I am a master of the universe

I outstretch my fingers and the stars outstretch themselves
I reach for their tender glow,
catching them in my hands,
and I take deep whiffs of their eternal scents,
feeling their magic flow through me,
into me, through my mind
and my body,
down into my muscles,
my heart, stomach,
and then into my
fingers

the feeling of energy,
pulsating, strong, steady,
a heart-beat of the ethereal,
an existence thriving on
the non-existent

I am a master of the universe,
I move the stars and sway the moon,
I eat the darkness and make art out of light,
I sing songs of a thousand implosions,
I dance with the expansion of the void

let me into you
let me into your life

I am happiness, I am joy,
I am the want for better,
I am obtaining it, I am achieving it,
I am doing things right, doing things well,

I am the universe itself

all enveloping, all encompassing,
all loving

do not fear me,
for I do not fear ever

love for love’s sake,
love for the purpose of
love

never hide
never wear a mask

be yourself,
flaunt yourself,
look at yourself,
let others look at
you

and if they frown,
let them frown

assess their complaints and internalize them
take them for what they are,
for what they mean
and use them if you wish,
or if you do not wish

I will tell you this
and tell you this again

we are not apart
we are together
we are one
one thing
and that one thing
is all of us
not just you and I
but he and she
and they

they too are us
we too are them

do not fear that
do not feat that

for you cannot fear what
is true

only what may be
or what is not

oh well oh well oh well

we **** up and that is ok
that is ok,
that is ok

take another try
do not not try again
for that is death
even in life
so many die
and I weep for them
I cry at night
I cry in the day
inside my heart
in my mind

I weep

for the dead living lives of death

I weep

oh yes

I weep

but then I smile at them, take them in my arms,
let them struggle, let them be alerted, let them
try to escape and when they cannot, I let them
rest, I let them accept it, accept me, accept us,
accept you and I, he, she, and I, and when they
do we all feel better, we all feel better don’t we?

don’t fear don’t fear don’t fear don’t fear don’t
love love love love love love love love love love

(is the only way)

know this
and know this
well

we are not apart we are one
we are one

we and the stars
and the earth and the oceans
and the trees and birds
and rats and mooses
and guitars and waves
and pens and desks
and digital viruses
and corpses

we once all were the same
we are still the same
still matter
still energy

connected, if invisibly,
by our common past

once we were all each other
and that is how it is

ok?

ok

the masters of the universe know what I say

they do not fear, they love
and love again, they love,
and love again, even when
love is gone

they do not fear, they love

so those masters of the universe, like me,
like me, they reach their hands out into
the blackness, reaching out for little lights
to brighten their lives, but when they have
them, they do want them (for themselves)
they seek to share them, give them away,
take what they need and remove all the
rest

this, this is the way of the universe

one big exchange, constantly shifting,
moving, changing hands, coming under
new management, forgetting yesterday
in search of tomorrow, this universe
swirls with activity and that is beauty

read fast for time is fast

it slips away between the cracks into the realm of nothing,
like death with life of living death, it disappears in plane
sight

this, alone, is the biggest shame of all

embrace this,
remember this,
forgo this,

do as you think is best,
whether you were taught or you thought for yourself,
do it, for it is the best way,
the best life for you,
that,
that is true

let me list some true things:

I am not me,
I am not myself,
I am not just myself,
I am more
I desire to be more

everything I do is meant to extend beyond myself
into you I say, I throw my love, and though it may
bounce off, falling flat, floppy, on the floor, for my
effort I will be rewarded (you will be rewarded)
once my trials come to conclusion

this master of the universe offers you this as one last offering
a token of my life to keep with you forever

but paper burns,
inks fades,
ice melts,
and planets explode

the sun will die and us maybe
too

so do not take this for its worth
take it for its meaning

I am a master of the universe
finally curling up,
and taking my rest

to corrupt me is an honor,
not a shame.
I let you in,
enough,
that I consciously chose
to do wrong
on your
behalf.

