if it makes me happy,
it’s not good for me,
in fact, it’s worse for me,
because I get addicted

if it’s tasty,
I over-eat it,
if it’s interesting,
I over study it
if it’s fun,
I over-do it

if it appeases my addictions,
I’ll do anything for it

women
poetry
diet coke
sweets

these are all delights
I cannot have
for they are poison,
to me

music notes
on a musician’s
libel

hunter’s bow
on a hunter’s
clothes

***** shoes
on a *****
man

a chair’s legs
on a god’s
body

a pope’s declaration
on a blasphemer’s
cry

an english ship
on a world’s
sea

a child’s book
on a child’s
desk

a belonging to,
and reflection of,
thyself

I cannot conceive
why I am not longer
inspired

the world is just as beautiful
the people that march on it
just as interesting
yet still the poem
does not come
and the release
I cannot attain

building up within me,
a storm of fearful thoughts
and conceptions,
beats against the dam
that contains it
and I pray to god
it breaks out
soon

I have decided
I am not naturally
anything good

I am ugly
and imperfect
and untalented
and unnecessary

but

I am not
disheartened

I am the black coal
waiting for the earth
to create a diamond

I am the dinner
not yet fully cooked
or ready to serve

I am the boy
waiting on time
to let me be a
man

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

it doesn’t
feel like summer

it doesn’t seem
like I can relax

it doesn’t look
like I have much to
smile about

the breeze can’t help me
the sun can’t help me
I can’t help me

this is to
put it simply

I’ve messed up

despite all my confidence,
all my work,
all my trials and former
accomplishments…

I get nothing

life is not any nicer
to kings than peasants

there is something wrong
with my tonight

something wrong
with time and mind
and body

there isn’t any difference

the morning awaits
just like today’s
but it should wait like
something new
and fresh
and
healing


but it doesn’t

the pattern of my entire
life lays out before me

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.

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

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

always somewhere to be
always somewhere to go
always something to do
always something to be

cold water,
american water,
down and out
and all over
us

never needing
only wanting

never seeking
only demanding

we are not the chosen ones
and we are more often than
not wrong

completely aware of the rest of the world
completely unable to accept the best option
completely lost in a sea of paranoid tradition

rain,
soft and
unforgiving rain
comes down
upon us
and whispers
in the softest
tone possible

“you are not great
and I shall get you
yet”

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

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

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

I’m ready to be done
with this paper,
with this life,
with these problems
and these issues,
with this world
that seems
undone

we’re all ready
to give it all up,
to say “***** it all”
to go sleep away
till life is done
and gone

it’s a world based
on hard work,
a society borne in
greed,
we, the people,
read to be done,
I, myself, too
proud to give
up

so a world strikes
a faithful balance,
between its torture
and its gifts

it says unto you:
“give me your best
and your hardest,
give me your efforts
and your dreams,
if I am pleased,
I can offer,
a single present
to you”

“this present is sacred,
this present is rare,
this present is love,
a forgotten treasure,
if I do say so myself”

talking to my now-
girlfriend I’m slowly
realizing just how much
stuff I’ve ******
up in the past

piano
tennis
school

I could’ve been great
but I’m
not,
am I?

I’m good at other things
though

poetry
theatre
economics

what makes them different?

they’re not any easier,
not any different,
really,
but they’re not
what I do,
not what I
love

wait

love

that’s it
love
that’s what’s
different

I don’t
love
those other things

I can’t pour my heart
into them, can’t keep
working even after
they’ve lost interest

but with those other things,
I can

huh

guess that makes sense
doesn’t it?

the future is never owned by
those obsessed with the past

I heard about
this kid
the other
day

the one
who
got run over

I can’t remember
his name
and
on the news channels
they only
show
blaring ambulances
and
well-dressed
tv correspondents

as far as I know
there’s a funny-shaped
deer hiding under
the white blanket

I was I could remember
that kid’s name,
he was 17
or 15
or 12
or 5
or some
terrible age
like that

but all I can find out
is that another innocent
life has been lost
and that at 9
Friends will be airing
a re-run

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

the plane crashes.
silently.

people scream.
silently.

lives live their last moments.
silently.

drinks spill as panic spreads
eyes go wide, adrenaline pumps
the world falls apart
the shroud of reality
disappears into the void

silently.

everything collapses
the walls close in
faces transform with fear
the humanity drips away
madness consumes

silently.

