Don’t ask me why I was standing in the middle of my backyard that Friday evening in March unscrewing a bolt, but do know that I was standing in the middle of my backyard that Friday evening in the middle of March, and I was attempting to unscrew a bolt. The bolt belonged to the remains of a gazebo we had built last summer, a fairly nice, painted-aluminum thing with copper colorings and khaki drapes. It had been blown over in a wind-storm sometime over the winter and I had been dreading the day I would have to come outside and take it apart, piece by piece, and finally get rid of the wreckage of what had once been a beautiful center piece to our back yard.

            The reason I had finally gotten around to taking it apart was that I was angry. This is also probably why I didn’t care that it was raining, or that the sun was setting in less than an hour, or that I would much rather be in my room sitting around and doing nothing. I enjoy physical labor more when I’m angry. If I can avoid any complications, I work briskly and feel better overall when I am done. Unfortunately, this was not one of the times I avoided complications.

            The particular bolt I was working on seemed to know that I didn’t need something frustrating to deal with. It waited until it was the last one that needed unscrewing to suddenly become difficult. After ten minutes, I had gone at it with Phillip’s head ***** drivers, flat heads, two different types of wrenches, and my own bare hands, but still it refused to budge. In between mad attempts to turn the stubborn piece of metal, I would make quick little circles away from it. Up the brick path I was working next to then back down it, alternately glaring at and shunning my nemesis as I went. Each circle was my way of letting out the excess frustration building with each failed attack on the bolt. But as my attacks become more frequent and my efforts seemingly more futile, I was beginning to lose control of emotions.

            The whole situation felt menacing. The corpse of the gazebo wore a condescending smile, my tools giggled each time they failed, and the bolt said nothing, sitting smugly in its socket. I will defeat you, I thought, I will unscrew you and it will feel good to throw you into the woods and forget about you. But I knew that winning this battle would not mean I won the war. My mood was shot. While I set out to make myself feel better, I only ended up feeling worse in the long run. Regardless, this realization did not reduce my anger. I was determined to unscrew this ****** and that was all I could think about.

            Taking hold of a wrench in one hand and a ***** driver in the other, I twisted and jammed the two things for as long as I could. When the bolt didn’t come unbound, I grabbed one half of the structure I was trying to deconstruct and began to rip and tear it with all of my might. When it still wouldn’t budge, I loudly screamed “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck”, and with one last burst of strength, lifted it above my head and used my other hand to smash the bolt until it was loose in the socket. This was when I finally was able to unscrew the bolt and its uneventful fall to the ground was somehow unsatisfying at the time.

            Taking my newly freed hand, I grunted loudly and hurled the hunk of precision cut aluminum piping over to where another piece of the former gazebo lay. I sat breathing heavily, even if the moment lasted only a few seconds and required only a fraction of my strength. I realize now that I breathed so hard because this was an emotionally straining task. Man against machine. Unstoppable against the unmovable. And I had won, but not before I lost control. Lost myself deep into a fit of rage where I could hardly recognize myself. Anger, I realized long ago, is not my natural state. I get sick with it after even a short time. Those retched moments when rage takes over the entirety my mind are some of the worst in my life.

            I’m still not sure why we humans have never found a better way to deal with anger. We have two options: To bottle it up or to let it out. And the former always eventually leads to the latter. In my life, I’ve managed to avoid anger all together. I stray from conflict, do not work with people I dislike, avoid restricting my ability to get out of any contract or dedication. But I can’t always hide from it, and I suppose that’s why I was standing in the middle of my backyard that Friday evening in March trying to unscrew a bolt that I was convinced was my very worst enemy. I was trying to untighten something much deeper, much darker, something I don’t think I, or most people, ever have the depth to deal with. It seemed the only way out was to fall back on the imperfect methods of my ancestors, and for the time being, I decided that was alright.

to the unwilling or willingly inable,
the course of the stream that we float on
like autumn leaves seems beyond control
because we have never felt what it is like
to control where we go, let alone know
that we can become unmovable objects.

we were both horrified
at how easy it was to let
go

the day is dark,
and wet,
and cold,
and the cars are still,
and the people are
silent,
and the earth does not
turn.

