My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is hanging open.

I sit here and feverishly type, gathering momentum

To swing the creative cavalry inside my mind forth

And to **** all that throws itself in front of my periphery,

So desperately catcalling my attention.



I live in a creative vacuum,

From the hum of the fan

And the slamming of the doors,

To the static from the TV set

And the voices. Those voices.



I feel there is a poem in me

Or a song,

That will claim the hearts of others

And tug on the hems of their peripheries

Just as these homely distractions do to me.



Until then I must write and write harrowingly.

I must disregard the rules set down by centuries of genius

And throw back the paradigms put forth

By every raised eyebrow and polite accolade.



I am only twenty-one and I have not yet felt the ache of age

But I can feel the atrophy bite in my bones,

Making me cower at this transient life

And again I find myself at a desk by the window

Feverish, so feverish.

Reading bad poetry,
writing bad poetry,
existing as a subpar slice of
unemotional prose.
I'm a singsong
last-ditch singalong;
ding-****-ditch me,
***** me out.
Slice me up and
lay me out to dry.
I cut onions:
I don't cry.
You ignore me:
I don't mind.
Remember me
as a sad story and not a person.
It'll be gratifying,
albeit dehumanizing,
patronizing,
but at least you'll be sympathizing
as I'm unsurprisingly capsizing.
Right now I'm realizing
that I wanna be the hungry waves
and not the sinking ship;
the sharp harpoon and not
unfortunate Moby ****.
I wanna be the brick
instead of the window pane;
I wanna be the ****** sword
and not the bleeding slain.
So the inferiority complex that's been harrowingly ingrained
inside of my needlessly idle brain
can ******* once again,
because I'm gonna be the poet now,
not the reader, page, nor pen.

eat-ing dis-or-der
/ēdiNG diˈsôrdər/
noun
1. Waking up every single morning with the same thoughts you’ve had for the past 9 months. How flat will I look today? Are my ribs poking out any further? Does my spine look any more sickly than before?
2. Weighing yourself before you go to the bathroom. Then after you go to the bathroom. Proceeding on and on throughout the day, as followed.
3. Being so hungry, you’re simply not hungry anymore. More so, just exhausted. (Being exhausted is a good thing, because that’s when you can finally fall asleep. That way your mind doesn’t have to keep nagging you about the hunger pains you feel in your stomach.)
4. Wearing 2 sweatshirts & 2 pairs of socks under 3 blankets, yet still feeling the icy pain running through your veins. You try anything to stay warm. Coffee helps, but only for a few minutes. Steaming hot showers are nice for the time being, but stepping out into the cold air, feeling your already brittle hair turn into shards...it’s hell. (Ironic, right?)
5. Not being able to walk past a mirror without pulling up your shirt to check your stomach for the 20th time today. I’m not vain, trust me. Far, far from it. One of the last things I’m capable of feeling right now is love towards myself.
6. Longing for a way out. Laying on your bed in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, just wishing that there was a ******* off switch to all of this. Every ******* morning to every ******* night. You know what you’re doing is wrong, but at this point you don’t know who you’d be without it. That voice, I mean. That voice that never goes silent, even when you politely beg with tears brimming at the eyes. You try so hard to push it away, and to remember a time in your life when you were “normal”. When you could wake up and actually enjoy breakfast. It was your favorite meal of the day.

Now, you can’t even fathom a “favorite meal”. The empty plate, the clean spoon, the untouched napkin. Everything except the food- which is now harrowingly the perfect vision of your “favorite meal”.

Long sedative ride,
Harrowingly sweet.
It hurts me so,
To watch you grow;
To see you go

On for an adventure!
Some unknown venture
Into a future
Beyond iridescent curtains,
Where we are no longer certain.

Leaving these petals in the dust ー
My love, I have come to rust!
In a withering web, I've been cast;
I stand to fend off
A journey reaching its end.

As I eye your certainty:
A longing to be free.
I alone should bear this hefty fee
If my beloved would come to be!

And I will remain ー Not belonging, but still

Longing.

Wayward,
The convoy’s descent,
Through the breathless hills,
The frozen riverside,
Amongst the wicked witch woods.

Howls of frost approaches,
Impetuous, callous tempest,
Beacon of catastrophe,
Sparks a menacing flare,
The ferocious force of humanity.