I reach out to the man next to me
he does not see me, does not hear me,
I cannot hear myself either,
the world grows further away
as the gravity grows heavier
we have entered a different realm

silently.

the ocean nears
the moment closes
the last prayers are prayed
the last embraces made
the eye close, waiting
the mind finally accepts

silently.

the plane pulls up
silently.

people stop screaming
silently.

lives begin living once again.
sound returns.

there is a sad child
somewhere
over beyond those trees
where a red balloon
floated up from
his hand
and
into the blue,
fall
sky

I’m sure he pulls
at his mother’s hand,
begging her to look,
to notice,
but she will shuffle
him off, tugging
the boy along
as he points and
cries towards
the volume of rubber
growing smaller
and smaller in
the distance

there is nothing I can do,
nothing anyone can do
and I take solace in that

but I feel for the kid:

his first disappointment
in a long life filled with even
worse ones

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.

the days will keep coming
the problems will keep mounting
the buildings will keep crumbling
the hatred will keep building
and
the rope will keep thinning
the laughs will keep dampening
the eyes will keep shutting
the cities will keep burning
and
the clocks will keep ticking
the lives will keep ending
the bodies will keep piling
the meaning will keep hiding
and
the madness will keep growing
the arms will keep reaching
the lips will keep searching
the future will keep slipping
away

regardless of whether
you like it or not
things will keep moving
with you or not

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

certainly,
not the last

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

but it still hurts,
those words

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

“but you’ll not be moving
on”

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

that awful elixir of
you ****

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

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

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

how quant

I was on a plane
when suddenly the
“fasten seat-belt” light
came on
and the pilot
came over the intercom
and said,

“I’m sorry folks,
but it seems we’re
going down”

whilst everyone panicked
the man to my right kept
reading

did he not hear?
he’s not old,
he can’t be deaf

how is he not saying his last
prayers or begging or etc.
etc. etc.

so I asked him

and he seemed not to
hear me

so I asked him again

“oh be quiet
for god’s sake”

“I’m trying to
read”

what’s the book?
I asked, shell-
shocked


“who cares?”
he said,
“I’ve got half a
chapter to go and
about half a minute
to finish
this”

and suddenly my situation
seemed all the less grim

sometimes
there is a poem
you just need
to write

I sit,
contemplating
the world,
as I look out upon
a green country,
spotted by tan umbrellas,
and the blue ocean
waits somewhere
nearby

I sigh
I’m passing her again
that black mistress
that sits in the corner gathering dust
I miss her,
I guess,
but I remember
why I left
and why
she now gathers dust

I sigh
running my fingers over her obsidian surface
old girl, I remember
the music,
the fun,
the tears,
the fret,
oh I remember

I remember
and
I sigh

it’s been what?
2-3 years now?
it was hard
but it was the piano I broke up with
it was playing her,
learning to play her,
learning all her special places,
learning how to make her sing
like she’ll only let a few make
her

I lift the key guard
play a single note
I retract the hand,
the key is hot iron,
then I hit it again,
not so hot this time,
then I play, play a
song that I remember,
the only song I
remember

I did not do it long
just enough to remind
me how bad I was

but putting the key guard down
and leaving the old girl to her
dust I realized something:

I had returned to the piano,
and once again I had made
her sing in that wonderful
way

I have gone to Zion and
seen the sheep and now
I realize why a starving
wolf dies happier

it was hot today
so the roads were hot
and the air was hot
and all the water
evaporated into dark
stringy clouds
and when it rained
the mist floated up from the road
and my headlights reflected off it
and made the most interesting
shapes in the evening sun
when I went out to buy
groceries for a party
tomorrow

now the clouds bleed light
from bright pink wounds
and the rain is done
and the sun is
done

now we turn the lights off
and drink a nice tea
and read a good book
and turn on the radio to
classical music
with no words and
no point

tomorrow the end is coming,
and what a beautiful last day
it has been.

sometimes you can’t believe what you’ve
done

your mind wanders back in time
looking for the moment you shattered
or built, changing the flow of our
collective future

the bird flies across your window for a reason
the soldier dies in a fight for a reason
the is poem is writen for a
reason

and we shouldn't know what the reason
is

if you do,
I’m sorry

watching what becomes of your
actions is terrible and mystifying

it hurts
or
it stuns
or
both
or
worse

I fear myself as I dip my oar into the river of time
I fear that in my wake a flood will come