I am dumb,
and pointless,
and frozen,
and my body is dead,
and my words say
nothing,
and my mind does
not think about any-
thing any-
more.

a king now back to his throne
a dog resting on the porch
a child drinking lemonade on a hot day
a rat ducking into the sewer
a tree’s bloom floating to the ground
a door shutting with a boom
a clock’s hands stopping
a sad eye closing
a shoe ******* long unworn
a phone call from your ex
a note saying they are dead
a smile without any meaning
a glint in the teeth of a murderer
an aching for memories
a fire in your house
an announcement without your name
a victory without your help
a defeat at your hand
a game you used to play
a team you used to be a part of
an existence you used to own
a lock without a key
a blank piece of paper
a pen without anything to write
a message unreturned
a mystery in ignorance
a question about the world itself
a solution without a problem
a woman with no need for a man
a child with two loving parents
a orphan who never really seems sad
a loner with a heart
an infidel attacking no one
a shadow cast against other shadows
a black without white
a grey inside and out
a footstep on fresh snow
a blank canvas
a dark, long hallway
an e-mail from your boss
a bottle covered by brown bag
a broken pair of glasses
an empty book of poems
a pencil with a perfect tip
an opportunity with no one to take it
an engineless car
a train with no tracks
a single hammer
a single nail
a single piece of wood
a single chance
a grinning in arrogance
a shot fired into the air
a corpse on the ground
a murmur of doubt
a piercing look into the night
an inside to an outside
a shell to a core
a wound
a knife
a bible
a faith
a logic
a cut
a first word
a first sound
a last stare
a knowing glance
a mother without children
a cat without a home
a dying bird twitching on the ground
a purpose without purpose that is everything and

nothing

I know how it
feels to not
feel anymore

an emptiness that
fills you up,
consumes you,
burns inside of you
but only makes you

angrier,
sadder,
more confused

it’s like you’re the fish
and reality is beyond
the glass

there’s this big quiet

everything seems to
move in and out of
focus so fast

people’s words mumble
through the water
and seem foreign or
even alien

you look them in the eye
but they have nothing to look
back into

all you want to do
is sleep

fade into the
water

die

if you’re lucky,
someone will notice,
slap you across the face,
pull you out of the water,
and shove you down
the road again

if you’re like most,
you’ll keep walking

maybe even begin to
run or skip as you
go

but you’ll fall back into
the ocean

the world you once knew
seeming to flood,
moments float by,
days fade to weeks,
and you’ve long passed out
from lack of air

I know how it feels
to not feel at all

my miracle is that I have
never had to swim out of
that sea again

it is not
impossible to put
a price on human
life
but I still doubt
we’ll ever
really
do
it

there is a beautiful world
just outside my window,
unattainable and smug.

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

inspiration lasts
approximately
.03 of a second

any longer than
that and you’re
creating memories
of that idea that
burned just moments
before

this is why I don’t paint,
or write prose, or jot down
songs

because creation
can only be kept
up for an incredibly
tiny amount of
time

so tiny
that the creation
of a single
poem
is millions
of times longer
than the life
of the inspiration
that birthed it
in the first
place

so on poetry,
and why I write,
I say,

because I do get inspiration,
like tiny bubbles in a can of
soda,
and I have to do
something with them
or else it all spills out on the
world, as a sticky
mess

essentially,
each day I learn
new and interesting
ways that I am
completely worthless
and
unnecessary

whether it be complaints about
my speech,
or my attitude,
or my
personality,
all I keep hearing
every day
and
every
night

despite my small victory,
in getting the part I wanted
in the play,
my life has quickly
and steadily spiraled
downward
each time I check
back in