Beseech me if you must!
Though as harrowingly as it seems,
No abysmal depth in snow,
May conceal the end in mind,
Of these grimy hands of mine.

under a waxing July moon
dripping with corona
hung in a clear night sky
i sit with my father’s ashes
tilting a glass up
of bottom shelf scotch
looking up
at the brown bats
flying broad circles in the air

like cogs, they spin
forever counterclockwise
in each another small life
snapped up and consumed
each cycle no doubt
filling their bellies
instincts fulfilled
catharsis for the moment
at least

among the dulled chirps
of functionally infinite crickets
near cacophony
a gentle but fierce flash
drawn from our chiropterological studies
on instinct
i turn rapidly to the plastic black box
that contains the remainder
of my dad
still defensive
despite the doneness of time’s deeds

bioluminescent chartreuse
warmly highlights what remains
a firefly, seeking respite
from the night’s work
of high stakes family planning
joins us for a moment
looking down, i join him too
with an embering spliff
drawing at his pace
least i could do, right?
our radiant rhythm
giving just enough light
for a single shard of bone
to gleam

we watch
as dusk drapes itself
across the horizon
crescent moon emanating ominously
lunar rays casting down
and one by one new gleams appear
we see the bats as well
me, new friend, and dad,
witness to the minute lights
of the fireflies, dancing
looking for purpose in a
brief brief window
one vanishing, in silence
with every arc of the bats
who continued their work
with admirable precision

but okay, i can feel you thinking about it
still on the ashes thing
its okay, i get it. fair enough.
my father, he died in June
you know the story
consumed alive by life
a juggernaut we all know
in the lungs
probably elsewhere too
decades of smoke congealed
of subterranean quality scotch scorched
old habits are hard to break
no, it wasn’t easy
yes, it was bad
for months, i was at his bedside
read him his final rites
looked him in the eyes
as he went
and i have to tell you
the light never left
i watched the whole time

possibly ironically
he had hung
on our fridge
since i was small thing
a Dylan Thomas poem
c’mon, you know the one.
rage, rage, and all
do not go gentle into that good night
blah blah blah
very apropos here, no?
i read and reread it
must have been a dozen times
in the moments after he rattled his last
it was half buried
under a few coupons
and a tavern menu
as i pulled it out
so too came
a dozen appointment reminders
magnets of polarized teeth
wrenches
and otherwise nondescript squares cascading
to the linoleum floor
also forgotten, unearthed
sorry, i’m off track
this isn’t the point

as we sit here
we happy few
watching nature
under the night sky
i think about that poem
i think about my father
i think about his scotch i'm drinking
i think about the fireflies and the bats
did he? do they? will i?
i hear nothing as they go
miracles of the universe that they are
making their own light in the darkest of places
they are just. gone.
one by one
following instinct
consumed by inevitable things
flying silently in the night
following instinct
one by one
seems pretty gentle to me

then again, dad didn't
i heard a lot as he went
i heard every groan as i lifted him
to and from the transport chair
dozens of times
back and forth
body betraying him
in simple but
vicious ways
vagus nerve, lying ***** that it is
i heard him as i cleaned him
when i told him i loved him
at night when he spoke to
the terrible magnificent dreams of the dying
i heard him
but it didn’t sound like rage.
no lightning forked there.
it was relegation.
rumination.
respite.

my father is dead, yes. but this isn’t about him.
maybe it was, in June. but it is July
he is already gone. and he is still here.
right next to me, under this starlit sky
watching the twinkling dancers in the yard
flicker, flicker – then out
dashed dreams of love and life
snuffed out in a moment
the bats, ever round and round
one by one
doing their best to survive too
to make it another night
to another circle
another cycle
they spin until nothing is left
cogs turning
great machine of life moving
beautiful for a moment
then done

we are no different
we three
now two
our small friend heading off
to work
to life and love
then death
dad, well. he was just ahead of schedule
spun to his own pace, sure
but like a dervish he went
vorpal speed delighting
daring
devastating
until that last good night
green irises still glimmering
though his body grew cold
no tears to curse, bless me now
just luminance, vestiges of thought
in eyes i realize remind me
of my firefly friend,
now likely former

i consider this
the reality of my father
his final form, immolated
at my side
i ponder how i can learn
from his example
his life
how i can survive
thrive
while I finish his rotgut
and my waning smoke
swearing to live differently
habits dying hard
watching the fireflies flash
the bats circle
everything in its harrowingly right place
under a waxing July moon