but,

if it ever arises
that I do bad
without thinking,
at all,
then
you should be really proud:

I’ve fallen in love

it’s a winter night tonight
and I’m sitting in my room
in the warmest jacket
I could find
but my hands are
still frozen
and the darkness
seeps in from the
windows

I’ve given up trying
to argue with my
suffering,
I’m just sad
and with plenty of
good reason
too

but when I climb into bed
under a thick comforter
and still shiver
I wonder why
things haven’t changed
yet

I’m still alone
nearly seven months
later
I’ve found no one,
not even a fling
not even a friend
and each day it gets harder
to get up and smile into
the cold breeze

the stars have stopped
talking to me

the earth no longer
shows me her
beauty

I do not think I will
survive the winter
alone in the universe
like this

but that’s the lie
that I like to
tell myself

I will always survive

through  hell,
burning or freezing,
through apocalypse,
through upheaval,
through war,
through abandonments,
through destruction,
and even through
certain kinds of
death
I will still be here,
writing poems
for the darkness
of night
for no other reason
than to prove I existed
for one more
moment

like a soldier always marching
like an ant always building
like a tree always growing
like the world always churning
I am unstopping yet
not unyielding,
living, as I do,
in accordance with
the earth:

surviving,
if barely,
from each harsher winter
she puts before me
and always rising
greater than
before

she was a woman in every way:

petty, conniving, back-stabbing,
the sort of girl who cared when
somebody wore the same dress,
a person who rants endless and
then complains about those who
voice an opinion, she's had dozens
of men caught in her web (but has
only slept with two of them), she
reveals just enough skin to entice
but never enough to satisfy, she
is smart, she is desirable, and she
thrives on being needed

too many times I'd let myself
get involved with her

she'd spend weeks, winking
and nudging, sending every
signal that this time she was
going to bite back, and that's
why she enjoyed it even more
when she flipped the switch
and went cold forever (at least
until she decided to play with
me again)

she cares if she was the first
to hear that song, it matters
that she doesn't ever really
care, everyone else is worse
than her (in all the ways she
can think of), and time and
time again I've let her get
a hold of me, **** me dry,
and leave me for dead

she's a queen amongst spiders,
a rattlesnake in brazier, god of
hate and deception, ignorant
of her own ignorance, the center
of her own convoluted universe

she's wrong in nearly
every way

but, god,
she turns me on.

The no-more lives in Antarctic caves,
The cold, wet caverns
Of will-less stone corridors

The no-more lives alone and hungry,
Feeding on mushrooms
That bloom only occasionally

The no-more is found by so many people
Aimlessly wandering
In his cold, wet home in Antarctica

The no-more is happy when these people find him
He tells him his stories
And shares his rare and bland fungus

The no-more is met by the people who are stuck alone
But are truly in a crowd
And are finding the will to stop it all

The no-more, in its simplicity
Has inspired the power
To break the chains of their endless suffering

The no-more tells these strangers its call
“No More!”
And mimicking him, they set off to use it elsewhere

The no-more has watched these strangers for hundreds of years
Teaching them every time
“No more!”

The no-more, without realizing it,
has given them the tool to escape
and like good men they will escape
leaving the no-more to whimper it’s
cry:

no more

Arches tall lead from
Little dividers keeping
Some out and others
Trapped inside

Pink birds with weird
One leg stances stand
In clumps taking wonder
From the people that
Come and go like farm
Cats

Black and white bears
Lazily pick away at hard
Bamboo sticks and are
Content with being the
Last of their kind

These are the beast of
Far away and this is the
Ark carrying them over
The sea of life

For they
Have lost their
Fight

Their instincts
The things that make them
Animals

They are the peaceful wonders
Staring out of fish bowls and
Wondering why people come
And stare at their simple lives

All they have is time
The lion sleeps softly on a rock
The tiger swims, but with no prey to catch
The elephants walk about seeing the
Crowd’s shock with each of his
Thundering steps

The monkeys swinging from artificial
Vines not caring that we (their brothers)
Have given up our childhood games we
Used to play