I want succeed
to stop all this
but I have arrived
at the conclusion
that it’s me
not someone
else

me,
good ole
caleb,
is the
problem

and I know I can’t change
enough to fix all these
problems
so I sit in bed,
starring at the
stars,
wondering how,
I got here,
why I was born
like this,
and who decided
I deserved this
or something along
those lines

she’s the one
who sits in the corner
at the big party,
phone in hand
anxious
tapping her fingers after
sending one message
and awaiting the
next,
she doesn’t look around
just down
at the carpet
till she is shocked by
the buzz of her cell
phone,
then she reads furiously,
types madly,
doesn’t even notice
you quietly observing her
from across the
room

she is the girl
who is so obsessed
with one specific person’s love
that she refuses
love from anywhere
else

she cuts her hair short,
studs herself with odd
earring, and says “I love
you” but never to anyone
she means it to

she does not eat
in an attempt to
punish her soul

she does not really know
what you say to her
only that
you make noise
and distract
her
from her next
text

she will destroy you
if you interrupt her

she is in control
but makes no
decisions

she sits,
in the corner,
hoping the next
check of her phone
contains all the
things she’s
been hoping
for

she is there,
alone,
slowly becoming part
of the
furniture

der
nachte Himmel
akzeptiert
mich

ich
akzeptiere
mich

für einmal

I stand atop the mountain,
there atop all my challenges
and tribulations!
I have come past the obstacles!
climbed the steeps hills!
scaled the great heights!
and now I stand and
look down at the world
and yell “I did it!”

I stand atop the mountain,
there atop all my challenges
and tribulations!
I have risen above myself!
against my deep will!
without my addictions
and distractions!
and I made it!
I made it
to the
top!

I stand atop the mountain,
there atop all my challenges
and tribulations
I stand atop the mountain
of victory
looking up
at the worlds
of success

I’m stuck
in a house in the woods
and the murderer circling outside
is friendlier than the few
survivors trapped in here
with me

writing poetry
is a lot
like playing the
piano.

it takes skill and
practice,
but the best of us
seem to be
gifted with it.

as if god decided
we were going to be
another Beethoven
or
another Bukowski

too many people never
realize this,
and continue to play the
piano or write their
poems
and always thinking
yes
yes this next piece
is going to be
the one
the one that makes me
famous

they write and play
and cast their eyes downward
each time they get
rejected by the producers
or by the publishers

always saying to
themselves
ok
it’s ok
they just don’t know
what they hell
they’re talking about
I’m great
I’m still great
I just need my break-
through
I just need my first
masterpiece

these amateurs are not
to be disregarded
or
looked down upon
though

for without them
we would never find
the Beethovens
and
the Bukowskis

it takes a million fools
making their
cacophonies to the
wind
for the miracle to happen
and the master
emerge

black mildew dreams
fill to the brim with *****
bacteria, killed with toxic
drugs and herbal cleansers,
the days are numbered
as the days sink
onward

the cockroaches of defeat
come crawling out to chew
on the corpse of innocence

standing alone,
given up,
no doctor left to cure
the ailments of our
era

this we live with
this we die with

the world crashes as the
sound goes silent

somewhere an alien race
takes its first steps towards
sentience

(god help them)

so many people
sinking under the edge of the water
hands jump up at your ankles
trying to pull you down with
them

a man stopped by today.

he worse sunglasses, shorts,
a loose, breathable button-up,
and open-toed shoes.

he asked to come in and
I let him. he complemented
the living room and the
kitchen.

“what a look. so different
from all those California
shacks back home.”

“California?” I said,
“you’re far away
from home.”

“oh, I’m closer than
you’d think.”

what he lacked in formality
he made up for in mystery.

he asked me where he was,
he seemed to be lost.

“Atlanta” I said.

“where you headed?”
I added, after a
pause.

“oh, nowhere.” he said,
“just thought I’d get my
bearings.”

he let himself out then,
leaving me with only
that.

