looking at each other
wrapped in two different
beds
we smiles, laugh, giggle
and seem happy
(it’s sickeningly cute)

we sing along to music
to regina spektor and the
decemberists
I don’t know all the lyrics
but she knows how to
sing

it’s a night to remember
I’m sure

in sixty years,
in thirty years
in fifteen
in ten

I’ll be thinking about
these great times

before everything happened
and nothing happened any-
more
before love died and happiness
stopped and youth wore away
on the rocks

I will remember the smiles
and the music and this night
like so many others will be
what keeps me going on for
the dark times to come

I can understand
if you do not want
another poem
about a
storm
but,
really,
all poems are
about storms

moments of intensity,
destruction, and light
finally shining through.

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

how long can anything
last?

I am not a man for superstition or the supernatural
but I am a man who believes in the inherent goodness
of the universe

what luck,
I think,
that I may be here,

alive.

feeling the damp rain
on my face

wondering at the way things
work and the way things are

grinning to myself,
quietly thinking:
*ah, who needs more
than this?

I sit here

afraid, jaded,
and
unhopeful

watching the people of
the world
through so many
screens

anything but love,
he begged,
I love her too
much.

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

a hope rises from the ashes
of the husk of my old self
I do not know if I will reach
out for it and grab it, as mine,
but I see the path I can walk
and am happy to know it’s
still there

I want to write a poem
about being swept away in the ocean
except everyone else is being moved
and I am the tidal wave moving them

but I am not the tidal wave
and you will not move for
me

instead,
we are both being moved
and the wave is something
greater, hiding openly in
the shadows of our lives

there are no unmovable objects
but there are unstoppable forces

so I wrote a poem
about the tug/push/shove/drag of
           the ocean
about digging my feet into the sand
           and finding just enough purchase
about seeing how long I could hold on
about feeling myself weaken and give way
about falling, eventually, into the sea’s arms
           and floating away, lost on the world

there is a poem
I want
to write

but I am not sure what
it is about,
what it might
say,
or even
how it might
begin

but I know I want to write it
and I know that somehow
the rain will teach how

so I sit, door open
and listening, trying to
hear the message
the world is trying
to say

appearances
appearances
appearances

we aren’t what
we seem,
are we?

but we are
what we seem
aren’t we?

how would
you know about
the drug-takers,
the child-rapists,
the murderers,
the doctors,
the racists,
the writers,
the sports-fan,
the obese,
the rage-filled,
the hateless,
if they didn’t
tell you?

what are they but
average joes
until they go
rob a bank
or
paint a master-
piece?

even
the very perfect,
like the president
or
your babysitter,
is probably hiding
something

maybe they’re
a *** addict
or a pill-popper
or a communist
but if you look
at them and
see a good little
child
or
a perfect
example of
human being
I highly
doubt that’s what
they really
are

I say this
simply because
people are not
perfect

but
society
refuses to let
them be their
misshapen
selves

so we hide it,
like all good
things,
and pretend
like we have no idea
what they’re talking
about
when somebody
makes fun
of our favorite
geeky tv
show

and that’s us

all appearances
all lies
all that we know

it rained today,
and my mind
thinks
about how beautiful
the fog was
and how good
the cold water felt on my
face
and how terrible
it would be
if I were anyone
else right
now

I hope that
sleep will bring me
me answers
tonight

or if not,
a direction,
or suggestion,
or tiniest
hint of
where to go
next

and if that’s
too much,
ok,
I suppose
I’ll need the
rest to conquer
these looming questions,
constantly blocking
out the
sun

I open the door to let the cool wet air in
outside is raining with angry summer rain
after many days of heat and sun and work
this welling up and bursting is like myself

let us not forget I am a man full of confidence
I have been infected, as so many young men do,
by the itch to run and jump and be a young man
to live as if I cannot live without running free
and to forget death as a trivial and minor matter

the trees thirst for water and the ground shakes
thunder is no worse than my own realizations

it is easy to forget what you cannot do
the biggest obstacles lack definition
they exist in the realm of wordless voids
where feeling is expressed in feeling
and the blade of the finite is outlawed

