"Nothing will ever come between us", you said,
now there is something playing in your head.
I know he's just an old boyfriend from school,
but don't you see I look like a fool?

This is the last straw, the last drop of wine,
you'll have to tell him yourself my friend.
I am fresh out of understanding,
and don't say that I am too demanding.
We are to long together to start playing games
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Can't you see you are living your past,
trying to hold on to what you can't grasp?
I am sorry, he can't spend the night.
No, I am not trying to start a fight.

I'm sure he's got someone else to *****.
Someone, somewhere that he can do.
Did you tell him that we're a pair,
it appears he doesn't seem to care?
We are to long together to start playing games,
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Walls are thin I can hear what you say,
I think it's time he went on his way.
It's been like I am not even there,
What do you mean I'm not being fair?

There he sits with my scotch in his hand.
Is that his bike in the drive, who does he think he is?
I see his eyes follow you,
watching every curve like I use to do.
We are to long together to start playing games,
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Why did you let the Letterman in,
with his motorcycle helmet and all his leather garb?
Tattoos and earrings are scaring me half to death,
this is the suburbs you know?



*A peek at an otherwise happily married fictitious couple named Bob and Mary....... And there surly visitor Steve, the Letterman.

“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me”
Embroidered on the back of his letterman jacket
Hanging from the kitchen chair where he sits
Practicing chords while the **** cooks to crank

In the trailer back of his momma’s house
Where she lets him live while he looks for work
They didn’t treat him right at the truck stop
His uncle might get him on at the mill

A crankster wankster twanging out his art
Unless the Cossaks find out about…


                                                        ­               “Who’s there…?”

Mumok Museum [24]

What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at cold sterile pop art as the whole entire world we're on burns,
in a city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that never really seemed that inspiring,

& it's not that I have an antipathetic attitude towards these pathetic fools,
in fact it's actually just the opposite of that because I'm an actual optimist,
which is why I don't feel inspired by bored cyborgs their wires or their tools,
& precisely why I'd rather gather flowers than be an actor for their power,

see I find more inspiration in a single leaf on a single tree by a river bank,
than from all the colors & lines contained within the walls of this museum,
which is why when I'm asked all the time what kind of poetry I read,
I reply I don't even read poetry see I don't find it in books I find it in seasons,

It's the same reason I don't need to go to church to pray,
because I don't need my messages from God to be translated by a human,

anyways where am I at & what am I doing?

Oh yeah Im at a museum in Vienna wondering where the inspirations gone,
& why everything seems so excruciatingly tiring,
see it seems we’re on the verge of a collective mental breakdown,
at the same time like we're on the precipice of a collective enlightening,

either way the system’s short circuiting & could do with some rewiring.

Why does every rags to riches story I know of those that've made it,
end in an overpriced designer outfit at home bored all alone & jaded?

Why is Consumerism followed like a religion,
I mean we're all made of the same DNA strands regardless of name brands,
I mean everything is just carbon hydrogen & oxygen anyways,
which may explain why materialism is immanent in every independent man,

while an apocalypse seems undeniably immanent &,
we dwell in the highest heights ever built still we don't totally understand,

we don’t worship Jesus we worship Visa,
putting good credit ahead of good morals,
don’t praise Muhammed in a daze we say our grace in front of TV Dramas,
no Buddha dreams just computers screens no real friends just PayPals,

& maybe that’s why it's easier to be blind than to see,
maybe that’s why we hide in museums behind Valentino sunglasses,
because we'd rather have expense tastes than be free,
but when you’re behind any type of four walls you’re trapped in,
whether on a Penthouse terrace with Paris in Paris,
or doing hard-time for white collar crimes with Madoff in a Federal pen,
either way we’re victims of our own additions trying to buy more time,
but running out of credit as banks are collapsing & the recession is relapsing,

so why even buy things when we know not so secretly,
that only Love will set us free from these retro restrictions & their trappings,

see,

the best things in life still are still free,
& yeah liberation is expensive & self renovations are extensive,
but freedom is priceless so live a life that's righteous,
seems that the Love Pyramid is the only pyramid that’s not a Ponzi scheme,

because we are all equal even if we’re not all treated equally,
that’s why some have no clothes while others wear designer denim jeans,
but these Diesels're 2 tight on my thighs this macabre carnival has no prize,
& I can do anything I want with my life but all I really want to do is breathe,

breathe,

breathe because this lifestyle is expensive,
but freedom is priceless,
even though they'll try to capitalize off of anything,
so they market it & try to price it,