each word now
comes harder
than
the
last

this poem
is an admission
of my
strife

voices fill
the air
around me
and yet,
my voice
can barely
whimper

in the
burnt
carcass
of your child-
hood home
remains
only ashes
and
what used
to be
humanity

eventually life must go from
future to present tense

unsure of living
I have discovered
the waiting room
of the nearly dead

there are pictures
of the famous ones
hung upon the wall

******, Hemmingway,
Hammurabi, Harrison

in their different times
they all sat in these chairs
reading magazines and
quaint biographies while
they waited for their name
to be called

the most unsettling thing
is not knowing if you truly
belong here

so sitting in death’s waiting room
I flip through greasy, old pages
wondering if I’m brave enough
to walk out the door and see if
anybody notices

the cracks are showing
the water is trickling out of the dam
how long do you have?
how long does anyone have?
the flood will come
soon enough

ironically,
I have both the
best
and the
worst
shower in the
whole house

I can barely
control the
temperature,
the walls are stained
where the water
flew out despite my
best efforts,
and the shower rod
has ruined many
a curtain with
the rust it’s gathered
from so many year’s
use

but despite all that,
despite all those little
imperfections,
if you can get it just right,
hit that perfect sweet
spot
you’ll have the best shower
of your life

the water burns
just enough to warm
you at your very
core,
the powerful jets
massage your whole
self.

walking out
afterwards
amongst the steam
and hot air
you’ll be smiling
and happy
and relaxed

it’s the added
bonus of all this
that the mirror is
steamed over

so you can’t see
your fat, naked,
lazy self in bliss
that can only be
maintained in
blindness

it’s amazing the sheer number
of supernatural powers people
have attached to things over the
course of history

charms, temples,
talismans, totems

all forms of the same
misguided ignorance and
fear

it is funny to me that
I feel something when
given one myself

water

that’s all

water from the south of france
dug out of the moat of some a
church that’s older than legend
that surrounds it

supposedly, this vile of *****
fluid can heal, better than any
doctor or medicine

now I, and the person who gave
it to me, both doubt it’s powers

that doesn’t shake
it’s meaning

it was a token,
a gift,
from one sickened
soul to another

that’s touching

that
is
real

so perhaps that’s why
humanity has been giving
gifts like this since the
dawn of time

it’s not a magic, unnamable,
but the simpler wizardry of
friendship

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

I write about us
for the same reason
every writer
has written
about
us

because we are tragic
and we are helpless
and we are victims
of the merciless fates
and we are depressing
and unbelievable
and astonishingly
sad

but we also are happy
and we are smiling
and we laugh at the world’s
attempts to destroy us
and we are joyful
and laughing
and so amazingly
elated

we are wayward souls
destined from the dawn of creation
to wander in search of each other
and if this sounds too fantastical
then I understand
because I, too, cannot
believe it

but know
that beyond my calculating stare
I also find all of this too amazing
to assume it all happened by
chance

though this universe
will march onward whether
we find each other’s arms
or not
it is good to know that
we have
because it gives things
a happy ending
doesn’t it?

that two of these tortured lives
can find their way to each other
and be rid of their strife
if not rid of their sin

let this gospel not torture our lives
but know that I write about us
because there is nothing better
to write about

for life,
in all her wisdom,
has declared that humanity
shall strive forever for
those that we love
and that every part of our small
and insignificant lives
shall be dedicated to that higher purpose
whatever form it might
take

fighting for survival
the small ant on the
hot pavement

each tiny leg slightly
shorter every time he
picks it back up

he’s going home to
a house where he has
no value and the sun
seems more welcoming
than his million siblings
each competing to please
their mother better

here the fateful symmetry

fighting for survival
the man walking on
hot pavement gives
up and lets himself
cook as a merciful
release

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

and all
brothers
and
sisters
in this
ride
we
call
life

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

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

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

but also

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

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

We are Humanity

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

we are all humanity

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


we are all equal
in the end, the
final end

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

We are Humanity

how long since you wrote your last poem?

3 months

why haven’t you been writing?

haven’t had it in me, doc,
just couldn’t get anything down

I thought I told you to write,
even if you thought you couldn’t?

guess I forgot
or figured you were
full of ****

what about the poems you’ve been bringing?
you’ve had poems every week

stolen

from whom?

kids on the internet usually
stole one off my friend
real talent that one is
going to be famous one day

why can’t you be famous?

because I’m not any good

who says that?

I say that

well stop.

no.

there is a silence

I think you’re lying

about what?

not writing,
these poems are too good,
too much like yours,
too similar to how you’ve
been feeling

well a desperate man
will do a lot to hide something,
won’t he, doc?

why would you be desperate?

