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

he likes forgetting
good things
bad things
because to him
it’s all bad
because it’s all
not good enough

he keeps himself away
like some secret
that could destroy
the world
and
you have to wonder
if he knows how silly
he sounds

he’s voiceless but
he loves to scream
enjoying the cacophony
because he doesn’t
believe he can make
music

he’ll show up dead probably
not in the ground, but somewhere
like a run-down apartment
or a happy family of four
and you’ll know because
he only frowns
between when the drink
hits his lips
and
when the drink
hits his mind
like sleeping gas

he’s not worried about it though
he says there’s nothing to be worried about
that you shouldn’t worry, that this is the way
that things are going to play out
no matter if he’s loved
if he’s hated
if he succeeds
or fails
if all his dreams come true
or all his nightmares

it’s time, he says,
to make peace with it
and if you would please
just leave him alone
to feel alive
without
guilt.

young, so full of youth,
filled to the brim with
*** and desire and the
quest for flesh,

we are living the lives they
write about

we the young, so full of
uncontained emotion, so
happy to be alive and yet
not even realizing it, we
talk of suicide but never
believe it exists

we are perfect in our
decided ignorance of
our imperfections

(it gives us strength like
nobody knows)

-

spreading across the globe,
to China, Europe, and the
Southern Lands, our disease
is no plague

to the youth of the enslaved
places, to the poor countries,
and those shackled in the old
traditions:

we give to you our itch,
our burn, our aching and
hurting that drives us to
go out and do what needs
to be done

we give to you a reason
to make things better

(just as we give ourselves)

we are the reason
the earth still spins

we are the drive
behind every new
empire

we are the innovators
and the diviners

the makers of tools
and seekers of
riches

the creators of gods
and the gods
themselves

we, so young, so full
of energy and zeal and
lust, we the ones who
create and destroy, we
who so thoughtlessly
hurtle the human race
forward

we take ourselves to bed
each night, not wondering
with whom we sleep or
where we will awake;

knowing only that adventure
is worth having in itself.

that the morning is our treasure
and the new day is more fulfilling  
than any golden trinket in the
tombs of the old kings

this we sleep with, smiling,  
dreaming of the wild chances
we are challenged to tame

-

so young, so full of youth,
filled to the brim with ***
and desire and the thirst for
a definition in this grey and
blotted world

we awake each day
and drearily attack our
lives

we the pioneers, the philosophers,
and historians

humanity cannot live without us
(and I mean to say they have no
choice)

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

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

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

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

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

it is late
I get up from my computer
walk down the hall
in my underpants
to the bathroom
get three pills
walk back to my bedroom
get my glass
scratch my ***
under my underpants
go downstairs and fill up
the glass with coke zero
go back upstairs
to my room
take the three pills
lean back in my chair
and suddenly realize
it is late

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

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

I have just felt
the blow
that a god feels
when he is first returned
to mortality

not to say I am,
or ever was,
a god
but I do mean to say
I was powerful,
strong,
impenetrable even,
and I have now been hit
with the force of a hurricane
across the newly soft
and vulnerable
cheeks of my
face

I had risen so far,
in my mind,
but I was worse
than ever
as I’ve found
out

now,
I am sick with it

the return to humanity
the plummet to vulnerability
the paralyses of that first
strike

I am a titan no more
and yet I never was

but this fall back to normality
is like the death of someone
I only realized I hated
after his grave
had been spat on
by so many
of his former
friends

it’s a quiet acceptance,
knowing fully that rest is not
yet for you

though the muscles are clay
the mind sand

you are not angry
that quitting time is not
near

it is after this,

after the struggle against it
has faded
and the desperation
to get out has long
gone,

that you
can continue to
march on

endlessly,
if you so choose.

I am your shining windows
I am your tall, brick walls
I am your rail-ways and
train engines
I am your conveyer belts
I am your stock parts
I am your young line boys
I am your cigar-smoking,
fat-cat bosses
I am your Ford automobiles
and Technicolor TV’s
I am your idea of
perfection

I am your broken windows
I am your toppling, mortar walls
I am your rusted rail-ways and
broken-down locomotives
I am your robotic arms
I am your lead paint
I am your Chinese labor
I am your *******-sniffing,
thrid-world-oppressing bossess,
I am your Toyota cars
and LG televisions,
I am your idea of
perfection

I am the old and the new
I am the sights that roll past
my rolled-up windows
I am the city and the suburbs
I am the quietly dying
I am the voiceless mind and
its cries for help
I am the future and
the past
I am the dream
I am the death of
the dream
I am your idea of perfection
and also,
your nightmare
of an
idea

you cannot comprehend how much you will care

how badly it will hurt
how terribly you will want to die

even if you’ve known it before
to feel it again
will burn ten times worse
than you ever remember it

you will hate yourself for it
and worst of all
you could’ve stopped it
too

but then,
perhaps,
maybe it is
out of our control,
maybe it’s not magic,
or special,
or grand,
and it's best to smile about
the fact that it’s just you,
nothing else,
that caused these events
and now,
*this.