Opting, instead, to walk lazily in the hot
Summer day and stare agape at the beasts
Who are not beasts that wonder at our
Funny ways and the food that appears
To them each day but who do not care
And decide to sleep instead

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

I am so young,
too young,
and yet everyone
always hails me as
infinitely older than I
seem

I must be
the only one who
can see it

the twisted, horrible
blob that is myself

because really,
I’m not very mature
and
I’m not very wise
I just see things a little different
and let that gift go all
to waste

the simplest
joy

is

unzipping your
shorts

spreading
out
your legs

and letting
out a warm, yellow
stream over a
cliff

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

here I am

the man
Caleb Pendleton

the hated leviathan
the consumer without anything
to consume
the homeless wander who goes
home to a bed every night
here I am
in the flesh
ready to take on whatever
you choose I’ve done this
time

here I am
here I am
here
I
am

there may be blades in my smile
but you aren’t reaching up for a kiss
now are you?

here I am
in all I am

the liar
the loser
the criminal

the smart ***
the genius
the angry-
eyed
mad
scientist

here I am
and there you are

take your best
shot

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

it is not the shadows
we survive in,
nor the undersides of
rocks,
neither is it the shade
of trees
or
the nether-regions
of the mind

no

it is only in
the cool of
night,
when all can see
if they look hard
enough

that is when we dance,
that is when are,
that is when…

…we are the night-walkers,
beings of grace.

we, the things so ugly,
we, the creatures so horrendous,
we, the nightmares and the
dreams all at once.

we walk out on ten legs
or two,
marching in no particular
pattern at all
yet in such coordination
that the armies of the
world salute in shame

our meaning is nothing

our existence, in and of
itself, is astounding
enough

we do not need to scream
from the roof tops to get
the message across

we are the night-walkers,
dancers of the moon,
we have no grace or charming
traits,
yet you fear us,
but we
don’t fear
you

sand,
filled to the brim with that,
or something else
so liquid
and yet with such
heft

my limbs move slowly
but power grows

they accelerate
move faster and faster
until they are beyond
my control

running,
I’m running and
going and jumping
and going past
all the things that
stopped me
before

then I hit it

the wall,
the boulder,
the object

and I am stopped

it’s not a slowing down
it’s not a loss of will

it’s a full, complete brake
and it leaves me undone

sand,
leaking out of every hole,
slowly building,
growing
into a pile immovable,
unchanging

it takes so much to start
and yet so much more to
start again

we sit here
all our troubles laid out
in front of us

we can’t think of anything to say
but we talk anyways
trying to convince everyone
it’s not as bad as it seems
and failing to impress even the children
and especially yourself

we sit here
all our troubles laid out
in front of us

the best of us stand
get up and take the whole pile
underneath one arm
and walk out the door

but most of us sit
watching as our pile of troubles
grows greater and greater
and more and more people
walk out the door

how many poems
began with the words
"I am"?

I am good
I am bad
I am misunderstood
I am steadfast
I am strong
I am wonderful
I am my best
I am better than you
I am not better than anyone
I am who I am
they write
over
and
over
again

so few poems tell us
the story of these good
and bad and other-wised
defined people

so often are we concerned
with getting them right we
forget who they really are:

fathers and grocery clerks,
jail-birds, school teachers,
drunks, priests, writers and
critics, hotel owners, bag-
stuffers, and not to mention
all the drivers of automobiles

these people
could all declare
that they are:

good/bad/strong/misunderstood/
steadfast/strong/wonderful/their
best/better than you/not better
than anyone/themselves

but until we see that they are
we have only their word and
centuries of ****** skepticism

he walks out onto the street
pulls a cigarette from behind his ear
places it gently in his mouth
rests the garbage can
lights his smoke
and pulls the can
back to rolling position

you can only see him
by the faint glow
at the end of his cigarette
and eventually even
that is gone
and the universe goes on
as it was

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

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

that’s it?
that’s the big finale?

we all wait for the
rim-shot

not all that
shimmers
is gold
but
then again
not all things
shat are
****

take one snapshot
of your life in motion
and stop to look
at it

now listen
to it play out
like you think
it should

tell someone
what you thought
and then burn
the picture

make your dreams
be your reality

“all life ends in eternity”

I say it once

“all life ends in eternity
all life ends in eternity”

I say it twice

“all life ends”

I break it down

“eternity is the end of all life”

to even simpler pieces

“life isn’t eternal?”

it couldn’t be I think

“life becomes eternity?”

but then what is eternity?