I don’t know,
I really don’t.

*he looks away,
downward at the floor
then out the window,
he notices a bird on a branch
it flutters its wings once and
flies away out of his view

he thinks about the poems he’s written
how more effective a set of wings would be
to let him escape everything that is himself

it was a hedonist’s dream
a lazy man’s paradise
an infinite realm of pleasure
and time
where only death would halt you
and he often didn’t take the
time

coming out of sickness like a phoenix
(awkward, damaged, but passionately
aflame with the chances of a new life),
I drove in the early mornings, before
the sun could catch the glint of my eyes,
and listened to quiet music about worlds
unspoiled and dreams unperverted

at sixteen, I had just survived my first
battle with the end (the tumor was gone
but it took half my mouth with it) and
I didn’t know what that meant yet

nothing was good but
everything was better

the cool, dark air tingled my skin with
the strangeness of a blind man’s first
sight

the music helped
for the moment

this show I just finished
was a tough one
for sure

neophyte actors
big cast
weird script
and the ****
“KYLE’S”
sign

this is the first show
I’ve been allowed to direct
in a while
and,
for that,
I’m thankful
but,
at the same time,
I’ve hated
it

in a show about robots
willing to fulfill every whim
and fancy of the owner,
it all came
down to me,
I feel

my blood, sweat,
and hard work made
this thing come to
fruition

a truth that
shouldn’t really
have to be

at the end of it though,
Property Rites
(as it was called)
is probably one of the best
shows that’s been put
on in years
by my
theatre


for that,
I’m proud
but,
at the same time,
I’ve hated
it

everything came
down to me

I’m not afraid of having
the world on my shoulders,
but I am tired of being the
only one pushing it into
the future

the **** “KYLE’S” sign
sums it up the best

up above the stage,
high above the heads of the girls
playing robots
and the guys playing repair men,
and business people, and a pathetic
**** fool,
was supposed to be this big red sign,
done up in lights,
spelling
out:

K Y L E ’ S

(that’s the name of the guy
trying to sell the robots)

I was the only one who could see it
I was the only one who could write it out on board
I was the only one who could pester our teacher to cut it out
I was the only one who could paint it right
I was the only one who could drill the holes for the lights
I was the only one who could plug those little lights in
I was the only one who could hang from the rafters
I was the only one who could get anything done with it

at least that’s how it seemed

it wasn’t a hard job
but at the end of it
I said
**** it
let the sign rest back-stage
as the show went on
and
forgot that I ever even
wanted to have it

I was the only one willing to finish it,
even as everyone loved the idea and
applauded me with each new way it
could be used

I was the only one pushing
this unnecessary but grand
idea forward

I was the only one,
and when I decided
the work was not
worth the ends, no
one could say any-
thing when I said
**** it

this last couple of months
have been a tough few
for sure

just trying to survive
has felt like going above
and beyond

trying to twinkle in a world
full of darkness and gravity

rising from the gritty earth
to a chilly day in October
love blooms with the pump-
kins

in warm coffees, hay rides,
turning leaves, and harvest
moons you can see love do
her best work

a young couple holds hands
for the first time, smiling as
if they’d never smiled before,
and all across the country
the green turns to orange and
the orange turns to brown

but before the last life seeps
from the last leaf, love will
creep into the hearts of just
enough souls

and even as the land freezes,
and the smiling couple turns
cold and stiff and brittle, love
will still survive, in memories
of Halloween night and that
kiss shared beneath a clear
evening

soon, spring will come, and
love will run free once again
and teach a new generation
how to plant and harvest her
crop

I could never stand weak women

not after seeing my mother
my sister,
my grandmother,
my role models,
my loves,
and
my lovers.