I ache for and dream of soaring
but understand my lack of wings

the rain is pitter-patter on my porch
whilst my mind plays the bass drum

it is a simple existence that I live, no?

the water quiets now
my phone rings
it’s her

that makes me happy
knowing it’s still her

knowing she still loves me
still reaches out for me
still thinks about me in the twilight hours
still wants to talk and to ask questions
still feels the need to call

the cool air seeps into my room and my muscles ache
I do not wonder why they do and thus calm my mind
the night seems good tonight, what shall it hold for us?

you will
always be
the object
of
desire

there is no price
that can be paid

no action,
nor tribute
can guarantee
your hand

you will
always be
the object
of
our desire

for you are like a
beautiful flower,
impossible to
pluck

you will
always be
the object
of
my desire

I’ve dreamed of you
long after
I thought
the fluttering things
in my heart
had died

and yet there they came
creeping up
all the way into my
brain
to wrench my heart
back as it once
had

Chicago
city of working men
of bustling factories
and billowing smoke-stacks

tattooed with graffiti
filled with hearty, loud people
who are constantly going,
building, moving upwards

it is unlike Atlanta, my home,
because she is a conflicted soul,
subsisting for so long in tradition
and now she sits on the brink
of modernity, and cannot decide
to jump in

this city knows who he is
and though I might not know
who that is, I feel its confidence

in the noisy cabbies honking horns,
in the rickety trains on their tracks,
in the million different faces I’ve seen
already, I can see a bold identity

something I cannot claim,
and I will wander on without
forever

let
it
go.

this
too
shall
pass

let
it
go

this
too
sha­ll
pass

let
it
go

this
too
shall
pass

le­t
it
go

this
too
shall
pass

­let
it
go
this
too
shall
pass

let it go

thi­s too shall pass

the little leaflet read out in bold letters:
ARE YOU HAPPY?

I thought about it
read the rest of the sheet
it told me how if I came to:
DREW HARPY’S SELF-HELP CLASS
my life would be changed

so I went
the initial question still not
answered

I go the office park where it’s supposed to be,
go back into a maze of cubicles and white brick
walls, and then this simple wooden door reads:
DREW HARPY’S SELF-HELP CLASS

I knock
the door flies open
and there’s Drew Harpy
smile of plastic
muscles of
silicon

he asks
WELL ARE YOU COMING IN FOR A NEW LIFE?

I say,
no thanks,
wrong door
and walk away

the little leaflet is still in my pocket
reading out:
ARE YOU HAPPY?

but,
I still didn't have
the answer

it’s not the
greater truth we’re
looking for

nor the
answers,
nor the
way

we search only for
a reason,
a meaning for
our lives

for some it comes
as women,
or drugs,
or work,
or
play

for others they dedicate
their time to causes
against injustice
or for their god

and still others
stumble along
listening to music
and writing down their
thoughts

not content with
their limited knowledge
they agree with themselves
that not knowing is the best
answer and stride ahead
despite the pack
not worried in the least
what might await
them

I should,
uh,
probably
write about
how I’m
feeling
right
now

but my hands are
too shaky,
yeah…
they a…
aren’t to used
to this

so maybe I shouldn’t
put down how I’m
feeling

maybe…
that’s the
problem

all around me the world trembles
all around me the world bleeds
all around me people suffer
all around me people die without need

yet I sit here
fed
bathed
happy
and seem mystified by the very thought

a crow flies over cawing the knowledge
I can barely accept
and I know that sunshine here
may mean well
but to others that same sunshine
may be the sign of their death

all around me the world falls apart
all around me the believers fall down expecting the end