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’m
running
out
of
steam

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

pickle

see?

the room is black
the sky is black
the night is black
the world is black
the future is black
the entirety of everything
is dark and dreary and
black

savior rests in a bottle,
a small red circular shape,
and it comes in hundreds
but numbers are not enough

I need a healer,
one that breaths
and thinks and
lives

I need to crucify my pride
and reach out to Roman
help

the black looms
and looks with
a smirk

how do I decide to
**** a part of me?

this decision, between
suicide and suicide,
rests one phone call
and terrible conversation
away

there is a bed
the bed is black
the bed is death
the bed is mine

the future is the kiss of judas
but the lips of his are my own

the solution does not rest
in a bottle or an exercise,
it exists in a man or women
who has no care for me
except that I am paying
him/her

my salvation is in swallowing
not any pill or medication,
but in nailing my arrogance
to a cross, swallowing it whole
as it may be, and walking past
their doors into a confessionary
between only me and they

I am caught in the moment
that will end part or all of
me

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

it was a good night tonight

I had…

fun.

despite the stress,
despite the lack of time,
despite the lack of rest,
despite the things always going through my head,
despite the doubts,
despite the problems,
despite the complications,
despite the billions of things to do,

despite all that,
it came
through
and
it felt
good

so happy birthday,

to me.

from all those people
who care enough to say
so

and those are the people I spent the night with
and this night, I get the rare opportunity to go to sleep
with a smile

the book is hidden away
its pages unturned
my eyes looking elsewhere,
ah,
this is bittersweet

I should
I should
I should

but,

I probably won’t,
like always

you know that
so why even ask?

I walk in with a smile
but always leave with a frown
because it always comes back to:
what I haven’t done
what I’m not doing
what I should be spending my time on

and it does is make me more
depressed

so Great Expectations
is waiting for
me

waiting to jump
and crush me
under it’s 500 pages
of ****

seven days now
till childhood
no longer becomes an option
when I become a man
strong and powerful
full of vigor
wise
ready to take on the world
and willing to
thirsty for it
in fact

it’s not that
I’m not ready
but how could they expect
everyone to be?
that’s a lot to ask of a kid
still in high school
never lived on his own
never loved or
if he has
only to some *****
with a power complex
and maybe he’s had a job
but never a good one
and he’s probably never known
what it’s like to be relied on
or to be responsible
or to even own anything
and yet those are all things
they’re saying he’s
ready to do

it’s a ****** up world
we grow up into
and my race through it
begins soon

stepping out into the daylight,
I can almost hear the crowd
screaming:

three,


two,



one.

sixteen

that’s a big number

but it hasn’t hit me yet,
not fully,
I’ve had little bits of it
but that big realization,
like a whole ocean washing over me
all at once,
that,
that hasn’t gotten to
me

yet

for my birthday I got a new leather jacket

fits well
has a warm fuzzy inside
two stripes, brown and grey,
on the shoulder
and we (the gift-giver and I)
both agree
the black material
isn’t really
leather

I love it

so I wore it to school today
feeling like hot ****
the best new thing
since sliced bread

so I got there and nothing was
different

nobody noticed
not a word spoken
positive or negative
I was still just
Caleb
and they were still just
them

I hate it

now I’m home,
sixteen
with a new leather
jacket
that nobody even
noticed.

what to do?
what to do?
what to do?

I don’t have homework to do
no lines to memorize
no chores needing to be done

I’m just sitting here
alone with my jacket
and my new age

maybe I’ll read a book
or write some more poems
or go take a walk
or go talk to somebody new
or something

I feel it

I feel the tidal wave

it’s not here yet
but I feel it shake the ground
and I see it’s shadow block out the sun
but it won’t hit me
not yet

I have to know what it is first,
know what it means,
then it’ll sweep me away,
take me to a new level of persona
so far away from this one


and as I think on my day
and my new leather jacket

I think on how little anybody cared
and feel the splashing of water on
the back of my legs

blood shot eyes in the mirror.