call it masochistic
but I like my *** kicked,
no one can do it
and that gets
boring

fast

but with the girls I like,
I love,
I give them the
chance
to hurt
and it’s their choice
to do it
or
not

and I hope,
with those girls I like
(I love),
they
don’t
hurt me
but always know they can
and love me
all the more for
it

what
doesn’t work
about
raising
hands
is
that:

it’s slow,
unnecessary,
and
pointless

I and
we
are mature
enough
to talk amongst
ourselves
even if you
can’t handle
it

what
doesn’t work
about
raising hands
is that:

your partial to some
and
scornful to others

even if that hand
has the answer
if the arm belongs
to he
or
she
than
no way in hell
will the mouth
be talking

what
doesn’t work about
raising hands is
that:

you,
the teacher,
cannot manage
yourself

so how
do you plan
to manage
a “wild” horse
like me?

but the final problem was this:
I never was who I wanted to be.
no matter how much I changed,
no matter who I newly became,
I was not satisfied with myself

I peeled back my identities,
let go of my vanities, and
tore off my imperfections
and never once found who
I was looking for

and the final question became:
was he even in there? could I
exist as I wanted to? was I not
searching hard enough, or was
there nothing to be found at all?

the answer, truly, did not matter.
both were equally terrifying. for,
on one hand, I was pathetic, and,
on the other, I was simply worthless.

what does one do now? this,
finally, was my dilemma.

and she said to me,
“I’m tired”
so I said to her
“go rest”
and she said to me
“I can’t do that”
so I said to her
“ok”

she said to me
“I’m hungry”
so I said to her
“go eat”
and she said to me
“dinner’s coming”
so I said to her
“ok”

she said to me
“I’m dying”
so I said to her
“don’t die”
and she to me
“that’s impossible”
so I said to her
“no it isn’t”

there is nothing
left except the rain,
the page, and my
hands

still writing
still driving
still searching for the
meaning or the purpose
or the reason or
whatever
it may
be
that finally
saves me from
myself

there was a boy
who got all he ever wanted
one day,
all of a sudden,
out of
nowhere

and then he sat there
with his car
and his house
and his job
and his wife
and he thought:
now what?

and his wife told him
to have kids
and so they did
but when the kids
were born and
grown and
gone
he turned to his wife again
and said:
now what?

and his wife told him
to retire and move to florida
so he retired after
thirty-five years at his company
and moved to a shack
across the street from the beach
(because he couldn’t afford
a house on the beach)
and as he sat one night
looking out at the sun setting
he would turn, again,
to his wife and ask:
now what?

and she told him
to just enjoy all that he had
all that he had done
to look back on his life
and smile
and so he
did

but before bed that night
he turned to his wife
and asked her with all
earnest:
now what?

and she told him
to go to bed
because that’s all there
is to do right
now

and that stuck with him
it was all he could think about
he stayed up thinking about it
all night in fact
and when his wife woke up
she found him out on the front porch
sitting in a plastic chair
watching the sun
come up

she didn’t think anything of it
and didn’t say anything about it
but something had changed in him
something that took him three weeks
to figure out
because that is when
he turned to his wife
one last time
and asked:
now what?

and she told him to answer
his own **** question
for once

this shocked him
and made him angry
so he barked back
that she’d always
had an answer before
where were they now?
where were all those things
to be doing now?

she didn’t know
and his yelling brought tears
to her eyes so he left the house
and she sat their crying
for a bit until
she could pick herself up
and go work on her knitting
until he returned

the boy drove through the sea-side town at twilight
and he could look into the bars and see
dozens of young people drunker than sailors
singing songs completely off key
and genially enjoying whatever
they were doing right then

the boy then drove to the pier
and parked his car ****-eye
across three spots
and got out and walked
across the rickety planks
to the end of that bridge
to nowhere

there he looked out towards the darkened sea
and he could see nothing

not a ship
or a lighthouse
not a buoy
or a feature in the
sky

and there he stayed until the dawn
enveloped him and other souls
began to inhabit the pier

he returned to his car
pulled it out from across three parking spots
drove it out of the parking lot
away from the town
and out towards his shack
across from the ocean

once home
his wife came to him
saying she was worried sick
saying she could barely sleep
saying where were you?
oh god, where were
you?

nowhere
he said
I was nowhere
and for the first time
I finally felt like there wasn’t anywhere else
to go

what do you mean by that?
his wife questioned

I don’t know
he responded
I really don’t
know

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

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

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

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

maybe you have something you hide?

like:

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

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

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

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

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

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

those things

like:

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

what a shame that
I’ll never truly be
able to capture the
beauty of our own
universe

not in words,
not in pictures,
not in motions

but I see it

oh I see it

and it haunts me
so

just how beautiful
everything is

everything is unique
and interesting in so
many ways

everything has its
way and everything
has its purpose

everything is as they are
and I as I look out the window
and witness all of existence
I weep at my insignificance,
at my impotency in the
face of this marvel.