I just,
want to find a place to relax & release,
& be free of all of this,
find true love & say “Fck off to the politicians & all their politics!”,

fck their programs fck their projects,
fck their ugly agendas dressed in artificially splendid splendor,
fck their quotas & their motives for treating human beings as objects,
fck their pre-programed consumerist culture of conmen capitalists,

fck there putting machines over human beings,
just to increase the place where their profit sits,
& I say all of this regardless of who it offends because I'm not an Apologist,
I'm more of a Lyrical Pharmacist,
who serves indiscriminate prescriptions in the form of transcriptions,
in order to assist in the additions that come from positive developments,
which will occur for sure once we switch the position we currently sit in,
& restore Divine Order once more in the name of Humankind's betterment,

in the game of life I play,
they know I'm so official that I don't even need a Letterman,

I just,
don’t know what else to say,
I don’t know why I’m at this museum in Vienna,
hiding away on the top floor writing this to you on a Sunday,

on the 5th floor got it all but I just want to give more,
I just want to gift these words then make my escape,
don't you get it I don't want to get more ****t,
if anything I just want to find a way to give more of what I have away,

just want to be alone,
but also want these words to be known so the truth can be shown,
but where do you go when you’re tired totally over it all,
& all you want to do is rest & write these poems,
but even with all you have you still don't know where to go,
because even with all these things you still don't have a home...

Hello,
could you please pick up the phone,
I’m calling because I still love you,
& I want to come back to you even though I know I’m already gone,

currently on the top floor of the Mumok museum in Vienna,
the floor is the 5th to be exact,
& yeah it’s true that I don’t know where I’m going,
but what I do know is I don’t think I’m ever coming back,

online & off track,
writing more words with more rhymes,
than any other living writer in contemporary times,
& no I'm not lying 'cause I'd never lie to you & yes those are both actual facts,

& yeah that’s a fact & yeah you can Google that,
but I’m going to follow that fact with a question,
before I forget to mention,
let me just ask you what I'm doing here in Vienna?



What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at cold sterile pop art as the whole entire world we're on burns,
in a city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that never really seemed that inspiring,

& it's not that I have an antipathetic attitude towards these pathetic fools,
in fact it's actually just the opposite of that because I'm an actual optimist,
which is why I don't feel inspired by bored cyborgs their wires or their tools,
& precisely why I'd rather gather flowers than be an actor for their power,

see I find more inspiration in a single leaf on a single tree by a river bank,
than from all the colors & lines contained within the walls of this museum,
which is why when I'm asked all the time what kind of poetry I read,
I reply I don't even read poetry see I don't find it in books I find it in seasons,

It's the same reason I don't need to go to church to pray,
because I don't need my messages from God to be translated by a human,

anyways where am I at & what am I doing?

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol. 2: Mandalas
available worldwide 08/08/18

What is about some people
insisting I want to engage
with whatever they are watching
singing along to
listening to

Example:

recently, on a long haul train
travelling from A to Z
in the rudimentary rammy
to find the unreserved seats
enter the 20-something
alluring guitar laden
leather and tattoo clad female
tumbling onto the next table to me
unpacking as if she was moving in

munchable fruit laptop
gleaming white
in clear conflict with
the dreads and the beads
pumped in patchouli oil
drenched in love and peace
armed with a dvd
that would shortly crush the spirits
of every soul in Coach D:
the Quiet Coach

enter screaming chipmunks
hysteric children
and songs to sing along to
which she did with obsessive precision

insisting that Coach D
should in some way be
enlightened
entertained
entranced
and ultimately impressed

such was her overbearing desire
to love thyself above all things
give the peace sign when appropriate
and otherwise don't give 2 F's
for anyone else, regardless of situation.