I am at the lowest point of my life once
again

why do I come back here
again
and
again
and
again?

I come back
and I come back
and I come back
and I never forget
how bad it is
here

yet I never cease to return
again
and
again
and
again

pleasure before pain,
play before work,
I cannot escape the cycle
as I dig my own grave
deeper

I have infinite confidence
but zero self-worth

I can boast about how I can reach the sun
but I would sooner sell myself for free than
try to prove that statement

I have failed
again
and
again
and
again

but I hear hope
in the waters beating against the tub;
once again
they say to me,

“time to wash away
thy sin
for I forgive you
for tears look no
different within my
loving arms”

and I return silently
head low and
eyes sunken
washing myself
as the child would
hoping to birthed
again
and
again
and
again

on the board-walk of savannah
where the black men sing gospel
tunes and the white men play a
hearty banjo, the boats float lazily
on the industrial river and the
sun shines through the blue sky
with only wispy clouds to accent
the calmness

on the board-walk of savannah
there are stores of every shape
and size selling a billion things

on the board-walk of savannah
there’s an open air market where
a man named Ligel lives

on the board-walk of savannah
a boy starts a collection with a
single piece of art-work named
“On the Jazz Piano”

on the board-walk of savannah
the boy smiles and takes a
business card but says he won’t
pay $10 for the same piece of
artwork with Ligel’s name on it

in the Marriot of Hilton Head
the boy sits and lets the words
flow from his mind down past
his fingertips

the boy smiles in the mirror
the night is dark outside
a man with orange arms and
blue fingers plays the piano
but all the boy hears is that
this too shall pass

I stink of
gasoline,
and sweat
from hard
work, and
depression
from being
too smart
for my own
good

I look like
the down-
trodden, the
mangled
and
the chosen

hearing my voice
is torture to my
ears but entertaining
to others

I do not move
or sit still

I stink with my
existence,
long over-do a
checking in
with
reality

never make a promise
never tell someone you
always will
never say you won’t
do it again
never look into their eyes
to make sure they know

never make a promise,
I promise you,
you’ll break it

because:
that’s what they’re for

promises

“for breaking
and destroying
and nothing
else”

as the instructions go/
learn from the label:

never make a promise
to your mother,
your brother,
your lover,
your co-worker

never commit to
stopping an addiction,
keeping up a love,
or being something
or not something
forever

never make a promise,
never ever
do.

there’s enough pain
in this world
for promises to
die out

so I beg of you

tell your children
tell your friends
tell your family
tell your church

never make a promise
most especially to

halter of progress
bane of evolution
frostbite of growth
death of the future

try to stop me now!
I dare you!

I know your tricks!
your snarly ways!

the maybes
the sick feelings
the doubtful thoughts
the double-takes

I know them all!
every
single
one

and you can’t stop me anymore!
nuh-uh
you can try,
but you
can’t!

so now,
be afraid!
be very afraid!
because world

here I come

and honestly,
you’ve got no way
to stop
me




(unless you **** me,
of course.)

as you push on the
gas it’s like you’re
pumping the gas in-
to yourself

your veins burn like
fire and your heart
roars like a lion

the yellow light dares
you and you accept

it’s in that moment
that you remember
all that’s chasing
you

years of mistakes,
countless scarred
acquaintances, a life
of doubt and (all
told) failure

they’re all behind you
and you (almost) forgot

you take a drink
from your sixty-
three cent soda

do you taste that?
it’s regret

it’s that tightness in
the back of your throat
when you know you’ve
been found out

it’s doing something
despite knowing
better

the gas pedal can go no further,
this is your greatest regret of all

Ring-ring
Hear the bell? Understand
the meaning? Are you on
edge? Gotta move? Gotta
jet? Get where your going,
before the next one comes
round?

Ring-ring
The gates are open but
where does this go? You
don't know, you don't
care, but you know the
feeling of get up and go,
to run like a chicken with
its head cut off

The maze is our whole
life, our whole purpose,
everything we do

Ring-ring
ring-Ring

Your days are winding down
and your "friends" and "family"
and "teachers" and "employers"
and all the "people" who you
thought loved you is bearing
down,
telling you
"go, go, go"
when all you can think is
"no, no, no"

We are at the starting lines
of our dreams
(of our lives)

Ring-ring
A pistol goes off at birth
and we sprint away

Bodies litter the track
as you run faster, faster

Ring-ring
Times up

Ding
A different sound
Have you made it on the pedestal?

