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

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

there’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

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

in face of the unfaceable
the wise man would turn
away

take what he can, in what
he can, and leave the fight
for another day

the wise man isn’t losing,
nor giving up, or giving in

the wise man is winning
for with his life he escapes

the naïve boy would ask

wise man what should I
do?

this man/this girl/this job/
this poem/this something
or another is causing me
trouble

the wise man would answer

can you fix it yourself, or
through the power of others?

the naïve would shake his head
no

but what can I do? he would punctuate

the wise man would smile,
putting hand on shoulder
in chide

and whisper in the naïve boy’s ear
why I’d leave it,
what good is a
fight?

music and family
do little
to comfort me
now

the sad inevitability
is that my life is getting
****** over for no
reason

welcome to the reality
of reality

I look at the band-aids,
to holes in my skin, the
look of my eyes and all
seems no different

but things are different,
things are dying and changing
and falling apart as all
things do

(welcome to the reality
of reality)

I see the entire world flying past
at seventy miles per hour or more
and they all seem so happy

so perfect

I’ve never known that
perfection

even better off,
even smart,
wiser,
richer,
older,
younger

I’ve never known that
bliss

welcome to the reality
of reality

it’s hard to face
a fate that lives in your
house and eats the
same cereal

hell,
I don’t remember
the last time we
talked

time has come to do it
though

(and I’m ******)

it’s not anger,
not shame,
or hatred,
or cries of
unfairness

it’s just the mere fact
of knowing that I have
to

welcome to the reality
of reality

then I see that I’m alone,
typing to cold machine in
a cold, voluminous space

what have I done to be offended?

outside the trees grow,
the birds fly, the kids
play, the adults drink,
the addicts smoke, the
teachers teach, the eggs
hatch, the new lives live,
and the old ones die

in here
I am left to rot
until the sands of time
themselves
have washed away
into the
mist

the world is alive with living,
the human race does not know
my name,
quietly the world spins in space
quietly she stands out amongst
the black

welcome to the reality
of reality

I had just learned
that I loved you

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

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

so now it’s ten
fifty-five PM
and I sit here
alone
with my computer
slowly edging out
everything that I
couldn’t say as those
shells of people
walked my halls

in truth,
I hate them all

I hate their laugh
I hate their smiles
I hate their “hello, how are you!”s
I hate their greedy faces as they eat my food
I hate their moving bodies
I hate their requests for more, more, more! when I’d already given them
everything

I hate it all

half way through
I sat upstairs pulling a nasty splinter
out of the hard ball of my left foot
and when I finally got it out
and I retracted my leg from its twisted pretzel shape
I felt a million tiny pains
shoot up from that leg
and then back into my
brain

I didn’t yell but I wanted
to

and I know that if they had been
there
watching me pull that tiny wooden sliver
out of my foot
and then spreading my leg out
and feeling all that pain
they would’ve laughed
laughed
and
laughed
and
laughed

and I wouldn’t
have

later on
I will play pranks
shoot back jokes
enjoy myself
just as they had
done
and all I will get is ***** looks,
angry grimaces, threats on my
life in the billions

and I will feign surprise

I don’t what it is
but I’m always
the bad guy

call me a ****
call me a ****** bag
call me a ****-******* jacked-up *******

but the moment,
the moment,
I return any of that
(no matter how truthful)
I become all that worse
every
single
time

and as the night ends
and their numbers slowly
dwindle away

I watch the door swing close
just as quickly as it had swung
open and I
smile
smiling is all I can
do