“life is eternity?”

hmm

“all life ends in eternity
all life ends in eternity”

I say it twice

“all life ends in eternity”

I say it again

all life ends in eternity

and I look into eternity
for the first time

summer had just begun
and I sat on a lawn chair
breathing in the warm
evening air, smelling
cigarettes, listening to
the power lines crackle
across the street, and
enjoying myself for
what seemed the first
time in months

it took ***** to walk back in there
and say “sorry fellas, but things
just didn’t work out between us
and I seem to have won you guys
in the divorce,” and I did do that,
and they said, “oh, I’m sorry to
hear that” and they really meant
it but later they would ask about
why and how and I would never
tell them because I think they’re
happier without knowing, they’ll
just never know that

it’s the end of summer now and
they’ve stopped asking about her,
maybe they forgotten about her?
probably not but they certainly
know not to ask, so maybe now
I can tell them, because she’s
not going to show up now

life’s looking up and I can laugh
without worrying that I shouldn’t
be laughing, I’m enjoying life
and life seems to be enjoying me
and maybe that’s the lesson here,
that life rewards those who reward
it, those who seize the day, even
if the day is done

walking down the road now
my car named ‘my writing’
abandoned 3, 4, 5, 10 miles
back

it’s hot,
too hot
and the sun shines down on me
making me sweat uncomfortably
and
the road is long
too long for me
because it seems like I’ve been walking forever
and yet I haven’t seen a sign of humanity yet

then it comes screeching down
the road; a car not used to the
speed it has now; and in it is
a man desperately looking for
me

he spotted me
before I spotted
him and just as
I first heard his
tires melting to
the asphalt he
was jumping
out at me his
tongue tied to
the thought he
was trying to
eject from his
body

his talk excited,
he said: “is that
your car?”

I stare blankly

“is that your car?”

“what car” I say

“the one on the side
of the road! that one!”
he spurted out grin
wide

yes,
I think
so

“fantastic!
let me give
you a lift!”

ok
I say

ok
I said
not knowing
what to think

he asked me question after question
(about the car)
and told me how it was a masterpiece!
a genuine miracle! a historic marker
that I must continue to bring  to the world!

ok
I said
(I disagreed,
the piece of junk
had just left me in
the desert remember)

he called a tow truck for the car
he dropped me off at my house
he gave me $5000 dollars (for the car)

and then he drove off
smile on his face

I looked at the money,
the tuckered out car,
my house and thought:

How lucky. Maybe there
is something to this car

maybe there was,
because I just got
back in it and drove
down the highway
like usual

green with life, the
sea rushes up against
shores where green
trees grow and green
men fight and green
skies are dismissed
as impossible and
the green time bring
thoughts of greed
but is really meant
to remind one of
when they were once
young, still learning
and exploring, and
their green shoots
stretched their trendily
arms out towards the
sun and their thin roots
spread out through the
soil and they knew
little of the world
except that it was blue
and green and red and
brown and all the good
colors we had yet to
define; that there was
still a whole lot of stuff
we didn’t know, most
especially how green
we were to our own
ignorance

as days have turn to hours,
much more quickly than I
could have anticipated, my
tendency to observe myself
in these moments before my
greater ones has kicked in

nine hours stands between
me and grand change in my
life yet those hours seem as
ordinary as any I have had
over these months

what I feel is a grand lack
of anticipation for the end
that is even more swiftly
approaching