I'm in the stands
watching fools with ****** hands
and feet run in circles

Once
I was down with you
Thinking
"Go, go, go"
But realized
"No, no, no"
Where are we going?
To what end?
For what purpose?

I looked up from my dusty shoes
And saw the audience that had always encircled us
I saw old racers clamber up into the stands
And realized
"That's the where,

why waste my life trying to be recognized,
when I can just jump up
(in my youth)
and enjoy this
"prize"
without the
"effort"

she’s not feeling well

she says

and I suppose
that’s true

so she sleeps in my bed
working out whatever needs
to be worked out

I sit,
and write,
like I
always tend
to do

why though?

I wonder

but never mind,
you don’t know
do you?

neither does anyone
else, don’t worry

I’m working on it

working out the big why’s

life, love, literature

we don’t know why
but that’s never stopped
us

she wakes up, says
good morning

I greet her similarly

I’ll get back to you
when I have any answers,
old friend

I need some sleep
myself

there is inspiration
welling
up inside me

not for art

no

not for
art

instead,
for creation

for birth
for construction
for development
for growth
for building
for adding on to
for heuristic intention
for the laying of new roads,
pathways, bridges, and towns
for the betterment of myself
and others

there is inspiration
growing
like a fire

a spark has come,
lighting the tender
thistles
in the base of my
soul

climbing up through
my legs, then warming
my belly, while passing
my heart and burning
up my fingers

it hits my mind in a rush
of emotions

I smile,
ready to pounce on
opportunity

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.

you had the voice
and body of a goddess

the kind
worshipped by natives
in the thralls of
their drug-induced
dances

they prayed
that you would
feed their lands
and
give life
to their crops

they sacrificed
virgins and
children and
their enemies

you taught the birds
how to sing
and
the day
how to be beautiful

your lips were
the entrance to
heaven

how I worshipped you too,
silently, in the moonlight
when I awoke at two AM
like I so often did

your hair would drape
over your eyes
and
your face
would seem unconcerned
so full of love
ethereal
not of this world

a sight that would put me at rest,
lulling me back into sleep, but,
as the native heathens learned,
not all gods are meant to be gods
and good worship is scarcely
a guarantee of good  fortune

your folly lied in everything
that made you perfect

your detachment
your care-free-nature
that you were a goddess
trapped in a mortal world

though I grew
and stretched out my limbs
upwards towards the sun
there was no way a mere man
could teach a goddess
how to celebrate
all this beauty
she had made
possible

in this,
my darkest hour,
the shadow of doubt
sits as I sleep
staring into my eyes
when I look at
him
and burning
holes in my form
when I find the
courage
to look
away

he is silent,
most times

seemingly satisfied
with encroaching fear
from his very prescience

but at times,
he does speak

he whisper to me
soft truths
which I cannot
deny
but
I refuse
to
accept

these truths
like…

that I’m failing
at the simplest of
tasks

or

that I’m
unable
to control myself
and what
I am

or

that
I am no
longer
someone that
I would
look
up
to

for the most part,
I can ignore these.

going about my days
in bliss and happiness
and sunshine

other times,
I am not so
lucky

when my bed
seems my only
friend
and I flop
down into its
soft sheets
and begin drifting off
into my own
world
I am
suddenly reminded
of his
existence

this is when he doesn’t talk

he just looks at me,
knowing why I am so
desperate to get away
from everyone,
and continues to
look

stop staring!
I say

stop staring!
I say again

stop staring!
stop staring!
stop staring
you *******
freak!

but he doesn’t

I work myself up
arguing with him

rationalizing his motivations
analyzing his strategies
predicting his moves

it just makes the whole
experience hurt worse
until finally:

I grab the lamp,
the bottle, the
plate, the knife,
the book, the child,
the girlfriend, the
family member,
the moral

and

throw it at him

every time
the object shatters
against the wall
and the shadow
is gone

I never see where he goes,
I’m still not sure of his name
or his purpose

in these, my darkest hours,
I can feel his eyes burning
me

he whispers answers
too hard to swallow
and edges me on till
I gallop over the edge

once I jump,
he leaves,
leaving me to wrestle
back to some sort of
sanity

I am not sure why
I am not sure when
I am not sure how
it’s possible in the
first place

but I know he will return
and I will be left to wrestle
with myself when he departs
again

in my bleakest moment,
even sleep haunts me with
dreams of my corpse

a gangly man
wearing thick rimmed glasses
that made his eyes seem
like those of a fish
wearily looking out
upon a world he cannot understand
read from crumpled piece of paper
the name of the next
person that had signed up
to take the stage

“Mr…
Youling?
is there,
a Mr.
Youling,
in the house?”

nobody answered
heads turned
looking to see if they could find him
but nobody knew who he was
and everybody knew he wasn’t
going

“ummm…
ok.”
the gangly man
said
“next up we have
David Proctor.
Please,
welcome him.”