consumer behaviours were erratic at best
if the Jedi senses
were anything to go by

if i'd had a handheld vibe particle device
I could have created a pathological combustion
and an accelerated Coach D A-Bomb

heads turned
feet shuffled
zips unzipped and re-zipped
open hands holding Kindles
immersed in philanthropic discourse
turned to clenching fists
the sound of bent drink cans
rusted cogs in motion
deep breathing

even level 1 Tetris
became too much
for the bald fellow to my left
who accepted failure
and opted to purchase
a large brown bag of beer
from the bar

GOOD CALL

libation and the pagan ideals;
imbibe thyself to dull the senses

I concur
and,
in exchange for our classic colonial restraint
on behalf of Coach D
I wish upon you the following:

1. You will never again
drink a decent coffee from any vendor anywhere in the world, ever.

2. Your laptop will
turn off during any movie you sing along to, silent or otherwise.

3. Your guitar
strings snap during a performance in front of people you don't know who paid to get in.

4. Your Tattoo artist
has an epic fail and tattoo's a defamatory remark rather then your lovers name.

5. Your leather trousers
shrink wrap and make the sound of bursting bubble wrap every time you move.

6. Your comfortable shoes
attract bits of grit like a magnet, regardless what you are wearing.

7. Your waft of perfume
is likened to compressed 7 year old blue cheese that has sat in the sun for weeks.

8. Your location
at any time has a global no shoot-and-miss policy for all birds without exception.
(even the ones that don't fly)

9. Your singing
is so electric that every time you sing in public your hair stands on end
and cutlery sticks to your nose.

10. Your beer is always warm.
11. Your wine corked.
12. Your water salty.

13. That this poem goes viral on the internet
expressing one man's words which mirror the every day person
working their socks off to make a living
and in the hectic hustle and bustle
one of the sanctuaries is Coach D
on the way home from the City
and the frustration and restraint
of anti-social conduct
and basic respect.

14. That I will be on David Letterman
or the Late Late Show
or USA tonight
or the BBC prime time news
or some such over-hyped
TV show talking about you.

15. That you will thank me for making you a celebrity by default -
15.1 and subsequently appear on late night Z-list celebrity game shows involving boxes of spiders.

You are the worst Muse ever
in the history of Muses

16. and this is how you will be remembered

She was an unheard melody
An unwritten love letter
You sang her out loud
You destroyed her words

Reading the other day,
an article about some,
Renowned fellow's notion,
On the study of "Human,
Productive Locomotion".

A reputed Authorty,
of "Time Management",
His main proclivity being,
The belief in his increasing,
Other peoples productivity.

Modulating their all too,
common Human tendency,
For naturally wasting time,
and non productive energy.

Him asserting himself to be,
a self styled know it all,
Bonafied Expert in Efficiency.

Now I can see,
How it might be,
That this type of study,
Offers some relevancy,
For the Barons of Industry,
What with them regulating,
The flow, While streamlining,
and furthering the advance,
of all things, relating to commerce.

A purely Scientific belief,
For the primary benefit,
Of the Time Clocks sake,
And all those Bosse's
Emotional financial betterment.

But what on earth,
did that have to do,
with an old retired,
fool like me?  

What matter that,
I merely sit and think,
for hours at a time.
Read the paper,
or a book,
Computer chat,
or cook?

Putter in my garden,
Or gratefully just stare,
at big billowing clouds,
or rainbows in the air.

Or perhaps I choose,
to hug my wife,
Or chase my Grand
Kids up a tree,
Maybe grab a nap,
Or even take a ***.

Pet my dog,
Or have a Beer.
Watch the Tube,
a little bit,
Or congregate to meditate,
with a convivial group of friends.

Maybe take a walk,
Down by the river.
Get out my old,
Bow and Quiver.

Wash my car,
Cut some grass,
Go to my writing class.

Slip on down,
to the " Red Dog Saloon"
Where I'll promenade,
A little Texas Two Step.

Come home in time,
To unwind and,
watch some David Letterman.

What's efficient,
and what is not?
Clearly, that interpretation,
Is completely up to me.
No Efficiency Expert needed.