simple existence
quiet darkness is here now
all alone for once

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 believe that I control my happiness. Every day, I see people that go to school, go to work, and they act as if they don’t control what happens to them. When they are sad, it is because the universe is being unfair, and when they’re elated, they accredit it to the alignment of the moon, stars, and planets. I know that they are wrong. I know because I have lost control of myself, and thus, my happiness.
       I am in a state of disrepair. My grades are slipping, my relationships are devolving, and my mind is cloudy with doubt. I am not happy. Nothing I do seems rewarding, and even the distractions I can manage to squeeze in only delay an inevitable tumble back into the depths of the dark pit I call my life.
        How did this happen? How could I let this happen? Here I am. Standing at the bottom of a hole and knowing only one thing:  I dug myself here.
         Maybe it couldn’t be helped? Sometimes I get behind, sometimes I get buried in my work, and sometimes things are bad for no other reason than just plain bad luck. I know these are somewhat true, but in my case, I know exactly what I did to get here. I made inexcusable decisions each day: to play a video game instead of finishing my math homework, to read a play instead of reading my history book, or to laze around instead of getting done what needed to be done. I chose to put-off and half-***, knowing full well that they would only dig me further into the hole. I chose to close myself off and to become snide and moody. I made these choices; I chose to be unhappy.
          I brought this future upon myself. I regret, in advance, the hours that must be spent recovering from my missteps, yet I still go on to make the same mistakes before I’ve fixed those I’ve already created. Hedonism and lack of discipline got me here. I loathe the things I wish I hadn’t done but those opportunities are in the past, forever lost. I seek to change my future. I seek to be happy once again.
          I believe that this essay has come at a bad time in my life. I am low, lower than ever before.  I want to get out of here, and it is my belief that I can, with work and determination, clamber out of this hole and rediscover the light of happiness. I will be stronger for it. By climbing out of the pit on a ladder of hard lessons, I will emerge with the wisdom that can only be learned when one faces oblivion. This I believe: happiness is something I control and there is still a chance for me to seize it. I know this because I have done it before, and I believe that I can do it again.

alone:

only steel,
gunpowder,
and
potential

in human hands:

death

a toad hopped up
one day to me
and said
nothing
but looked quite
serious and
made it
quite
clear that he
and I were
not that
different

why,
he would not
explain,
but
how we drifted
together,
this toad
and
I,
was quite
clear

sitting there for hours
we said nothing
and did nothing

each of us a stone
in our own ways

then toad got up one day
and left me with my ilk

his message silent
his meaning quite
clear

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

less of an island
and
more of a
ship

moving steadily
across the
vastness of the
seas

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

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

I am captain,
first mate,
helmsman,
and
cook

I do everything I need
and everything I want

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

like love, personality,
and sanity

time had started
so long ago
that we had forgotten
what it was like to be
dead

nobody remembered the fear
or the reasons why
and when we all realized what
it really was
we gave up everything
and left solving it
to others

Christmas this year felt wrong
different from its typical way,
no, it’s not the plastic joy
or the Plexiglas spirit,
it’s something deeper
a hollowness pervades it
the celebrations look like mirages

it all doesn’t seem real anymore
like there’s nothing in there
not even greed or fear
or the hunger at the heart
of the human spirit

everything feels like Styrofoam packaging
covering everything until it floats away
and until it comes down as garbage
it can hardly even be said to have existed
at all.

there’s a rift between who I am
and who I thought I would be,
two identities existing within
the same space, a long shadow
and the object that casts it.
this, of course, has repercussions:
a screeching sound that comes
from reconciling two forces, both
trying to be alone. listen closely
and you may hear it coming from
between the seams that pull apart
slowly, despite their best efforts
to contain my dissonance.

there are three
Mexican painters sharing
Chinese take-out
on the back of a Ford truck
as another day comes
to a close
and the city
quietly wakes up
for the
night

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

there is
a conversation
going on
outside
the
window

it is simple
and interesting
and full of
drama

each one takes
turns telling their
part

wild, vivid,
full of drama

the ones waiting
for their turn to speak
react in gasps and
over-done ******
expressions

I am reading Bukowski
again

the world seems simple,
vivid,
full of drama

boom
the trees shake
and heads turn
birds fly out of
the tree tops
and rain begins
to fall

this moment out of memory
is like so many others easily
created and forgotten

is creativity an absence
of sanity?

the making up of reality
you can scarcely seem to
hold onto?

boom
the sound seems
so familiar
the fearful birds
so real
but is this a moment
of memory
or a storm of my
own creation

all we need is a tiny bit of luck
random occurrences even
that line up
just so
that we can be reminded

life is still worth living

things are still worth fighting for

that marching on
is still worth it,
even through the times
when there’s no reason
to keep moving on
other than the very act
itself

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

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

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

tiny voices
each screaming,
begging:

stop! stop!
no, spare me!