David Proctor
got up
within moments

guitar in hand,
lyrics in head,
he played for us
some song about a girl
or his father or
something like
that

but in the second song
a man walked through the door
looking no different,
acting no different,
than any other
but he moved upon the stage
swift,
calm,
controlled

David Proctor
didn’t know what to do

the man
who had just waltzed in
went up to the microphone
and said

“ladies,
gentlemen,
how’re you
tonight?”

“My name is John,
what’s yours?
or are you afraid
of old Mr. Youling?
even if that’s not
my
name.”

“I said
good evening
ladies and
gentlemen!
good evening
and hello
to
you!”

“My name is John!
My name is John!
My name is John!
when are you going
to tell me
YOUR
name?”

I rose then
I don’t know why
I don’t how
but I did

my name is Caleb
I said

“Good good,
Caleb,
way to
be
bold!
Way to stand
up
in more ways
then
one!”

but I sat down then
remembering what I was
doing,
what was
happening.

John just stood there

“So tonight,
I’m going
to
read a
poem!
A poem,
people,
a poem!
Get excited!
Be amazed!
Don’t be so
pissy!”

“and the name of the poem
is
this”

“hello
hello
hello
the noise
of my voice
goes out
but not in!

hello
you people
old,
new,
and
forgetful
people
I say hello to you
but you never
say hello
back!

this
world is coming
to a stand-
still
because of
people
like
YOU

YOU
people
too afraid to appreciate,
to acknowledge,
to love,
to fear,
to say hello,
to say goodbye
to say that you’ve failed
to say that I’ve failed
failed to entertain
to amuse
to make you laugh
to make you think

but here’s the thing
YOU
I know I haven’t done
any
of
THAT

there YOU
are
sitting silently
glaring at me from behind
your
drinks
but
even as you hate me
you love me
for saying the things
you don’t even realize
you want to scream to the
hills

hello
hello
hello
people
YOU
people
who sit
there thinking about me
even as you try not
to

goodnight
goodnight
goodnight
YOU
I’ll see you
again
forever.”

but as he left
he stuck his head back in
and said,
like a punctuation mark,

“enjoy Mr. Proctor.”

and then I knew
he was gone

gone like an exhaled breath
and from that moment on
we could never breath quite
as easy

to forget everything
bad that’s
happened is
a fool’s errand

I am not a fool
but I am an idiot

I bite off more than I chew,
spit it out,
and take another
gigantic
gulp

my head hurts
my body hurts
my mind hurts

with all the mistakes
and obviously bad
decisions

I am not discouraged

I am living
not dying
(I hope)

living,
not dying,
for the
moment

living, not dying,
with music in my
ears and songs in
my heart, so I pick
up the pen and be-
gin

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.

books of poetry sit
dusty on my shelf

written by Neruda,
Hughes,
and assorted
others

but another being
sits there
too

it is Bukowski

his seven or so books
in my ownership
slouched in the corner
singing drunken
tunes

so, yes,
this is another
poem about my
second father

but it’s less about him,
and more about the others,
those books of poesy
I could never finish

sure,
I’ll read the first
section,
maybe half
of them,
maybe all but
the last
little
bit,

but never the whole
book,
cover to
cover.

I don’t know why,
money down the
drain really,
and yet,
I don’t regret
it

maybe I’m not cultured,
slumming with henry
and his gang of profanity
and depression,
to appreciate how and
what
they’re writing

but when I go back,
after reading the poems
for a little bit before
bed,
I find that I can go to
sleep when I put down
the works of Longfellow
or Cummings.