I propose that this is because
this condition, this tragedy in
any other’s eyes, is nothing
but a set-back in my life for
me

while others panic, look wildly
at me when I utter this disease
that I do have, I have never done
that

I sat stoically in that office,
somehow knowing there was
nothing to worry about

to this day I cannot tell you
why I think that way

I can tell you I do

I have, in my heart,
a complete faith that
this will not be my
end

mortality was neither
further nor nearer to
my mind

as the hours to turn
to minutes, the same
amount of struggle in
the end, I cannot say
I feel any different

if anyone were to ask
me now, I would say
I hope tomorrow is a
normal day

the rain drops
hitting my sky light
are just about
as beautiful as
I have ever
seen

I can’t actually see them
but the sound of
them…

it’s peaceful

on this day,
of ups, downs,
and unfortunate
situations
I can use a bit
of calm like
this

even as the thunder
sings its angry
songs to the
night,
there is an island
in the storm
for the
calamity
that is
my
life

tonight,
I lock myself
away
with the darkness
and
the storm,
hoping there’s
a meaning,
or a
reason,
or a purpose
for
once

the coke machine
up on the hill,
the hill it’s been on
for forty years or
more,
reads in angry red
letters:
SOLD OUT

the coke
the diet coke
the sprite
the fanta
and
the mello yellow
too

all gone
but it still begs
for your dollar
fifty
even though
it can’t give you
anything back

the forty year-
old coke machine
up on the hill
is sold out
but it’s still thirsty
and so are
you

boom
boom
BANG!

I see the image of a girl
pointing a gun
at my head
and at my heart

I do not know what this means
but I see her pull the trigger
over and over
as the rounds unload into me
till the twisted metal thing
makes a knowing
“click”

boom
boom
bang!

each bullet hits me
in my head
and in my heart
and in the places she shot me
and in the places she didn’t

boom
boom
bang

I do not know what this poem means
but I see the image
of a beautiful girl
without a face
holding a smoking gun
and breathing heavily over my
dead corpse.

again?
again.

I tried to a make-up
something for a
poem

a love I never had,
a moment I never
experience, a time
that never existed

over and over
I try to do it
but I know it’s
all deceit

why can’t I say it?
my head is squarely
on head but my hands
seem to belong to any
other person

I have been challenged

write one line

and there,
I did it

but we both know that’s not enough

the sun is begging me
the grass is begging me
the bugs, and the fan,
and my diet coke next to
me is begging me too

write!
they say

pah,
that’s easy for you to say

but then I look down into their eyes
and then back down at my screen

I am still writing
but for the time
I refuse to accept my
work

I cannot decide
what life
is
about

whether it is about living
or
living in the best way
possible

should I act boldly
or cunningly?

are risk irrelevant
because mere action
is priceless in
itself?

these things I wonder
as I sit alone
after doing something
neither bold
nor
cunning

but it was fun

and that, perhaps,
is what life is all
about

laugh in the face of death
give him a big old smile and say
“*******”
tell him
“I don’t care if I die,
I’m not afraid.
Not of you,
not of where you’ll take me.
So come on!
**** me!
**** me you crazy ******,
or I’ll do it myself!”

and he’ll back down
saying
“**** man,
calm down
it’s not that big of a deal”

and tell him
“no big deal?
what the hell you talking about?
no big deal.
psh.
You’re ******* death
come to ******* **** me
and I’m supposed to be ******* my pants
but guess what?
*******!
I’m not afraid!
Come at my you mad-house ****
I wanna see what you got!”

death’ll run then
off back into the shadows
where he waits for you regain your fear
but right then
high on the adrenaline of this whole scene
you can’t be touched by him

you just said
“*******”
to death
and guess what?
keep it up
and
he might just never come to get you

5 poems in
I’m still going
strong
but
the bare
and rusted
ruins of
Rome
beg the question:

how long can anything
last?