Musty kisses, so much like cologne with a musky smell, leave a lasting aftertaste—an indication of a man desperately trying to conceal his insecurities. Rumors have circulated that he has resorted to manipulation and mind games in his interactions with women, resembling a predatory elite, a muskellunge lurking in the depths of a freshwater lake. As nightfall approaches, he prepares himself for the evening's activities, donning his goggles like a skilled diver ready to plunge headfirst into the murky waters of awkward conversation and those all-too-familiar first impressions. With an air of self-assuredness, he boasts about his past athletic achievements; "Hey I used to be good at sports," obviously spelled out on his letterman jacket as evidence of his once formidable sporting prowess. "While I may have retired from the game, but perhaps tonight you can play ball, and be the one to play with my *****," he slyly suggests, fueled by liquid confidence provided by a few shots of courage. Unfortunately for him, the weight of his words pales in comparison to the value of the drinks he has been offering the object of his attention. So of course she won't pay attention.

As her patience wears thin, she cannot contain her frustration any longer and resorts to throwing the last swallow of her drink in his
face, an act meant to deflate his ego. Instead of swallowing his pride, he bounces back like the reverberations echoing through the empty club. Retrieving a cigarette from the left pocket of his coat, he ignites a flame and engulfs himself in a cloud of smoke, attempting to find solace in his self-imposed camouflage through his chimney neck.
Without skipping a beat, he beckons for another glass of whiskey and casually whistles a tune before every sip, as though seeking comfort in the familiarity of his routines. In a fleeting moment, his gaze meets mine, almost as if we were old friends sharing a silent understanding.

Little does he know, I am acquainted with the man behind the facade, aware of the pain he actively conceals behind his bravado. There is a tragic narrative woven into his life, one in which he has been consistently belittled by a brother, leaving him with no choice but to compensate for his perceived shortcomings by pushing boundaries. Within him, there is an unmistakable sense of being lost, drowning his sorrows in a bottle. Tomorrow, he will consume his own words, choking on the regret that accompanies his intoxicated state and *****. It is a sobering tale indeed, one that asks us to consider how we may overlook fragments of our own pain reflected in the brokenness of others.

Elegy for the Forgotten Oldsmobile**

July 4th and all is Hell.
Outside my shuttered breath the streets bubble
with flame-loined kids in designer jeans
looking for people to **** or razor.
A madman covered with running sores
is on the street corner singing:
O beautiful for spacious skies…
This landscape is far too convenient
to be either real or metaphor.
In an alley behind a 7-11
a Black **** dressed in Harris tweed
preaches fidelity to two pimply ******
whose skin is white though they aren’t quite.
And crosstown in the sane precincts
of Brown University where I added rage
to Cliff Notes and got two degrees
bearded scientists are stringing words
outside the language inside the guts of atoms
and I don’t know why I’ve come back to visit.

O Uncle Adrian! I’m in the reservation of my mind.
Chicken bones in a cardboard casket
meditate upon the linoleum floor.
Outside my flophouse door stewed
and sinister winos snore in a tragic chorus.

The snowstorm t.v. in the lobby’s their mother.
Outside my window on the jumper’s ledge
ice wraiths shiver and coat my last cans of Bud
though this is summer I don’t know why or where
the souls of Indian sinners fly.
Uncle Adrian, you died last week—cirrhosis.
I still have the photo of you in your Lovelock
letterman’s jacket—two white girls on your arms—
first team All-State halfback in ’45, ’46.

But nothing is static. I am in the reservation of
my mind. Embarrassed moths unravel my shorts
thread by thread asserting insectival lust.
I’m a naked locoweed in a city scene.
What are my options? Why am I back in this city?
When I sing of the American night my lungs billow
Camels astride hacking appeals for cessation.
My mother’s zippo inscribed: “Stewart Indian School—1941”
explodes in my hand in elegy to Dresden Antietam
and Wounded Knee and finally I have come to see
this mad *** nation is dying.
Our ancestors’ murderer is finally dying and I guess
I should be happy and dance with the spirit or project
my regret to my long-lost high school honey
but history has carried me to a place
where she has a daughter older than we were
when we first shared flesh.