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

it’s just hit me
that middle school
was the last
time I was really part
of the “main
crowd”

now I run in completely
different circles

different people,
different lives,
different activities

guess I decided I wasn’t
going to put up with the
****

but then I thought a bit more:

running in circles

who does that?

crazy people for one

and then I was quiet
with that realization

the bodies transform
as the electricity of
their ears reaches the
brain and wakes it
from its eternal sleep

as the horror washes
over them, the pupils
dilating and increasingly
gaping mouths, the
faces freeze as if stone,
so much more an
imitation of death

each time now,
the increasing beat,
brings only more
to the suffering of
these human-esque
forms

but that first sounding
always has the most
power, for even the
mountains, mighty as
they are, cannot deny
the shaking deep in
their core which can
turn them to rubble
and, in respect, they
always turn to face
it

Run,
free men,
run

by train
by car
by plane
by horse

depart from this
stagnating and dying
place, free men,
you must

you will be the first to go,
then the strong,
then the smart,
then the talented,
then the great,
until finally
only the meek
are left
and the world
will fall to ruin
in their hands

you must run,
free men,
you must seek
a new earth

you,
the ones
with dreams in your eyes
and love in your hands

you,
the men and women,
who hold the greatest
above the rest

you,
the people
who live despite
our culture of
death

run,
free men,
run

you,
free men,
must

free men,
run,
I beg of you

run,
escape,
I pray

I ask of you one thing,
free men and women
of the world:

do not look back
do not wonder what becomes
of your mothers and fathers
and brothers

we are lost
we are slaves
to our own
fortunes
and
we are not you,
you, free men

we are what you could’ve been
so learn form that

do not be us,
run from us,
part from us
without guilt,
we are jealous
of your truth

take this chance
free men,
use your willfulness,
your youth,
and
run

let this dying world
be dying

let our histories
be histories

let the past
be the past

let yourselves be
yourselves

run,
free men,
run

this earth will be here
for you to, one day,
reclaim

guilt hides behind the couch
in a big pile
of tin cans and
thrown out
papers

things I hide from
and try to hide
others from

days go by
trying not to look
behind the
couch
and see guilt
grinning knowingly
as the color
leaves my
face

but fate cannot smile
and I run away
angry

somehow thinking
that sedentary creature
can come chasing
after me

but no,
he sits and works
without working

his smugness
is the worst part
of it all

that is why I sit,
back turned from that
which I cannot seem
to face

I wait for the moment
when it goes away
and know, fully, that
that moment is waiting
on me

I’m
running
out
of
steam

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

pickle

see?

the writing of a poem,
much like the taking of a ****,
is most satisfying when
it is large, slightly painful,
and locks you away in a small
room for what seems like
hours

and it was Bukowski
who said that the most satisfying
part of this is flushing
it away

seeing it go forth
into places that you.
yourself, shall never
have the heart to
brave

there’s a heart
grown heavy
laying in bed
trying to wake
up

453 times he’s said
to himself
“wake up”
but it’s only putting
him back to sleep,
a hypnosis
untended
or fate that cannot
be escaped?

wake up he says for
the 454th time
but his eyes stay shut
and he can hear birds
chirping their bird songs
outside of his
window

he can feel the weight
of his existence:
each social expectation,
each biological demand,
just another pound on
his shoulders
but
he’s been down
on the ground for a while
now

the heavy heart
prays to be
emptied

wake up, he says,
and counts 455
wake up, he says,
and counts 456
wake up he says
and counts 457
wake up, he says,
and counts 458
wake up, he says,
and goes back to
sleep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

somewhere,
a woman lights a cigarette
outside a central London flat
pulling her jacket in close,
her scarf closer, the night
is her closest friend

when a man approaches her,
he will say hello, smile a toothy
smile, and ask her if she has
an extra cigarette

she, of course, does
and hands it to him
and lights it for him

he laughs and smiles that
toothy smile again and she
returns the favor

they will forget the cold then
somehow

and this simple moment
is how humanity advances,
each lumbering step as
delicate as a caterpillar
trudging across the easy
flower of a spring day