this is death

this is the black
of the black and white

this is the sound after the last song
this is the racetrack after the racers have left
this is the pencil resting next to a finished
masterpiece

this is your feet
this is your hand
this is your sweat
this is your face

this is your tired rest
this is your comforting grasp
this is your release
this is you

this is a book sealed shut with the eons of never being opened
this is a mind sealed shut with the steel locks keeping the eons
out

this is you in your greatest moment
this is you in your worst moment

you’ve already done the best thing in your life
you did it yesterday as you sat on the toilet,
or as you laid in bed sick,
or you read a book,
or you kept a secret,
or you told a secret

you will never be as good as you were a moment ago
and this will continue for the entirety of your life
but you never faultier
you well never fail
you will grow greater and greater every minute
even as your better self slips away into the past

this is your feet worn to the bone
this is your hand dirtied with time
this is your sweat hot with your effort
this is your face smiling in regret

this is the bird flying home to its nest
this is the car that drives past an accident
this is the artist laughing for the first time
in years

this is the white
of the black and white

this is life

caught up in pride, in jesus,
in being “right”, in believing
in theory and clinging onto
belief, in defending faith, in
living life like it’s perfect,
in pretending that they know
all the answers

we die all the same
you know?

but they forget, talking of
magic solutions that promise
not effort or pain required

that’s not what’s going to
happen though

we’re going to suffer

suffer like sinners suffer
because we have sinned

we have committed the
one and only true sin:

ignorance

we do it so much, we’ve
taken to it like moths to
a flame, even defending
it like it’s something to
be proud of, something
that isn’t suicidal

they shout it on the radio,
debate it on the tv, talk
it up at rally’s, and print
it out for future invaders
to see in our newspapers,
magazines, and marble
institutions

are we afraid?
are you sacred?

we should be

the hole stares down at us
as the pit gets closer to the
core

are we going to do something?
are we going to man up?

sunlight filters down, but
we’ve still got to sew our
rope

(it’s made of sweat and
pain and finally admitting
that things aren’t getting
better)

I keep seeing the image of a giant
looking down at the world
fearful to walk for crushing those
he can barely see

It comes to me
as I walk to class during the week

It comes to me
as I talk to friends on the weekend

It comes to me
as I think of anything and everything,
and for the sake of god,
I cannot shake it

It comes to me
as a whisper
nibbling at my ear
then
a *****
that burst my eardrum
telling me to
write
Write!
WRITE!

write for the sake of all that is holy,
all that you value, all that is good,
of the giant that you see in yourself,
and the ants you in see in others.

and I cower to its yelling at first,
but then I grow firmer, taller, bolder,
rising bit by bit to face the monster
living in the back of my mind

by the time I stop my growth
I am the size of sky scraper

Everest looking cowardly below
and my beast looking a microbe
at my feet.

this is when I topple

I do not aggress my shadow
for I know it poses no threat

so I fall
down
down
down
my back moving
forward
my head not seeing
where
I am to
go

I fell down
happily
hoping
for the warm covers of my bed
and a good night’s rest
to greet me

once
destroyed,
by one incident
of poor self-
image,
the mind’s perception
of who we are
crumbles and
falters in the
wind

the pieces
zipping away
with the gusts,
we’re never quite
who we thought
we were

the face in the mirror
is not the face we
remember

the face other’s see
is not the same one
we see

it used to be
that this
was never a
problem

those terrible,
life-shattering
instances of
sudden and total
evaporation of
our mind’s images
and thoughts
often never
came

we could go our
whole lives
and never know
any better

so what happened?

maybe she remembers

maybe she remembers
all those loving words
we whispered in each
others ears

maybe she remembers
all those nights that we
stayed up

all those nights that
turned to morning
before we ended
them

I remember
I remember them all
I remember them and
tears come to my eyes

not just for losing them,
those wonderful nights
that turned to morning,
but for the fact that I
lost them, caught up in
blind hormonal rage

my words were nothing
against the anger you
rightfully threw against
my fragile mind

and I was crushed
my mind fell into pieces
as I was reminded not to
get ****** in

I cried
I’d never cried like I did that day

because I did
I got ****** in
like I knew I
shouldn’t have

but I don’t regret it

she probably remembers;
I told her I could let her
go then,

and I did
but it was hard
too hard
but I did it

I’m better for it

maybe she remembers me
I hope so

maybe she remembers
what we did
and
what we didn’t do

we’ll never be the same.
neither of us,
I remember why
and maybe she remembers
too

I still think about
the feeling of death's warm lips
when she kissed me in my basement
after we did that play together
in sophomore year.