She is the one who could not marry me
because of the dark-skin ways in my blood.
Love like that needs no elegy but because
of the baked-***** possibility of the flame lakes of Hell
I will give one last supper and sacrament
to the dying beast of need disguised as love
on deathrow inside my ribcage.
I have not forgotten the years of midnight hunger
when I could see how the past had guided me
and I cried and held the pillow, muddled
in the melodrama of the quite immature
but anyway, Uncle Adrian…
Here I am in the reservation of my mind
and silence settles forever
the vacancy of this cheap city room.
In the wine darkness my cigarette coal
tints my face with Geronimo’s rage
and I’m in the dry hills with a Winchester
waiting to shoot the lean, learned fools
who taught me to live-think in English.

Uncle Adrian…
to make a long night story short,
you promised to give me your Oldsmobile in 1962.
How come you didn’t?
I could have had some really good times in high school.

I like to watch Letterman.
Not that **** Leno *******.
And so what if I have a gin and tonic?
I'm 67 for Christsakes.
So what if I have a cigarette?
It's my ******* house.
So what if I fell asleep in my chair?
So what?

You smell like smoke
and the bonfire left ashes in your hair.

Your rough hand is on my knee.
I hope you never move it.

Your eyes aren't focused
but neither are mine.
Sleeplessness is dragging us down.

My toes are numb from cold
but my heartbeat is fervent from overwork.

Your heart is the same
I can hear it.
Banging against your chest,
even from all the way over here.

The dawn is coming
but shadows still hold your face.
Your lids are half closed
and there are bags under your eyes.
Your the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

A thousand street lamps
run past me,
as I sit in your passenger seat
with my feet on the dashboard,
and hug your letterman jacket
a little bit closer.

The gentle hum of the engine
and subtle vibration of the tires
are all I can hear
before I drift into dreams,
with your hand on my knee.

A lazy brain is a waste of space in a
active mind, if you had a nickel would you try to flip dime, considering work harder, harder means over time.
Like everyone said it is, go to sleep here's a sedative, everything's too repetitive all these ***** and letterman's looking for loose excuses, because they never did, try to achieve a status of excellence, the modern man treats education like primitive, tools...the one who goes to school but never finishes, grows up bitter and is malicious towards their kids...expenses are high..baby bottles and cribs, diapers on top of diapers how long can you handle it? No control of your life because your handles are full of ****. What happened to your burning passion? Guess your candle was never lit. Seriously.....is that it? Are you just going to quit?

All the goals that you talked about are simply walking about...they have no sense of direction, they need you to figure it out. Hoping that you can just commence with, all of the now and just forget **** that haunted you in past.

that's Karma on top of Pressure, like boulders on top of glass.

Stolen cases of liquid, bubbly alcohol and
I'm whining that I don't have any cigarettes.
36th chambers against my ear drums as
Youth blasts through the bridge over chopped water.

I parry a blow to my abdomen and
Spill beer everywhere.
Someone says something in another language.
A farce about debauchery had never rang so true.

Smile. Show them it's you.
Grin. Blow to the tune.
Order. Show that you know what to do.
Drink. Turn your liver to stew.

It's so crowded the legs have disappeared
And whoever was near is now long gone.
Then, there's the song, the one you know by heart.
Everyone knows the lyrics
Like diamonds in a cart.

So much haze now. The last man is standing.
The dogs are outside restless and panting.
There's no cab in this ******* city that can take me home!
The bachelor's wife deceased has phoned.
Call her back, to let her know.

You, at least, have the right idea on your shoulder.
A letterman jacket pinched around her waist
As tight as a rubber band around a mockingjays neck.
I and you or you and I make our move towards the nightlife.
Things couldn't be any better.

Remember when you made your pass at wisdom?
How the crowds cheered and smiled with you?
A rush of fingers through our five dollar gelled hair.
Dear whisperings of nuclear proportions at 5am
In tune with the death of Dylan be it a mystery

Put a tune on the needle
Round her back then push her to fetal
Allow madness into your life
Stir it in
And see what you are tomorrow

It's OK
She said.
It will be fine
She said.
What will be, will be
She said.

I told her to
Say it
In French.

I don't know French
She said.

