The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's,
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.

Once there was a little boy
With dreams that touched the sky
He was the darling first born son
Apple of his mother's eye
He was polite and kind to all
Regardless of their age
But never took kindly to those
Who would put his mind into a cage
So while his mother loved him so
He only made his father frown
And over the years his heart was crushed
By the man who only put him down
Approval is a funny thing;
It changes someone's life
In bulk it makes receivers shine,
In absence kills the heart with strife
So the little boy just ran away
Find love in other ways
And ending up more broken
Limping through each God-forsaken day
He wasted quite a bit of time
Feeling sorry for himself
Until finally he grew up some
And put old feelings on the shelf
"It's time to relocate," he thought
"Time to make a name for me."
It was time to take control of his life
Decide his own destiny
Then some girl came waltzing in,
Botching his newfound plan,
Eyes a portal to a lovely soul
And blemishless heart outstretched in hand.
This couldn't happen, not again
He wouldn't change his mind
This boy had places to go and be
And love was just not worth the time
So he packed up all his things again
His "life" a sentimental might say
And with out even a goodbye
Ran like hell the other way.

pap
pap
pap

I can't breath
my stomach is bubbling
like hot cheese
on an fresh oven pizza

my legs feel skinny
I want to lean into a wall
the floor looks spinny
the wainscoting is squint

my vision is blurry
because...tears?
Why is there worry
in my middle?

I feel fine,
my mind is sound
this fear isn't mine
what’s it doing here?

What is this panic?
Fight or flight I understand,
but this is plain manic.
I need to go

at top speed
or maybe hide?
Either way, be freed
from this distress.

pap
pap
pap

Push someone over,
human shield that ****
reduce my exposure
to hyperventilation.

Shallow in,
shallow out,
I feel akin
to sprinting Mufasa

Pure distress
acute discomfort,
a proper mental problem. Nonetheless,
it’s strange to foresee the diagnosis.

It’s as if I’m watching
from someone else’s skin
as alligator clamps are botching
holding my physiology in.

A sunburn on my innards,
a paperweight within
you’d think I’d feel pride
for finally having something wrong.

Hypochondria being accurate  
the years of inventing doom,
suddenly isn't aberrant
those fabrications had substance.

Or maybe all these thinks
are symptoms in themselves
after sifting through piles of shrinks,
maybe I can finally get some help.

pap
pap
pap

Look at my pretty framed prescription,
doctor certified, messy handwriting,
this will take some decryption...
don’t worry, take your time,

this pathoreaction won't go away.
I’m told desolation
is a temperament set to stay
until after eighteen simple payments.

I’m inclined to reject treatment
of drugs that fiddle with the mind
I’d rather stay present,
continue inconsistency.

I would like to try narration,
see how many kilometers I can recall.
I can deal with frustration,
so let’s talk about my childhood.

Public transit without destination
sends me on a revere,  
an absence of crippling desperation.
I've found peace before

it was between yellow poles,
in the outside pocket
of a backpack on parole.
It smiled at me quietly.

pap
pap
pap

Apparently, it’s the small things
that help you deal with anxiety.

REWIND


When I was a girl of twenty-two years,
there was the usual blood, sweat and tears
of life that’s lived when no one is watching
and naivety is all that’s botching
things up, in love and loss
and harsh mistakes.

Thoughts of my future rather than my will.
Should I not have aborted but stood still
to own the truth of my indiscretion,
and not lied to my love but made confession?
Perhaps he would have
decided to stay?

I have pondered much, these thirty-odd years.
Renounced the loathing of actions and fears
of misguided youth that lives in my soul
but will not dissipate though I am old.
Continuing on -
memories linger.

Wondering what that one life could have been.
Wondering if that was really a sin?
I question myself each year after year
though answers I don't expect to find here
in this life -
Still I mourn.