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

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

no! stop!
spare me!

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

I am a stranger
in a strange
land

When asked the time
of day I give numbers
instead of letters

The blank stares
of others
offers no comfort
or help

In a city of well-kept glass,
on roads they’d have you
think were gold, there are
men and women and children
living lives they’d call
“happy”

with a strange feeling
of aloneness,
I cut swath across their
ranks, asking each man
and women and
child:

“what do you mean
you’re happy?”

from the glazed over eyes,
to the obvious lies,
to the corruption and
hatred and greed

above all things I’ve seen
between all things I need
below me I see a great depth

where are the reporters?
the conspirators? the
malcontents? where are
the watchdogs we call
nary-do-wells? or their
brothers the minor
senators? what happened
to religion? and faith
and belief? what happened
to god and to justice?
why are the front doors
closed and the back
doors open? why do
we not look into our
eyes? what happened
to us? all of us? every
one? where have I been
and now gone?

my restless eyes,
quite hypnotized,
cannot comprehend
or think of the
truth

that this land that I’m in,
this one stranger than fiction,
is in fact, my own, and no
other

we’re nearing impact
the time is about to come
brace yourself
get ready

we’ve got hell to go through
before this is over

hey man,
nice work

hope your comfy
where ever you
are
whatever you’re
doing

I’m doing nice
feeling
good
even though I feel pretty
bad

but anyways,

love seeing pictures of your stuff

“one nation under CCTV”

haha,
that’s
clever

I think I let it go today

there was an agony
living under my skin
and whatever it was
whatever creature
lurked just
beneath
prying at my heart
and devouring my mind
is gone now
and
I hope
will
not return

I think I let the pain go
today

though there was no one moment,
a transformation from sick to well,
I sit with myself and feel somehow:
better

I think I let it go
today

I think tomorrow is a good day
to begin again
and
maybe
I’ll do
just that

tears like fire, the truth
burning your flesh as a
string of swears flow
off your tongue, every-
one tells you they told
you so and you know
that they are right

anger, darkness, suicide,
doubt, hatred, self-hatred,
and self-loathing fill you
and consume you and in
your heart you feel the
beating stop

this is what death feels
like until:

you stop

no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no

you say to yourself,
wetness burning in
your eyes and freshly
opened wounds

no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no

no

no more, you scream and then fall
silent

no more,
you whimper

crawling to the mirror is like torture,
looking, seeing yourself; sockets puffed
and red, examining your unkempt hair
and the rawness of your soul

you scream, break the mirror
with your hands, and take in
the scene you’ve created

the blood looks rich and
vibrant and reminds you:

no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no

no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no

no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no

no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no

you remember you are human,
you must take a deep breath
and move on

there you are,
the greater part of
every population,
the few and far
between that are
secretly exactly
like every other
person next to
them on the bus
or train or office

there you are,
you pretentious masses
of quivering cowards

there you are,
hiding in the corner
acting like someone
else put you there

there you are.

I have no sympathy
because I cannot be
sympathetic

the world is your oyster
and I know that and for
that reason I sit here and
plot until it is time to
strike

but there you are

crying over bruises
and paper cuts like
you’ve been stabbed
in the back when
every one of your
wounds came from
your own dagger

there you are
and here I am

and that is how it
is, no more and
no less

just look around
there’s something there
learn to love it
learn to hate it
learn every inch,
every molecule.
learn it like your life depends on it
and then you have a purpose in life

my apologizes go out
only for my actions.

as for the universe,
and situation it put you in,
I can say nothing.

except that I apologize
luck was not on your side,
and hopefully he will
be nicer next time.