I laughed.
She left.
I watched her go
Out the door.

looking both ways
on my street with houses lining it
leading to more houses and dead ends
with front porches overlooking culdesacs,
culdesacs with front porches on dead ends
watching Letterman
no, Leno.
Leno gets a lot of ****
but he has his crowd,
and they all live on my street
leading to nowhere and culdesacs

sitting back, letting the world be where its at, with mind open towards the sky, with the phone polls thinking off their fair, their electric current flows to a bulb that is calm, pulsing, its one of those evenings, crows, and different types of mosquitoes, cold enough for a scarf, reechhing screeching the tentative cat trying to make his next plan, escaping into the house where he may resume his limitless pleasantries, lifting up his spirits  with the fireplace

the delightful conversation, of honor, their is so much duty in the things we do, duty delights in its own way, honesty has its own reward, we heard letterman say it to a louis that was frowning, and the characters represented themselves, an extension of their characters, and louis went on being a genius and lettermen went on being a *****

pleasantries are present when we least expect it, the fuzz from the monitor, there isn't much worry about how ***** the computer gets, it adds character, wisdom, se lavi or whatever it is the french say tossing hands up in the air and leaving it up to probability, or uncertainty, what a pleasant feeling

pleasantries in the dress, the particular white collared shirt with the pressed jacket, shoes that shine, in glances and martini glasses, in steps down the stairs that feel of anchores, anchores somewhere beneath those grand steps that provide some kind of magnificent gravitational gradiose spectacular, pleasantries in how much we aren't even aware

What's better than tripping is falling in love
What's better than Letterman, Leno, Fallon, and all the above
What's better than popping bottles trying to ball in the club
Is the first caveman pops with his son, ball and a club
What's better than paper is ballin' it up
What's better than followers is actually fallin' in love
What's better than frolicking, follies, fallin' in mud
Rolling in green pastures, wanderin', followin' love
What's better than eating is feeding your fam
What's better than meetings is missing meetings to meet with your fam
What's better than leaning and needing a Xan
Is hitting your zan dreaming a dream could mean leaving the land
What's better than yelling is hollerin' love
What's better than rhymes, nickels, dimes and dollars and dubs
Is dialing up your darling just for callin' her up
It ain't nothing better than fallin' in love
IGH!

election cycle returns
and the returns are in
no one gives a ****
about economic downturns
or pacific trade agreements
built to further gut
the Amerikkkan dream
Honey Boo-Boo lost eight pounds –
wingless welchers tirade over lost causes
causing the public to collectively *****
only racial injustice strikes cords
or the ever popular threat to children
outside of that, the general consensus
is to give the Dugger ******
a second chance –
guns for drugs
bombs fall on Bagdad
homosexual agenda
the imaginary scourge
melds with marijuana laws
giving the conservatives pause
but only until the Letterman finale –
sightless masses spoon fed by multimedia
millionaires
much maligned in the middle
misrepresented and mismanaged
mean well
but they have given over control
to the television set –

I am from* sketch pads, from books and monopoly
I am from the cozy little green house where my sisters and I would play in the yard all day. And lay to watch the stars at night
I am from the dandelion, the garden in which my mom tried to grow flower that never sprouted
I am from grandma got ran over by a reindeer sipping hot chocolate on Christmas eve and crazy wildness, from Stephanie, Hannah, Jordan, Micaila, Micah, and Emmanuel
I am from the singers and the fashionistas
I am from “you can be anything you want to be.” And “don’t let anyone tell you you’re not beautiful.”
I am from singing amazing grace and dancing to gospel pop from the church
I am from Atlanta, Georgia a true peach, mac and cheese on special occasion, and homemade tuna burgers with halondais
From the woman that could have gone to any college in Georgia, but had me instead
I am from the trophies for anything and everything, from scholar awards, and Letterman’s jacket

in the filtered blue glow
of your favorite
late show
with the light
from the bathroom
left on

I can make out
your face
and it's hard
to erase
from my memory
although
you are gone.

In our silence
a sweetness
a comfort
it's true
needing less
to be said
meant much more

we lived well
in our day
and had so much
to say
but your smile
it just cut to
my core.