but when I finally silence
Bukowski,
all I can do is write
until my hands bleed so
much it hurts,
or my mind works to exhaustion
while my body falls to
shambles

there’s a piece of
toilet paper
wedged in the toilet
hole

the music sounds
beautiful and sings
out my
speakers

dusk and dawn
are the same

there is black paper too

trumpets are the answer
to all the troubles in the
world

the internet is failing
and the system is corrupt

when we are not ourselves
but who we are connected to
we have ascended the
individual

the bottle is simple
yet perfect

the laugh is needed

sleep is an inevitability
reading a gateway drug
and family reads like an
autopsy report

the can, the sticker, the
empty pack, the deck of
cards, the plastic shades

there are empty glasses
and empty eyes

the mirror and the rock
are friends now

cough drops are a poison,
it’s written on the box.

keys to a car

doors that shut and lock
and can be opened if you
wiggle the ****

controllers control
nothing

eat your fate young child
the only solution is the fat

jokes in denial
humor in despair
tragedy is useless
comedy a joke

we say lines and
remember blocking
but the meaning is
lost somewhere in
the mist of person

you can hear the piano
but not the voice,
the telephone begs you
not to die

eat your fate,
speak your mind,
there’s a piece of
toilet paper stuck
in the toilet
hole

behind you
(and in front)
is everything,
nothing,
something,
everything,
something,
anything,
­
and

nothing

on the sidewalks of our childhood homes
in the eyes of our forgotten fathers
with clenched teeth and caught breath
the group gasps and stares at our appearance

on the doorsteps of a new generation
in the hearts of a nation and a world
with fiery purpose and composed attitude
the children and the elders walk alone

on the minds of all humanity
in the works of every artist
with despair and treachery at hand
the words of our mouth turn black

on the faces of a billion tiny ants
in their tiny feet marching together
with direction but no meaning
the queen feels no remorse

on the page but not the cover
in the text but not the surmise
with metaphor and simile
the realizations come too slow

on the ground
in the skies
with peacefulness and anger too
the world is all there is

lean back in your chair
stretch your sore triceps
write a few more lines of poetry
take a drink
turn off the light
rewrite the last line
consider it
leave it be

it’s three AM and
the world unfolds before
you

you may try and fail
and try again
but never fail to try
my friend

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

It’s all turning out
life feels real again
the storm was
nothing
but clouds

but the beaches are stripped and raw
and the windows still boarded
not yet ready to let
down
their guard

sitting in my room on this
cold, dark night
I see that we humans,
are all one

and all
brothers
and
sisters
in this
ride
we
call
life

we have been measured throughout time by
the amount at which we separated ourselves
or
how much we overcame that and brought ourselves
together

on this cold, dark night
I have realized that I am
human, we are humanity,
and the whole of our
species is more than
the parts we have
made separate

may my sister rise,
her arts bringing new meaning to the world
may my father rise,
his wisdom sharing with a new generation
may my grandmother rise,
her love fostering that which I believe in

but also

may my brother rise,
even if he is not my blood
your talents are meant to help all of us
may my mother rise,
even if she is not my blood
your wisdom is necessary for my survival
may my grandfather rise,
even if he is not my blood
your love is needed to show the light in
all this black night

may every man and woman and child rise,
for you are needed somewhere,
by someone,
and for your strengths I will love you like my own
even if by all accounts,
we are opposites

We are Humanity

we are the blacks
we are the whites
we are the arabs
the chinese,
and the indians too
we are the austrailians,
and the germans,
the nigerians,
and the brazilians
we are the thinkers
and the builders
we are the helpers
and the leaders
the keepers
and creators
the holy
the unholy
the vague
and the defined
the me
and the you
and the they
and the us

we are all humanity

I sit in this room on this
cold, dark night
and I see that we humans,
are all one


we are all equal
in the end, the
final end

and it must be understood
that I am human, and you
are human, but we together
with everyone else, that
then is when I declare:

We are Humanity

she’s trying to study
but she can’t

there are beautiful clouds outside
and trees growing in the sun
there are people playing Frisbee
and birds fluttering in the breeze
and even just a spot on the ground
that’s a little more interesting
than the other ones

that won’t do though
her work is due in an
hour

she sits up in her chair
pulls her notebook closer
leans down, writes for a second,
then looks out the window
again

what a beautiful day
she thinks

she bites her pencil
examines her yellow nails
and looks out the window
again,
at the ground
this time

what a beautiful day,
she thinks,
but I really must get
back to work

squirming
in bed, like a child,
tickled with excitement
by opportunity,
the night before
the big day.

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?

if you need to view
the character of a mind,
watch how it flinches when
the carrion eaters come
to pick apart
the world,
or watch
as it relaxes
knowing
that there is more
for the corpses to do
than rot and pile
ever higher.