Belle

belle laid beside me, exhausted we both were after she finished riding me
she took a drag of the menthol again, she always did.
"You can't keep ******* and going like this"
You really want me to, flaws that you know and abhor to commit?"
"yes, you may not be perfect but you treat me with respect, which is more than what everybody else taught me to expect."
"But just yesterday you snapped at me for botching something nice."
“Yeah i Jump down your throat a lot, so to your ego apply cold ice"

Belle is a nice lady, but she’s got a very messed up past
she’s been cheated on, broken hearted, and been dropped on her ***
but she’s got a good soul, but her sense of affection’s gone cold
but you can still se that desire for happiness in her eyes

i guess you could say i won the nobelle prize?
She left last night, said i couldn’t be assed to commit,
so she took her stuff and split.
****… i guess belle is gone,
well, she jumped downn my throat a lot, so maybe there’s a blessing in the storm

How I write something with the thought that somebody out there
On that there Internet thing
Will read through some ******, four-line stanza and into the complex puzzle
I've pieced together, jamming cornered ends into rounded holes
And botching the image I would like to create with all the wrong pieces.
Sometimes I think,
How many people have read this ****,
Laughed,
And clicked onward?
It's kinda scary. It's kinda funny.

My father dropped his careless seed where my mother wished she'd bleed.

You created what I breathe when your lungs began to heave.

I forgot what life unfurls when I heard your whirling purr.

I unveiled your place of birth when my gaze derailed from Earth.

In the stream above the hills, dreams the gleam your lifeblood spills.

Counting decades down your braids, I invade your rounded jades with a gaze you've made cascade.

How you drown my sunken tortures with a frown of drunken fortune.

My lies die between your thighs, in the sighs that close my eyes.

The violins of silver inns shiver hymns of our sins.

The privateers on piers of tears cheer our fear of nearing years.

You imprisoned all my seasons with a year of untold reasons.
__________           ____

We were forged where angels gorge to be carved where devils starve.

Why'd you dose your prose morose to the bard who tarred your shards?

From divisions of your lips, I've received incision's kiss.

With ardent hips of fervent current, the errant serpent grips her servant.

All I brought was thought for naught when your rot became outwrought.

From the pond where I abscond, I watched the botching of our bond.

Every breath deployed to drown when you left devoid of frowns.

For the throne of humming bones, I've condoned becoming yours.

I am sworn to mourn and scorn every thorn that had us torn.

I have claimed the maiming blame for games of shame that gave us names.

All my zest, betrayed and rotten, in a chest remains forgotten.

We transcend repentant lows to embrace resplendent woes.

In the pool that holds your tears, drools the fool who stole my years.
__________           _____

The violins of her violence weaved the bindings of my silence.

I forgave her what she lacked with the fervor of my ax.

She used to have me broken hoping till I split her forehead open.

I forgot to leave her soul where her torso's open cold.

Now she blends my lips serene with the hands I've cut off clean.

The refrains of all my poems, now engraved on bullets chrome, in her skull remain alone.

Derelict, her tongue disdains, with my lick on her remains.

I resent the way her scent invents consent to my lament.

My mouth consumes the fumes she tombs to spout the dooms that loom unwombed.

I've divorced the nasal morse forced to course from out her corpse.

Now the tree that held our names roots around her welded grave.

On the hill where we once kissed, she now sleeps beneath the mist.

Even now she laughs at me, with her shafts forever sealed.

Dark and darker, her darkened barker, marks her tomb a layer harder.
__________           ______

My bride rides the tired tide, where our breaths by death divide.

She enjoys the rhymes I ferry from our time to where she's buried.

I have drained all waters spent where her face could not reflect.

I still hide my drying cry where our prides would once collide.

I demand her lifeless hands to once again caress my tan.

I've repieced her fleeting fleece of the fleas that tease my peace.

Like a dog, I found my god, in the fog where she once trod.

I begin where grins of skin create the sins she used to sing.

I've become the barren baron
of a fortress with no forces
leading my stampeding legions
to find their feet in my defeat.