I sit alone here
looking out at this world I share
with all of them

and I wonder why I am chosen to
sit here alone while being
fed
bathed
and
happy

the sun peaks over the clouds
and I smile at a day that shall be beautiful

bringing my eyes back down
to this world I share with all of you
I see the cracks in the earth
spelling doom
and hear the news of death
on the wind
I know the world around me suffers
suffers more than I shall ever know

but perhaps my purpose on this rock
is to not wonder at this shaking
which seems to grip everyone else
but to be grateful that where I stand
the earth is still

when it comes
to art
I always find myself
gravitating
to the *****,
the make-shift,
and the
simple

art,
I think,
should
be about life
not about
“high”
life

that is why I read Bukowski
and admire street art
and lawn art made of
corrugated metal
and adorn my walls
with miss-matched posters
and write about things
I do instead of about
things that mean
anything

art,
I think,
shouldn’t need
to be explained

so when it comes
to art,
I always find myself
seeming quite pretentious
in an untraditional
way

the way in which a teenager
scorns main-steam music

the way art critics ostracize
their ex-lover’s work

the way I refuse to write sonnets
and write about cereal instead

so now in these times
when the corporations run our lives
and the religions run our after-lives
we are faced with the touch stone
of both factions

art

painting
sculpting
dance

theatre
film
photography­

music
writing
and
poetry
too

art

by any measure
the difference between us
and the chimps in the jungle

but in these times
of corporations and religion
run by soulless men
who have no time for excess
and no time for
thought

where can it
exist?

art is the essence
of human over-flow

now not always fighting for food
now not afraid of the bumps in the night
now not a chimp in the jungle

we are more
and that more slopes off
to form:

art

the poems
the paintings
the plays

are all just excess

but there are important
because without the release
all that pent-up excess
would eventually
explode

killing us or
something
worse

right now
art has been found by
the corporations
and
the religions
and they’ve turned huge profits
for it

but art isn’t about profit
and it isn’t about art

art is about killing those nasty things
that grow up in the cracks of the sidewalk
when you leave it alone for too long

art is about finding the needle in the haystack
art is understanding why we exist at all

but now we live in a time of
corporations
and
religions
run by soulless men seeking
to turn a profit

and as long as we live
in this age
art can
have
no
purpose

the trees are wheezing tonight

their shadows shaking
taking deep, shallow breaths
in and out, because they know
what’s coming

I inhale wind and wake up,
understanding their fear

we remember blue skies
but will wake to gray horizons
the days will flow into nights
seamlessly

I am afraid because the trees are afraid
the stronger of the two of us is shaken

the trees are shivering tonight

their bare limbs remind me that winter
is not over yet

I suspect
that I may be the
greatest man
ever born

because,

I am by-far
the worst man
to ever walk
the earth

this is a test
of my control
over my own
body

the test will begin in
5
4

3


2



1.

I begin to shake
my eyes dilate
nostrils flare
my breath stutters

I’m hurtling towards
the edge

the endless pit
just over the
corner

and I see
coming to me
faster each
second

but as my feet
hit the end of
the cliff

it all stops

my body slows
eyes return to normal
nose sounds silently
breathing is average

the test has concluded
and the results are in
the mail

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

though the muscles are clay
the mind sand

you are not angry
that quitting time is not
near

it is after this,

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

that you
can continue to
march on

endlessly,
if you so choose.

never a fantasy
but always an illusion

the immigrants from
foreign lands cannot
accept the fallacy

but

I, not born but raised
on the lands they
now strive for,
feel little specialness for
this o' so special
place

the tragedy is
not that I am alone

it is that I can
never not
be
alone

people mill about,
most tourists, some locals,
looking at all the shiny jewelry
and the hand-made palm-frond baskets,
feeling the money in their pockets
and the sun on the back of their necks,
and somewhere else in the world
the president plots a drone strike
on a desolate desert in Asia,
and two Dutch florists make love
after a beautiful anniversary dinner,
and a spider dies silently after falling
under the sandal of a Brazilian child,
and somewhere there is an old rotting
apple left out from the morning meal,
and somewhere a scientist is weeping
with joy at his or her new discovery,
and somewhere there is a boy weeping
at the loss of his first and only love,
and somewhere people make a toast,
and somewhere someone drinks alone,
and somewhere there is a man writing
poetry about a place he just returned
from.

and somewhere there is a day,
and somewhere there is a night,
and somewhere the sun is just setting,
and somewhere the sun is just about
to rise.