As we sat
side by side
on the sofa
'twas your hand
on my ankle
which said
I am here
you are there
theres no distance
I swear
you still whisper
sweet nothings
in bed.

So forgive me
for getting
all sappy
but the late show is on
and you're there
in the blue
of the den
I can't hear
Letterman
he's been muted
so music
can blare

in the filtered blue glow
of your favorite
late show
with the light
from the bathroom
left on

I can make out
your face
and it's hard
to erase
from my memory
although
you are gone.

In our silence
a sweetness
a comfort
it's true
needing less
to be said
meant much more

we lived well
in our day
and had so much
to say
but your smile
it just cut to
my core.

As we sat
side by side
on the sofa
'twas your hand
on my ankle
which said
I am here
you are there
theres no distance
I swear
you still whisper
sweet nothings
in bed.

So forgive me
for getting
all sappy
but the late show is on
and you're there
in the blue
of the den
I can't hear
Letterman
he's been muted
so music
can blare

How do I explain this to people...?
That It burns my veins like venom was injected to my ever so slow beating heart, and is coursing through my body... But as you laid your head on my chest you claimed my heart beat too fast..

How do I explain why I curl my hands into fists when I hear a mention of your name, or look into the mirror and see my shaggy hair that you once ran your hands through, curling your fingers throughout it.. you  claimed that you loved it... It already covered my eyes when it was wet, I hated short hair, so I kept it at this length. No matter how long it already was you wished it to be longer...

Lately I'm Clenching my jaw at the mention of your name. Followed by the taste of blood. I didn't notice until lately I was biting the side of my gum, a new found habit. Which I noticed often through the jam session. I did this so I didn't intertwine you throughout the lyrics we were writing., so I didn't embed you throughout the piano chords I pressed onto. You loved to watch when I played the piano, but you always hated the way my jaw clenched from my concentration.

It’s not easy being in a small town, walking along the streets at night tugging at my letterman, looking at places I'll never return to because I know the times we spent in those places. I could never remember all the times we spent during our time together, you always claimed me as forgetful... Now they're seared into my mind as if they happened yesterday.

I'd fiddle with the package in my pocket, you always told me never to begin smoking. I told you I only smoked one often to ease my mind, though you didn't even allow that. You'd make me break every cigarette in the pack, between my shaking hands. You'd grab my hands and tell me I was too anxious, I always shook.

Every detail of you, is seared into my head.
I know the freckles along your back like constellations in my head like the stars I adored when I was a child.
I've heard your voice when I was on the bathroom floor sinking alone, sinking, drowning, gasping.
There’s no anchor in this ship anymore... and the tossed waves are like your tousled hair, that once laid beside me on our late nights.
You say to forget us.
but I could have sworn I held your hand, the day you told him you loved, you kissed me.
I know this for a fact
because my pulse danced with yours those days
but now it’s these days and I can’t get a grip.
and my heart beats slowly, out of tempo with the world.
and maybe the sternum in your chest is the Bermuda Triangle
And god have I gotten ******* lost within who we were... Who you were... What were were.
I wanted for you to exist so badly throughout my life, I forgot that I did too.
But throughout my existence, I let you mold me into something new.

Lately.
I sit up late at night wondering who could love me for everything you didn't..
I feel my heart racing as I run my hands through my freshly cut hair, high and tight..
Clenching my jaw as my hands wrap around the paper with scratched poems on it, tossing it to the trash..
Avoiding friends calls because they'll invite me to the place where we last had dinner.
My hands shaking as I hang up my phone and grab another cigarette and set it a flame, holding it in between my lips as I sigh.

I am the exact opposite of who you wished to me to be, now.
You no longer know who I am..
And I cannot claim of even knowing who am I anymore..
How do I explain to her
The maelstrom you have made out of me.
How do I explain...
The beast inside me of me.
How do I explain...
Why you decided to leave...?
How do I explain to a stranger...
That I am a stranger to everyone, including me?

