afraid of the bumps in the night
now not a chimp in the jungle

we are more
and that more slopes off
to form:

art

the poems
the paintings
the plays

are all just excess

but there are important
because without the release
all that pent-up excess
would eventually
explode

killing us or
something
worse

right now
art has been found by
the corporations
and
the religions
and they’ve turned huge profits
for it

but art isn’t about profit
and it isn’t about art

art is about killing those nasty things
that grow up in the cracks of the sidewalk
when you leave it alone for too long

art is about finding the needle in the haystack
art is understanding why we exist at all

but now we live in a time of
corporations
and
religions
run by soulless men seeking
to turn a profit

and as long as we live
in this age
art can
have
no
purpose

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

room filling with mist
beads of sweat fresh
on my skin
the adrenaline pumps into my veins
as my eyes go wild and then
shut

stillness goes through my mind
as I breath in the hot water air
softly filling up the room

no need for oxygen
no need for breath
no need for troubles
no need for care

the bathroom floor is slippery now
the shower beats angrily against the tub

steam invades my every poor
at last I am at peace

By looking back,
there is a romanticism
in believing that the
way you came is the
only way you could
have come

you see the roads you didn’t take,
the forks you took,
the side alleys avoided or
accepted
and yet

you look at your feet
the dirtied shoes stand proudly
against the dusty ground
and the hole in the toe,
where you can see
the hole in your sock,
reminds you of something
you can’t remember

but you smile anyways

and yet

you look at the road you’ve travelled
the obvious *** holes,
the bridges burned in
your wake, the mountains
climbed over where
passes existed as well

the hole in your shoe
seems less friendly as
you remember how you
got it

you should frown
but smile anyways


that shoe is your shoe
that shoe is you
that shoe is all
those paths you took
and could’ve taken

those shoes,

in their simple
existence,

are proof that
you have
succeeded

I go down the list

rehearsal:
check

printer:
check

vacuuming:
check

­ homework:
still to do

I smile

sometimes I get a bug,
a bug to really get things
done

it usually only happens
when I’m alone (nobody
to judge or interrupt my
work) and usually when
I’m gotten down worse
than I ever have before

so I get things done

I check my list again

work hard:
check

be better:
working on it

feel good:

I, uh...

next item
please

for the smart,
you will persecuted

for the strong,
you will be put
to the test

for the passionate,
your commitment
will be tried

for the lucky,
you will have to
do without

for the hard times
are still to come

the past,
as gloomy as it
may seem,
does not compare
to the future

there will be times,
when being a loser
only means death

there will be times too,
when your children
are more of a parasite
and less of a human
being

and also there will be times,
when time is the only thing
we have left

for us,
the hardest trials
have yet to begin

the most difficult problems
have yet to arrive

the worst situations
have yet to pass

it will be thunderstorms,
and plagues, and theft,
and anarchy

the world will only know
******
and the execution
of it

and these times are still to come

the past has not
prepared us
for the future

the future where we will
fight when there is nothing
left to fight for

the future where we rise
from the ashes of war and
defeat and hatred

the future where we can
once again be human with
out being judged

the hardest times,
are still to come.

but the best times…

they are nearly in
reach.

Bukowski would have written a poem now,
I think, at one am as I **** in the toilet
and the TV flickers quietly
in the other room.

he would write about how she sleeps alone
in his big, new bed and about how he’s not
comfortable in love
but loves anyways

and I think, I would write that poem too
but it would not be quite as beautiful, not
to mention its lack of passion

for Bukowski’s was a hot fire
and mine is a cold one

his was force
and
mine is a bond

that’s why when I read him,
that first time and to this day,
I feel that I can finally
write

because poetry is
a fire, a hot fire,
the hottest there
is

but my warmth is external
it comes from good poetry
and success and love,
all of which I have
but cannot
use

Bukowski would say **** it
and drink to the cold summer night
for being itself despite the odds

he would buy a lotto tickets
till his paycheck was gone
and smile when not a single
one cashed in

you’ll figure it all out when you accept
that you don’t understand

that’s where I’m at,
******* at one am while my love
sleeps soundly without me

at a loss for understanding
versus a world that owes me
no explaining

hopefully, things will get
easier

it is the worst
moment
in a boy’s life, when
he sees,
for the first time, what
his father really
is

it is the moment,
that the boy becomes
a man

he must now replace
his father
he must now fool his

own son for so many
years
making him think
that his father is
god,
just as he had
thought

it is not for revenge
it is not for laughs
it is because it is what must be
done

a boy raised under a mere
man
will never become
one

humans have evolved
to see god in everything,
to make everything
better than they are

so that we’ll be afraid.
so that we’ll always
have our guard up.
so that we’ll think that
our weakest foe is our
most powerful enemy

it was needed,
for survival,
like all the other quirks
of this species
but it has changed,
evolved,
since then

it emerges when the son sees
his dad, his papa, his opa,
go from a being so much bigger
than anything else in the world
to being so much smaller than
even the dwarf that the son used
to be