I just got back from a movie

“The Social Network”

about the guy who founded facebook
or rather
how he founded it
and how now
he’s the youngest billionaire
in the world
and probably
(and don’t fact check this on me,
I’m too lazy to use google)
the youngest in
history

it was a simple idea

connect people
with
people

we all do it every day
but never like
this

and now he’s a billionaire
going to rule the world one day

probably

and this was six years ago
that this all started

the facebook

which every single person
from here on out
will use at some point
in their life

magic
magic
magic
and here I am
looking at it happen
wondering how it happened
thinking about how I,
in some form,
could do it
myself

I stepped outside because the lighting had hit
and the thunder was sounding and the clouds
were still rumbling still electricity

the clouds growled loudly of their power,
screaming madly for any man to challenge them
and then laughing heartily when all men cowered
beneath their roofs and inside their houses

the storm had become something else:

an animal

full of deep power
that rolled around inside it,
bouncing off the walls of its mind
and arcing out its claws,
they could not be stopped
but desired a force
to reckon
with

rain, then, splashed my face

cold drops, starting slowly
but picking up pace and I
quickly returned beneath my
roof and inside my home

the storm thumps off in the distance
looking, I assume, for a force worth
wrestling with for the last time

it’s loud in here
between my eyes
and my soul
in the neural synapses
that make up the “me”
that we all know
and when I ask you to
say it again or
speak up
or yell
know
it’s nothing
to do with you
and all do with the
rushing whir of gears
that I long ago
stopped trying
to quiet

I’m still convinced
that my purpose in life
was to look out
at a beautiful spring day
and write a poem about it

his name was Hamilton
my name was Caleb

the dude was on the outside
inside was more from his film

also in the bunch,
the duke, the doctor,
the fab 4, the dogs
in neon and inverted
colors

it was not all Hamilton’s
but his work was some of the best

weird stuff on the back wall
but still some awesome pieces
from a man obsessed with
movies

Hamilton was my friend
If only for my visit
Hamilton was my dad’s friend
(My dad’s good at making them)

but in the end
I was there for
art work

and though I bought something not of Hamilton’s
I think he appreciated me and my dad and my mom
(she likes the dude too)

but Hamilton told me
I’m looking to propose to a lady like your mom
and I laughed
that’s good
but Hamilton
we’ve got to
go

thus is the fate of the artist and the
customer

forgo the happiness
we have history to make

some things
aren’t meant to be known
by man

but when a man
picks one of those
up,
or rather,
when they are dropped upon him,
usually in the most arbitrary of
moments,
he must then carry it
with him
for the rest of his
life

he will bear this weight,
and for some,
it will be too much,
breaking their backs
as well as their wills,
and leaving them to writhe on the floor
until death comes

but for others,
those like me,
we bear the weight
without strain,
looking only downward
at the road ahead

and our backs will not break
despite their cries for that fate,
and our wills will not crumble
despite the failure of the inner
columns to remain upright
and sturdy

those men,
with the weight
of a secret world
on their shoulders,
will march through their lives
looking no different than the man
not burdened with the
truth

there is a simple existence,
when there’s no
strife
and
no loathing,
when you’re not afraid
of the mirror
and willing to love
and to
fail

in simple terms,
I have reached this
existence

where I can laugh
about tragedy
and care about
pointless things

with love,
of myself
and
of another,
I have opened up
to a new a
life

a simpler life

this is my first day here
and the sunshine burns
through the storm clouds
above my shattered old
home

forty-three dollars
forty-three dollars?
forty-three dollars
*****

are you hungry?

no,
I lie

I sit alone on the floor of my bedroom
shame running through my veins

I am forced to punish myself
and I will do it
to the full extent of my power

no more diet coke
they said
and I made it four days
before I was sneaking them
at restaurants
two weeks
before I had them at school
just days after
before I stole them by the armful
from the limited supply
holed up in my parent’s
room

this is a confession
a begging for forgiveness

I shall lay the whippings upon my own back
and
I shall be the one who recommended the whippings

are you hungry?
they ask
and I stare
blinking silently
lacking the ability to answer

no
I might say
if I was more of a
coward


but for now I am a criminal awaiting trail
and not a single soul doubts I am my
best judge

the skies turned gray
so I turned into bed
and laid down
with some soft music playing
that told me stories of anger
and hatred and love
and let myself drift into sleep
and listen to the same song
twice, three times, over
again.