I stir the pool water
with a basket attached
to a stick

little whirlpools form
where I once was,
disturbing the even
distribution of tiny
white particles on
the water’s surface

the whirlpools *****
them in, but does
not drag them down  

I smell chlorine on my hands,
a deadly poison I deal with out
of necessity

I smell the honeysuckles growing
on the chain link fence, a beauty
to every sense

the sky is gray and turning dark
with night

the pool is blue and cold with it’s
lack of sunlight

the trees are green
and their wood is
brown and while I
stir tiny whirlpools
in the pool floating
with tiny particles
I take a deep breath
and decide I will
enjoy all of this

shush,
quiet,
silence
now

now,
we wait.

we calm our bodies,
freeze our eyes,
stop our hearts,
and

listen.

we exist in a
bubble,
staring out
at the world
for a moment,
and it’s not
beautiful

the people of the world
are greedy and ignorant

the forest are charred
and ****** stumps

the oceans are full of
the dead and the dying

the future and the past
mean nothing

shush,
quiet,
silence,
now.

now,
we listen,
trying to find
a reason,

any reason,

to preserve it,
to maintain it,
to keep living,
amongst this
hell man has
brought to
earth

I am best amongst strangers
who do not know my faults
and my tales,
who do not know what I have
done and what I might do to
them

I am best amongst strangers
clueless to who I really am
making friends with me based
on assumptions, mostly wrong,
who I can manipulate without
their knowing

I am best amongst strangers
whose judgments mean
nothing at all

I am best amongst strangers
so that I may hide, and they
may follow

I am best amongst strangers,
only amongst them can I
be true,
because I know, no matter
what, in a few hours’ time
I will but a speck of dust
floating on the winds of
their memory

I am a rusted pile of iron
put together with my spirit
to look as if beautiful and
artistic and meant to be

but on the inside I know,
and on the inside you know
that in truth, all I am is for-
gotten scraps that cannot
be complete, whole, or
useful

it is
5 am
and I
have
done
some-
thing
I have
never
done
before

I have stayed up to
5 am

at 5 am you know what you really want
you’ve had all this time to mull it over
the answers run clear as a mountain river
the meaning is like the nougat in the center
of a candy bar

each bite now
is tasty
and rich

each thought
each movement
means so much more
than it ever had
before

I’ve stayed up late
but never till 5 am
when everything is
crystal clear in a way
that has no analogy

I am tired of my covers,
of my pillows and my
bed-spreads

I want a bed of
nails, a cactus
cushion, and a
blanket of anger
to keep me up
through the nights

I am a man
seeking a better life than
this

at 5 am
I know what
this
is

I want to act
and be act upon

I want to love
and be loved back

I want to hate
and be hated

each tiny motion
means so much
more at 5 am

I know that nobody cares about my poetry
I know that nobody cares how much sleep I get tonight
I know that nobody cares about me
I know that nobody cares about
anything

it is
5 am
and I
can see
the world clearly
for the first
time

the world
is bleak
and I seek to run from
my warm bedroom
and plunge into the
jungle,

unarmed

it was unreal and
yet not special at
all

I knew what she clutched in her hands
I knew what she was giving to me

it was simple:
the days tip

just seven dollars

but having it in my hands
changed everything

it made my effort real
it legitimized my existence

I had worked
I had earned something
I had no longer needed to doubt

so I counted it
and I counted it again
and I put in my pocket
and can’t bear to look
at it now

what if it’s not real?
what if I overslept and
dreamt it all?

but reaching into my wallet
I see the seven dollars
nestled there
and
stop my doubting

what a day

the green world is all around me

the trees
the bushes
the ferns
the herbs

the grasses
and
flowers
and
fruit vein
too

this planet may be blue
but everywhere else it’s
purely green

a sphere
is infinity
contained in
a single space

round and round
you can go but
never will there
be an end to the
trees, and the bushes,
and the fruit veins
too

this imperfect world is
perfect for me and as
the shadows on the mountain trees
coming from the clouds up high
shift and change like life itself

I will smile
at my perfect world
and the shadows on
the mountain trees will
mimic me imperfectly

to be proud of myself
is to silence my pride

I wrote the most beautiful thing today
and now I’m going to cut this beard off
and forget it because it was not within
my rights in the first place

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

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

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