it may be the fall
of the patriarch
that is the cause of all
this

but it is the offspring.
that suffers the
greatest
pain

There were three men
These men were friends
They played, they worked
They spent their lives
But in their age
And pockets empty
The three men agreed
To do something naughty
The three men did
Near succeed too
But a man-like monster
Did stand in their path
Little is known of the three men now
Except for their friendship and plot
But it is said by the young and old
One lies here
One lies there
And one flew away
Their lives unshared

it is easy to forget
how to write or
how to love or
how to clip your nails or
play guitar or
pick out cereal or
enjoy a sunny afternoon

happiness unfolds for
so many like a miracle

the simplicity of it all
escapes them

it
is
perhaps
Dinosauria, we
that
gets
me
most
of
all
with
how
undeniable
it’s
truth
is

we have no choice,
no freedom,
at birth
we are simply
******
into this world
and told to deal
with it
whatever it may
be

and this world
is dying.
this world
is cursed to be
blown up
by men
who have no ears
for what we
have to
say.

this is not some
grim prophecy,
bukowski nor I
come out of the desert,
beard long and
eyes grown shut with
age,
and insist to you
that the end is
near

I fear,
but I suspect
he does
not,
that one day
soon
the universe
will sit in smug
silence
making jokes
amongst the stars
about the cute
little primates
that thought they
could make
it

now that I’m old enough,
to see and recognize
important,
historical,
events
they just seem
to keep coming
and coming
and
coming

tonight,
Osama is dead

the boogey man
the terrorist patriarch
the killer
the mass-murderer
the second ******
the king of thieves
the bearded Beelzebub
the destroyer of worlds

the colossal nature of
this moment hits me like
a truck

it is a victory
it is a turning point
it is a momentous
event

I cannot fathom it

this is the start of a new era
a dawn of a new age

in this moment
I hope the world celebrates
but I warn you,
it’s not over

yet

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

“brrrrrr”
said
the past
today

“sure miss those days by the fire
with her snuggled up close
and the covers
barely enough to keep you two
contained”

“oh yeah,
those were
great!”

“we both had fun?
didn’t we?”

“but too bad,
you ****** things up,
but that’s ok,
you still got me,
right?”

how good
it would feel
to be in
love
right now?

swirling in the sky
like a dancer of
god, the clouds
are bringing a
new weather for
us to endure

the wind is changing
the plants are opening
the birds are hid amongst
the trees

the day turns dark
the people stand ajar
the elation is lost to
grey

where do the yellows
and blues and reds
and oranges go when
the clouds move in
and threaten their
haughty weapon?

where does this begin?
where does this end?

where does it say the
clouds may change
their shape and become
villains without any
consequence?

but as I look up
at the sky I see
the world is not
changing

the clouds are
swirling still
like a dancer
of god and are
bound, as is
their purpose,
to rain upon
me

there stands a harrowing valley,
between the happening and the how,
where one must travel in solitude,
till light can find their house.

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

he is the
worst person
you have
ever
met

he is constantly
judging

always
making snide
remarks

always telling you
that you can be doing
better

when he talks
there is
always a sense
of acknowledged
arrogance

his steps are loud
like the rest of him

he always seems to be around.
especially when you don’t want
him to be

he knows when
one more sly remark
will do you in

(and then makes
one)

he trashes your house at parties
he eats out your fridge clean
he seduces your girlfriend and
beguiles your wife and he always
seems to be preferred by your
friends

you can’t shake him
you can’t hide from him

he knows where you are
and you know that too

he doesn’t need shadows
when you’re as paranoid
as you are

he can be in the room
and yet somehow
be hiding from you

he laughs when you scream
at him for the millionth time

he smiles as you cry
or hold back crying

he climaxes when you beg
him to stop

he will never leave you

you are born with him
and will die with him

no-one else knows he’s there
but they always suspect there’s
someone bugging you

(they know people like him
too)

he doesn’t ever leave things too
messed up
and the worst part of it all
is that he’s right

always right
always always always
right

when he whispers that
you don’t love her

he’s right

when he shows you how stupid
you were acting

he’s right

when he dances ahead of you
because you can’t keep up

he’s right

and most of all he’s right
when he tells you it’s all
your fault

you can put your fists up
but that’s worth jack-****

he never needs to say a word
but he does anyways

(he always wins,
especially in fights)

he’ll ask you one day
what it’s like to be the
biggest **** up in the
world

you will suddenly hear
an empathic tone
in his voice
that most definitely
wasn’t there
before

what’s it like?
he asks again
and again
you hear that tremble,
that aching,
shaking,
terrible
confusion
that means he
really wants to
know

but why does he?

does he care?
does he not hate me?
does he… love
me?

he waits for your answer

“you’re not anybody,
are you?”

you’ll ask

no, he’ll say,
only what you
let me be

and from that day forth
he’ll only be a memory,
threatening to come back
if you ever let yourself
go (like you did) again