I still think about
how when the words "I love you"
spilled sloppily out of my mouth,
she leaned over and let the coldness
of the room hug me for a moment,
before whispering into my ear
two words of her own
that I still think of
when the nights are long
and the days no longer
offer warmth.

it is the beat of rain on rooftops
the squeal of tires on tired roads
echoing of a cough in a church
the slamming of book on floor
calls of birds, and bugs, and dogs
pencils tapping messages in code

the tv turning on to a commercial
the phone hanging on the receiver
change rattling in a hobo’s can
a woman’s gasp at a man’s proposal

the silence of the forest
the quiet of child’s sleep
the hush of new snow
the words staring back

the beat of a tribesman’s old drum
the horns of a million city’s sewers
the strings of the reeds and oceans
the vocals of a world without sleep

the sight of man in free-fall
the smell of a fresh, new day
the feel of looking out at the
world

these are the sounds of living,
the very song of life.

we hear it
and
we play it
and
we know the tune

but,
never,
amongst all this
cacophony and
symphony,
do we ever
realize:

we were never taught this song

it’s impossible to know the future
it’s impossible to change the past

in short,
what you have
in this very
moment

nothing more
nothing less

take that to heart

it’s all you’ve got

is
it
that
hard
to
accept
that
life
is
short
and
finite?

a disjointed rock thrown into the ocean
without thought or care for why moved
breaks the surface with an angry pop
and slowly sinks to the water’s floor
yet that little disturbance made in seas
off the coast of South America can swell
and evolve into a monster to be received
as far away as Japan-land

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

half of the teenagers I know
make art, and songs, and
poetry just to lash back
at the things they don’t like
in the world

complaining about their friends, or
rebelling against their parents, or
crying about how unfair everything
is

and the stupid ones,
the really stupid ones,
call someone out in
their work

but it’s not just the idiots.

the geniuses, the logicians,
the thinkers, the wise-childs,
the high-school cool kids,
the suicidal geeks, the god-
driven outcasts, the losers
too fat or too weird to hang
out with the “normals”

anyone.

anyone,
who makes any
sort of art,
has done
it.

and they feel stupid,
really, really, stupid
when the person finds
out and the **** hits
the fan and everybody
is on everybody’s side
and nobody’s evil while
everybody’s the bad
guy and it’s funny if
you’re lucky enough
to be outside of it
all

so just like every
stupid habit of man

(like love, and hope,
and destiny)

we cling and repeat,
and rinse and redo,
and keep writing
poems about people
we hate without
saying their name
and instead,
screaming
it

I grin at those
who get this

this is the last man to leave the funeral
this is the doctor turning off the machines
this is the single ant squashed under a rock
this is the car abandoned in the desert

this is the hunched-over tears that fall
on the ground turning into tiny dark
specks

or

the sorrowful eyes which tear up but
who refuse to let their hearts do what
they request

I am this,
you are this,
we are this,
they are this

everyone is this
at some point or
another

this is the sanity in sorrow
the golden lining that proves
there will be tomorrow

this is the worst moment
this is the best moment
this is the time when you
will know why you are
what you are and then
why you are going to
become something else

this is the fire
this is the freeze
this is the storm
this is you and me

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

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

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

I think I’ll always remember
this picture

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

but that’s not why
I’ll remember it

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

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

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

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.

it hangs
to my
right

it says
“keep calm
and
carry on “

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

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

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

and the poster
still sits there
saying:

“keep calm,
and carry
on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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