Sometimes I feel like closing my eyes
Shutting out the world
But the world will not be shut out
It bounces the walls of my mind.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger
To myself
Therefore a stranger to all
Yet somehow everyone knows me.

Sometimes I feel like I'm fighting
For everything
For nothing
For myself and for you.
But why should I fight for you?

Sometimes I feel like I'm not
pretty
worth it
alive
fillintheblank.

Sometimes I feel like I
really deserve everything
that's happened to me.
Or will.

Sometimes I feel like I
Should have done things differently
I never should have told you
I never should have told you
That day in the park.
That day on a walk.
I told you so may times.
Did you hear me?
Did you hear me?
Did you hear me?

Sometimes I feel like
You didn't hear me.
You listened
But you didn't hear me.
I have to believe that if you heard me
Things would be different.

Sometimes I feel like
You heard me.
But you didn't care.
You didn't believe me.
You thought I was kidding.

Sometimes I feel hurt.
When I see you and you smile at me
While you hold onto her hand.
What do you see?
What do you see?
What do you see?
Look at her at me.
What do you see?

Sometimes I wonder.
What did I do wrong.
Everyone said we'd be so right.
What did I do?
What did I do?
What did I do?
Is there anything to do?
What can I do?

Sometimes I want to know
Why?
Why everything?
Why are the tears welling up in my eyes?
Why am I here?
Why did I do this to myself?
Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?

No good will come of this.
I've been here before.
Or so I thought
You're different
from everyone else
that has never made me feel this way
like I matter
like I'm important

Sometimes I speculate
Is it different?
Oh it is.
I've lost my filter around you
you make me
say
feel
do
things I wouldn't normally.
I can
say
feel
do
things I always think
but never say
and you accept them
you welcome them

Why?
Better question
Do you even know what you do to me?
Do you even know?
I don't think you do.
It doesn't matter if I've told you or not.
I don't think you really know.
I thought we could be something.
Maybe I'm just impatient.
I'm impatient.
I'm a hypocrite.

I can feel the tears
they are behind my eyes
threatening to well up.
But they will not fall
because i refuse to cry for you
i will not cry for you
i will not cry for you
because i do not regret this
hardship
learning experience.

it takes two
i am one.
i cannot do this
i cannot keep
wanting
pining
longing
liking
crushing
thinking
thinking
thi­nking
of you

I need you
out of my head
out of my heart
not that you were ever there in the first place
because you didn't want my heart
not yet?
Not ever.

I wish I would let myself cry.
because then you could be like everyone else
just another night
crying
crying
crying
till I
sleep.
But you have to be different.
I'm resigned to sleepless nights
writing
writing
writing
this nonsense of thoughts
that have been piled in my head
waiting for me to throw at you
like little daggers
but these words don't hurt you
they only hurt me
because you feel nothing
did you hear me?
what did i do?
what can i do?
thinkingwritingwhy
I want you to be the same
because then i can get over it
the same way i do everyone else
but you are not everyone else
you are different.
why are you different?
please stop.
i need you to be the same
i need you to not care
i need you to make me cry.
because the fact that
i can feel these tears
but they
will
not
f
a
l
l
.
It makes me mad
sad.
but not sad enough to
cry.
I want to cry myself to sleep
but your differentness keeps me awake.

My aglets are wearing thin
from the miles crossed
by the traversing of my soul
rivers run in valleys unseen
and unheard of from the
cockpit of horseless carriages
fair Columbia boasts of beauty untold
ancient Gaia all the more
Psyche prevails
topography of the mind
vast and uncharted with room
for leviathans and behemoths
lurking in the recesses of our soul
my aglet is wearing thin
Jupiter can never measure
Neptune can never fathom
nor Hades bind
the content of my character
I have perceived mysteries unheard
before a quarter past
awake from slumber
your aglet is wearing thin

an aglet bouncing
to an unheard beat
those fingers tapping
on her phone
a baggy shirt
flapping in the wind
hair everywhere
following her head
she is dancing
like no one can see her

the truth of the search
no matter how long it took
is that everything you saught
was always in the last place you'd look

the day near finished and
the night aglet as if day;
what came first -
cliff richard's devil woman
(chicken) or the eagles'
witchy woman (egg)?
cockerel via ****** already took
the opera seat, and the soprano
slit open the larynx of the castrato...
just so the chandelier and windows
shattered in practice...
if your poetry isn't musical, not rhyming,
just write about music,
that's what bukowski conveyed...
make poetry an interest in music,
don't make it this trollop-cod-whipped-****
self-interest... if you can't sing because
an elephant stomped on your ear
or you never had enough money to buy a saxophone,
don't make complex musicology of symphonies
cute with "adoration" using the rhyming technique,
forget it, it's not cute, it's damnable...
true virtue isn't afraid of critique...
write about what you love so i can look it up
and share it, don't write self-love walking sticks
of decrepit fidelity of marathon runners
that wheeze out after the 100th meter in
goldfish dollops of addictive lungs gulping for
breath... no technique in poetry will ever be music
in terms of actual music...
ever heard tenacious d's one note song?
most poetry sounds like that:
sound
around
            orange peel
            foot massage that turned into zest of extra
sound
around
            a tambourine tabernacle
            with st. thomas ******* a rib cage
kangaroo pouch
****'s ouch
                             five multipliers mono
*******
softy
                     doughnut
                                               peach;
'***** where's the cream?!'
'oh boy it's coming, coming with the flying scotsman's
                                steam;
                         ­                      choo choo!'
puff up you puffing puffin *******!
well, i was always going to be an extension of her
doing the triceps choo choo dangle motion;
morph into a church bell uvula
morph into a church bell uvula...
of a-ding-along-for-a-ding-**** of st. ursula's
interpretation of english police officers
deviation from the standard:
                       'allo 'allo 'allo.... n'est-ce pas pas ce comme ce?