when I awoke
it was for first time in months.
my eyes wide open, looking out
at the sky who had turned blue
again.

too late
I realized what had happened,
when I heard the same melodies
flow into my ears over and over
and I wondered if I should drift
back into comforting sleep
again.

this time though,
I knew my mistake
and I would not be making it
again.

every poem I read now
makes me even more cynical
as I think
“I’ve been doing
better than this
for
years!”

every poem I read now
has too many words
and say way too
much

they’re all by whiny children
who have no perspective
or basis in
reality

I
cannot read
the poetry of my
peers
without
those cynical voices
yelling at me from behind
my shuffling eyes

each poem now
is too full with fat
of a generation born
on excess

each poem I read
I cannot enjoy
as I look from the outside in
and realize that I am far
from being different from
these children that disgust me
so

I hurt my back yesterday
and it ached and ached
and ached today
so I laid flat on my back
and twisted myself
all around
but nothing made it
better.

I took some pills
and I took a nap
and had my girlfriend
rub on me
but still nothing made
it better.

I got angrier and angrier
and angrier still,
at this aching
in my back,
so I flailed about
until I couldn’t anymore
and now I still hurt
but it’s been so long
that I forget what feels like
exactly.

I twist myself once more
and feel no relief,
so I turn back around,
slouch into my chair,
give into it,
and turn on the
television.

the
teacher
talks
but
the
students
talk
too

she’ll start smoking
               eventually

                  after her boyfriend celebrates
                           his third anniversary with his
                           seven dollar an hour job

                  after she can’t find a school
                           that will accept her since she
                           was kicked out of her other
                           school in the first place

                  after her brother finishes high
                           school and promptly does nothing
                           with his life

                  after her boss brings her down
                           to five hours a week

                  after her car breaks down, but
                           she can’t afford to fix it, so she
                           leaves it broken down

                 after she sees the same movie
                           for the third time in a row at
                           three in the afternoon

                after she drinks all night and
                         wakes up in the morning not
                         hung over

                after the hundredth argument
                         she has with her parents

                after the third apartment she’s
                         been kicked out of

                after the thousandth time she’s
                         faked an ****** (but before her
                         first real one)

                after she decides she’ll marry
                         him, because, in the end,
                         at least he’s a good guy

after all that, she’ll decide
that the risks aren’t really
           that bad any more

There were three men
These men were friends
They played, they worked
They spent their lives
But in their age
And pockets empty
The three men agreed
To do something naughty
The three men did
Near succeed too
But a man-like monster
Did stand in their path
Little is known of the three men now
Except for their friendship and plot
But it is said by the young and old
One lies here
One lies there
And one flew away
Their lives unshared

everybody can find meaning in poetry

it’s the easiest thing
in the world to do

you just read it
and say
it means something

that’s it

ha
ha

simple isn’t it?

too simple
I suppose

ha
ha

I sure wish I was
writing this down
right now

so that somebody could
find some,
uh,

meaning
to it

hehehe

hell,
just so they’d
find some meaning
in something
anything
even
this

food chart’s coming
plane’s shaking
zune’s nearly out of power
P.A. just told me keep seated

honest truth:
the P.A. interrupted me

I was gonna write an intro
go ***
come back
and write some more

it was probably gonna be crap
but now
at least there’s a little
drama

Because I want to be better

Because I know what I want to do
and
how to do it

Because I am sick and tired of doing nothing
and
getting nothing

Because I can be better

Because I am not better

Because for too long
I have sat aside thinking that fate will take care of me

Because fate has not
and
I should’ve known better

Because I want to be better
I will be better
no matter what

Because

it hangs
to my
right

it says
“keep calm
and
carry on “

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

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

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

and the poster
still sits there
saying:

“keep calm,
and carry
on.”

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