But Christ!

*how lucky we are to be
alive

help me decide

I am caught between
happy nothingness
and
uncertain bliss

the former,
an option of continuing
my current situation;
peaceful and
certain and
wonderful
though
bland

little happens
except for “hi”
and “hello”
and “how are you?”
and answers
to that
question

but,
as you can imagine
this is the best
feelings
I’ve had
in a
while

yet on the latter,
it is born,
from my internal desire,
that fire that always
wants more,
and I wants

her

it lashes at me
and
screams to me
and
tells me
“get her”
“get her”
“get her”

help me,
I beg you,
dear reader,
tell me
what to do.

if I deny it
this fire will get me
but if I bend to it
and try and make her mine,
even if she agrees,
I know another shadow awaits me
that terrible phantom,
guilt.

listen now
to the thunder striking
the tree that will
fall over
onto
the power lines
that will light the house
on fire

and
listen now
for the emergency vehicles
screaming through the rain
to save the burning house
and fix the broken lines

listen now
to the hopeless,
endless,
struggle of
humanity  
and smile
with
excitement

imagine if they hadn’t
found the dog

imagine if I had to console
her with all my
might

imagine if
our one summer together
was forever tainted by
this

imagined if tears
was all I would
remember

imagine if god was
cruel

imagine if god was
real

imagine if my arms
could heal and my hands
could soothe

imagine if happiness
could spread like a virus

imagine if her eyes
never knew what tears
were

imagine if the storm had
gotten him

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

imagine if I had to help
her through that

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

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

imagine if they hadn’t found the dog

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

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

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

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

do we ask for fire?

hell?
damnation?

to die as a thousand
nuclear war heads explode
amongst the clouds?

just because it would
leave a bigger crater?

are we lost
or
do we know our destination?

the oblivion we run
towards faster every
day

what happened to the watchdogs?

the presidents?
reporters?
priests?

are they chained?
muzzled?

or do they bark
at a different moon?

towards armageddon,
forward to the pit,
they howl

that is the place us
holy men must go

am I alone?
am I the last saint?

am I the only one who
can rise above to see
the treasure at the end
of this map?

or am I a man awake
amongst the zombies
fearful of the waking
world?

what have we wrought

what fire
hell
damnation

do we seek

what do we want?

to die?

or die knowing there is
something (if no-one)
to remember?

I clip my finger-
nails
listen to
pointless music
and try
to write a decent
poem

when will I
be able to call
myself a
“poet”

I refuse to
do it now
for fear of being
shot down
by the vultures
that constantly
circle over-
head

and in truth,
I don’t believe
it

I’m not like Hemmingway,
or Whitman, or Dickinson,
or Buk

I’m not wise,
I haven’t seen
the world,
I don’t know
anything about
anything
and most of all

I’m a kid

they’re all grown,
old or dead by the
time they garnered
any fame


and I’m sixteen,
a neophyte in a
generation of
lazy degeneration

but I am not part of
my generation, I am
privy to its problems
but stoic to its culture

I stand aside while
standing atop

I clip the final
finger, the pinky
of my left hand,
and the music
churns to a halt

I count all the poems
I’ve written

over five-hundred,
I chuckle

suppose I’m a poet
even if I’m a tad

untraditional

rumbling thunder in the background
I type away for my own sanity’s sake

the day winds down faster every day
what day is the one I can enjoy forever

not here,
in the present time
in my present place

I am elsewhere
in some other place
with some other people
doing other things
that are not the things
I am actually
doing

and if I am not here
and there does not exist
where am I?

what is fantasy?
and what is
reality?

what,
and better yet
who
really exists?

and where do I
fit into all that?

where do I exist?