Petrichor is blue on sad days
sometimes comes back as fire
but on happy wamble it's pink
as a flower

Aglet! Aglet! i tore your
armour now i walk with loose
shoelace!

Only on myleftFoot do i fear
life
AND vagitus speaks clearly
suing me within my heart
cut a star at glabella space
watching the cosmos drink
the memories of all my love
and pain
And she wore natiform on her
chest with a big heart bursting
seeds of flowers one that fell
between her legs and grew a
wild rose that ate me whole
i should be comforted
i should be comforted
i should be arrested

I'm my favorite patient
writing prescription
for mental constipation
burnt like cornicione
but i'm relaxing
and took ferrule stabbing
the tip of my eyes
which hides my burnt brain

:: 07-04-2016 ::

The one who knows what an aglet is
And the one who found a cure to break outs
Are neck and neck
In the race to critical acclaim

The pure of heart take aim towards the regency
With flushed flesh
As if they were the ones racing

The chaste one vexes them all
They hope her chest caves in
And her vital organs fail
They see her as an appalling misuse of DNA

In this sequence
There is a strong emphasis of hate
But why?
Because hate is one of the fundamentals of life that's ubiquitous
Until an outbreak of letting go comes
And the appeals for torment to befall others come to and end

With that said, I want to see who wins this race, if that ***** little ***** gets what she has coming to her and those know-nothings on the throne get over thrown
As I enjoy this rhubarb and turpentine pie
It looks mouthwatering as ever

Outside of town a man died
naked beneath a nice tree.

Some said  he was old
and that the tree was an elm.
Some said he was young
and that it was an oak.
Others, that he was a child
and that it was a magnolia.

The only thing they agreed on:
that he was naked, dead, under a tree
and they felt sorry for him.

So, the Widow Smith secretly
dressed him in her husband’s best shirt
because she was still mourning
the loss of Tom’s chest.

Mr. Aglet, who owned the shoe store,
privately donated the old Nike’s
Timmy abandoned when he went to Harvard
because Aglet missed Timmy putting them on.

Haberdasher Scye donated his swankiest cufflinks-
the one’s left behind when a newlywed customer
learned that his wife was in labor—
because Scye hated the look of an unadorned shirt.

He then gave his favorite top hat
for no man should be buried with bad hair,
his finest knee-high dress socks
because that’s what funeral’s demand.

He than gifted his finest silk tie,
a nice leather belt of the man’s waist size,
and just to finish the look

a properly somber black jacket and pants.

Optometrist Eyear noticing the man
was squinting rather oddly
crafted a fine pair of designer spectacles
that fitted perfectly on the dead man’s nose.

Everyone in town felt good about their gifts
and the funeral was well-attended.
It wasn’t until he was deep under
did they notice that they forgot the underwear.

They found them, the next day,
the one thing that knew him best,
hanging high in the branches of the tree.

At T's funeral
Fat Carlo took his shoes off
first thing
and he did it with that secret little smile of his
. . . watching . . .

He stretched out the laces all crooked
like mangled snakes
mud-brown and sickly pistachio-green
with aglet heads worn down to
nubs
right in front of everyone
. . . goading . . .

The wound on his big toe
'that don't never heal'
is a trophy of his careless barefoot run
with his crip-dog
Hopsack
and that violent tantrum after reading
Colosimo's political column
in the Daley Herold
about democrats stealing water shares
. . . seething . . .

Chalk up Fat Carlo's actions
to his constant fits of
revenge
and his hillbilly upbringing
. . . prodding  . . .

And, it's because he won't listen to Paola's demands
about keeping his shoes on in public
or not picking his teeth with a safety pin --
always riding him in lowdown ways
. . . taunting  . . .

Just keep praising Paola
for her stupid things
like O-Cedar-waxing the casket
or the raspberry-Renuzit-spray-shower
she gave the mortuary
before the service
'just in case'
. . . showboating  . . .

Carlo gets mad whenever he hears
anyone complement his Paola --
but
do it anyway
'cause
it really gets to him
and if you make Paola smile
she might give you a slice
of her special mocha cake
later
after we're all done grievin'
. . . faking . . .