How ridiculous it is
to think me and you
there was never a reason to be true
where did everything end up
im outside and youre blue
i paint portraits and poems
he wouldn't like this. god. cobain.
jack **** is what i got
some compliments that didnt add up
you want nothing and thats still a lot
where do we even end up
this isnt what i wanted
we dont mesh, the colors on your collar
and the sweat on my breast
was there sometime out there you felt the insecurity of my flesh
i hear birds chirp now, your season gone
i ask myself how i let things get so wrong
play acoustic until fall asleep
fast and weak i take a seat
wish again you were here with me in this park
next to the street
i feel you even when youre not here
not sure if its you or a ghost i feel near
i want you to be what you can never have
you want me for my years on letterman
wheres your angle
you do nothing for free
(you aren't jack ****
you can't **** with me)

I had met you once before
Years ago in high school halls
With backpacks and bustling teenagers
Acne and doubt plaguing the lot of us
A place we said we all hated
But the figurative watering hole
Of our small Texas town
I paid you little to no attention
Too self-absorbed to see you
And seemed to have lost you in the shuffle
Of weary letterman teens

I grew up
And out of that Texas town
Fell in and out of love
And struggled on my own two feet
Trying to find a home and heart that fit

I met you again
In the airport at luggage claim
With backpacks and bustling people
Fatigue and nerves plaguing the lot of us
A moment I played in my mind
Over and over again
And when I finally saw you
Bright-eyed and in love with me
I found you again in the shuffle
Of weary jet-lagged passengers

I fell in love with you
In that very moment
And as you held me against you
I found the home
I was always searching for

It was a cold winters night
Right outside the town of Bridgestone
The place was silent except for the old saloon
A new face appeared just the other day, he spent most nights in there
Some gazed at the fanciness of his clothes
Other scorned at the six shooter on his hip
I talked with him a little, he told me he was moving on with life, searching for something new and bright
He only planned to be here for a few nights, wasn't looking to pick a bone
So I gathered supplies, scurried a horse, and made sure he was gone by next afternoon
The next day is when the platoon came looking for him, I told them, the man was headed just south of Rabbit's Hair
Little did they know the man was traveling north to Letterman's Grove
Let this be a lesson kid, I may not have a story to tell, but this rusty old six shooter and gold is a most generous tip.

one....
two....
three....

you and i each took a horn of the bull and rode off into the proverbial sunset where angel dust is the reason our eyes are opening back up after the re-
set. set. set. set.
the sun was hanging out with the moon at all times and the dish never ran away with the spoon but they continued to live in the limelight

which was the color purple
and the only frightening thing was that death was all around us
but he was grounded from taking anything that wasn't his to begin with so we played in the mud and rolled in the dirt until our skin was as black as tar and we looked like monsters who didn't know we were

just
the
same

and the fireman called for rain because he was trying to stop the sun from burning out; we didn't mind and we danced in the fallout until our bodies were sore and we were clean again.
when the lightening hit we started to glow and you screamed about how fractions didn't make sense half of the time and i cried that's a third of the battle and you were already a forth of the way there. we split a fifth of whiskey and commented on the price of fingerpaints and letterman jackets

as we sat on the edge of the pier on the edge of the lake the river the sea
i told you i didn't know if you would ever be real to me and that i knew the ride was the journey but the war was being waged and i didn't want to bring you onto the battlefield anymore than you had to be
you sighed and explained to me that each battle must be fought one at a time and we would cross that landbridge once we got there

we sailed off together in a lifeboat on the way to timbuktu while i sang to you softly:
"your shadow follows me all day making sure that i'm okay and we're a million miles away"
you held my hand as my feet dangled in the water
we laughed again.

Well, such an embarrassment are the occasions when my ego grasps and glides my pen.

But I grow increasingly frustrated with confusion between those who buy eggs and those who raise hens.  

With a line of support, the ego immediately looks to those who doubt.

In my freshmen season, there were flashes of talent but none that should alarm the scouts.

But you see, I’ve closed the gyms, I’ve exhausted the film, I’ve crammed & crammed for standardized tests.

If that wasn’t enough, I’ve dramatically reduced physical labor, emphasizing recovery and rest.

The freshman has been dismissed as crazy, irrational, behind the curve, the new inferior peer.

Which is fine, long as no one should cry uncle or play victim my senior year.