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

how do we fill
ourselves on air?

tasteless,
bland,
empty

sick on it
and yet we keep
on eating

bite after
bite after
bite

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

plastic gourmet,
bag and all

tasteless,
delicious,
poison

I watch myself go through
this pain:

I am slamming down
the phone

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

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

I am slamming my fists
against the wall

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

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

I am confessing all my sins

I am asking her what she
thinks I should do

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

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

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

I am fighting with that
wise advice

the truth and the bitterness
in it

the fire as I must drink it
down

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

I am feeling the relief
of decision

I am slamming down the telephone

I am listening to that voice
deny me

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

“everything changes in time”

I am looking at myself in disgust

I am looking at the future with disgust

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

I am making them believe

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

I am still shaking

I am still not done

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

I am now confident though

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

I am watching myself
go through this pain,
again

I am slamming down the telephone
and redoubling my efforts

there is a tragedy
in life

a pointlessness

that’s what religion is for
I suppose

or philosophy
or politics
or tight nit
family

but I don’t need it
why should I?

most need something though
apparently

so I suppose they know
the tragedy too

they know the
pointlessness

but they go to bed crying
and I wake up to brighter day
every morning

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

I float upwards as if the air
were an aquatic pool

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

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

+

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

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

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


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

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

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

I tugged on it,
it bugged but
did not snap

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

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

+

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

+

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

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

It was funny then:

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fall
a blissful smile
masking the
terrified
child
inside

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

rising up from the dust
a single shoot,
green with new life,
jumps from the ground
and bounds with the sun

it grows,
quickly first,
changes noticeable daily,
but then slower
as years wear on
and the thick bark develops
on this youthful sprout

after time seeming infinitesimal,
a monkey scurries up it’s side
and as he peaks his head out
of the top of the leaves
he caws that he had conquored
the greatest of all things

so it was then that the tree of life blushed
never knowing the greatness it apparently was

I hate my poems
that’s the problem
I hate them because they try too much
(they try the impossible really)
and, yes, some of them are good
but none of them are great
and none of them get it
right
they all **** it
mess it up in small details
or don’t make out the big picture
from the little parts
except,
perhaps,
this one.

the morning is soft today
the light, caresses my skin
instead of burning it,
the air feels like a fluffy
cloud come down amongst
us mortal folks

there is a new day filtering
through the blinds of my
window; promising a chance
to do what you’ve always
wanted to do like it always
does

the problem is not with obtaining the goal
but figuring out what it is in the first place

people find it hard
to believe happiness
because for many,
it’s much more of a myth
or a hazy recollection
than it is something real
and rational and
to be aspired too

love and hope
and dreams
have taken on this air of
imagination
in recent generations

for a brief moment,
they were truly believed in
by the adults
by the people in charge
by the whole wide world
even as everything they knew before
had crumbled and wrecked
to a state beyond
their power to
repair

but it was that desolate place the world was
that drove the people to believe in such fancy
and frivolous thoughts

because if they had not,
the world would’ve withered
and died, like a cow so old
you know there’s no hope
or a flower so far gone
that you don’t mind to let it
wilt

those times went though,
like a leaf upon the wind,
as the children began acting
as the adults and followed
their dreams to a land so
few actually reached


and as the adults saw their failure
and the children saw the adults flee
the belief in love, in hope, in dreams,
in morals, in rites, in traditions, in
togetherness, in family, in belief-

failed

and

sunk

the last tip of the ship leaving the surface
with the first person who believed in the
infomercial

we do not know what we can do
because we do not believe we can
do anything

happiness, as I started this all out with,
is not a bed-time story

it is very real
and it is very
powerful

but in each average person’s life
they get to experience only once
or twice, seeming like a random
occurrence, and thus cementing
in so many people’s minds that
it is

but it is not

happiness comes from knowing how to be happy

it’s not about sacrifice
or faith
or hard-work
or dedication

it’s about knowing who you are,
what the world is,
and how you
can make
the best
of it

this is not some secret art

it is a simple idea:
that happiness can be controlled

and it’s execution is even simpler:

how can I be happy?
how can I be happy,
forever?

when it comes down to
it; life is exactly what it
seems.

consisting of going to the
bathroom, eating your
favorite  dessert, driving
hundreds of miles every
week to work and back,
writing papers for teachers
you don’t respect, finding
and falling in love, fending
off doubt, feeling terrified
the first time you hold your
child, making meal after
meal without any thanks,
looking at yourself with
scorn, wondering where
you are and how you got
there, fearing death and
turning on the fan when
the room gets a bit too hot
for comfort

never forget the simplicity
of the universe

never forget that humans
are just animals, animals
just life forms, life forms
just atoms, atoms just tiny
clouds of indefinable
importance

when you get down to it;
the universe is exactly
what it seems:

a space too big for us life-
forms to understand, offering
only the acceptance of this
poem as a means to stave
off insanity

the warmth is spreading
through me
and tomorrow I can
wake up
late

there are little things
I want to do
but
time gets in the way
and space gets in the
way and all the way to Armageddon
things oppose us and there’s nothing
we can do to beat them
sometimes

so we go to sleep all night
and the rain makes good dreams
until we wake up in the morning
and begin that march to the end
all over again

Two men stand on a corner
Two men stare at one another

One man thinks that there must be a conflict
One man thinks that he would like to move on

One man raises fists to his head
One man raises open palms

One man swings his right fist
One man sweeps the other’s feet

One man catches his fall with both hands
One man kicks his foot into a rib

One man holds a hand to his torso
One man holds open hands in defense

One man glares at the other
One man scolds with his eyes

One man stands and faces the other
One man backs away with his rise

Two men stand on a corner
Two men stare at each other

One man runs away from the place
One man walks away guilt

constantly struggling with fears of failure
I face the truth of why I cannot succeed

I do not own my life
I do not own what is
in my possession
I do not possess the
acts that I commit
I do not commit to
the life I have been
given

there is no reason for me to succeed
the spoils of victory are never mine

I do not know achievement
I do not know repayment
I do not know enjoyment
I do not know myself

so many decisions I didn’t make
in this life that’s suppose to be mine

I am without commitment
I am without ownership

this life called “my life”
is not mine, it never was.

I want a chance
I want an opportunity
I want a reason
to give a ****
about myself

let me start over
all on my own

I will be successful
I will be great

let me do this one thing
let me jump out the door
into the cold world and
prove that I’ll be fine
let me start it all over
so that if I ***** up
I know it’s all on me
but if I succeed, there’s
not anyone to take it
from me

I realize now,
the futility of
forgiveness

we all want a clean slate,
the washing away of our sins,
but in the end:

we are never clean

you can paint over it,
or wear costumes,
or even spend millions
on special procedures

but it’s all just mask

we live with what’ve done,
each day, we must face the
man we used to be, and the
implications that man has
on the one we are now

(and that’s all that matters)

you can mix in new colors,
but never get rid of the old
ones

that is futility of forgiveness:

we cannot wash away the sins,
cannot wipe the slate clean,
the only solitude is forgetting,
and that, in itself, is flawed

(for the moment comes
when all those memories
come flooding back in)

but we carry on

forgetting or forgiving ourselves
(whatever seems better to you)
and trying to make ourselves
presentable

even with the
knowledge of our past
and future mistakes

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

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

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

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

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

his was force
and
mine is a bond

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hopefully, things will get
easier

I return home
from another long night
putting on shows for
people I do not know
and with people
I can scarcely
relate
to

my legs ache,
my hands twitch,
little bites and
bruises liter my body
like some kind of
war paint

there is no satisfaction
in this any more

there is a deep unfulfillment
in the life I am now living

I move slowly,
each action taking more
and inflicting more,
while I contemplate the
meaning of my life
(once again)
and look about my bedroom
wondering why I have allowed
it to become so
messy