We went to the
humane society
to get acquainted
with some cats
and we met a cat
who was returned
after five years in
a loving home
because he was
an inconvenience
and found another
labeled
"hidden treasure"
which was an
awfully nice
way of saying
that this cat had
been abused
and would never
be a 'normal' cat
a plaything for your
kids
a trophy for your
instagram
and in his bleary
eyes as he tried to hide
behind a scratching
post to avoid the fingers
of strangers poking through
the safety of his plexiglass
in his eyes I saw
more humanity
than I'd ever seen or felt
in my life
and I sent a silent
prayer to my intermittent god
hoping that he found a home
and happiness
because he never did anything wrong
other than be born into a world
where the value of life
is on a sliding scale
based on agenda and feeling
rather than the simple
acknowledgement
that life needs
to flourish

And I cried in the car
on the way home
because I have no space for
him in my life
and I wept
over the pain
and panic in his eyes
that is so easily recognizable
after you've seen the same
eyes in your mirror
for too many years
and all I can do I rewrite
the narrative for my cats,
rescued from poor circumstance
and impulse
and give them life
and help them flourish
and breathe into their
very existence
a notion of security and hope
and warmth
and love

My words feel
bloated again
and Regina Spektor
is on the TV singing
about love and heartbreak
better than I ever could
and I have no piano
accompaniment
to make this hurt
seem somehow romantic
and somehow beautiful
instead of the
ugly rasping
that has rubbed my
thoughts raw
with memories
of lost times
and fantasies
of reconnecting
and it hurts
extra to realize
that of all these
people
these best friends
and loved ones
lost to time and circumstance
I realize that
there's not
a **** thing
that I want to talk
to them about
and if we're being honest
here
because poets are always
honest
I miss the idea
of these people
but not the people
themselves.

I had listened to
the song
on repeat
eight times
already
sitting in the
bowling alley
lot
moving only
to restart the
song
as I desperately
tried to get the
gentle carefree
snow outside
to fall in time
with the pieces of my
shredded heart
but gravity had different
plans and where the
snow stopped on the ground
I fell through
until I reached warmth
from the core,
Earth's heart
and mine beat in
synchronicity
for one beautiful
eternity
and at that point

I shut off the music
and drove home

The lady at the store
was complaining of
global warning
and how the snow
the snow outside
yes look there
that snow shouldn't
belong
now should it
and I had only
stepped inside
to warm my face
because my soul
couldn't reach my extremities
but that global warming
that climate change
she said it can't be real
and she love love loves the cold
and I took note and
thanked her for her time
and went off into the cold
because at least the wind
has no shame about trying
to tear your face off
if you disagree

I'm really trying
not
to be jaded and
disappointed by
everyone else
as they tread water
flinging political
tweets
like daggers
and passive facebook
statuses like
gospel
and I can't help
but feel
disgusted
at everything
all
McDonalds and chrome
shiny and beautiful
shades of dried blood
on our hands and lips
and all I can do
I pretend I'm not a part
of that
as my car is littered
with fast food garbage
and my thoughts littered
with judgements against
people I've never met
and I write
poetry
instead of bleeding
out
because this feels
just a little bit
better

"she looks like she's got her life together"

"I think he wants to fail me"

"I haven't studied for a test since middle school"

"I don't love him like that but he's nice to keep around"

"Well she got what she deserved"

and so on
and so on
and so on
ad nauseam

It's funny
how much poetry
I write
just because
I want someone
to talk to

It's not about
you
necessarily
but it is about
the words
and the patterns
arising every single
day with new
old thoughts
and speculations
over the nature of
everything
and we call it poetry
endlessly repeating
ourselves for that
ever out-of-reach
notification bubble
bright red like a heart
to show us we are loved
by strangers
and I can't stop craving
the flavor of that
particular
carrot we call
validation
because all words
and thoughts
need an appreciative
audience

He's making
a list
he's checking
it twice
he's here to tell you
that Bud Light tastes
best when served over
ice

Merry Christmas®

santa has been
hired by the NSA
and [insert threat here]
is on the naughty list
this year so
you'd better keep your
nose to the Good Book
or else santas elves
are going to have to
enforce martial law
on you and your little
protesting buddies
for resisting the
american dream

all
Coca-Cola Red
Lily-White
and
Bud Light Blue

contradiction
followed by
contradiction
with

u n u s u a l
spacing

endless metaphor
describing pain
and injustice

wash
rinse
repeat

you're a poet, harry

The man
on the tv
grew a mustache
and I
wonder whose
permission he had
to get to
be allowed
to do so
as long as it doesn't
clash
against the throbbing
backdrop of green and blue
while neon gods
play America's game
and Christmas is in between
trying to sell me Bud Light

Scarecrow's burning
live in Technicolor
and there's now
a crowd gathered
talking in oxymorons
all frozen fire
and burning ice
but none of them
seem to have the
answers
or if they do
it's being kept
secret
because mysteries
hold ash better
than any drooping
eyelid on
the waves of slumber
borne ceaselessly
to a hopeful shore

The night came
screaming
across the sky
faster than
the sun was
dying
to meet the horizon
like I was dying
to meet
the ideas in your mind
and all the curvature
of your soul
and all the bits
and pieces of
space dust orbiting
those eyes that
can't quite focus on
anything other than
the horizon where
dreams and hopes
await the sunrise
to bring nourishment
and the eventual bloom
of reality
with creeping roots
dancing down our
brain stems
and into the
bottoms of our
hearts
where the truly good
in this world lies

Monday again
and the wheel
is flinging mud
and my sister is
frantic because
my brother might
be joining the
Church of
Satan
which isn't much
of a
threat
in and of itself
and I need to go
grocery shopping
but instead
I'm trying to put
my stress
into verse
as a means of
emptying
the overflowing cup
that holds all of these
thorny blessings

The sun was
a bit too bright
today
probably because
so many people were
seizing the day with
unbridled optimism and
taking the life that they
so rightfully deserve
and it made it rather difficult
for me to remain in a bad mood
until I was blinded by the sun
while trying to drive on the freeway
from here to there
with no clue as to which
was which

It's not about
fiery passion
challenging the sun
but rather about
the moments
during movies where
she gently elbows
me in the side and
points
with a smirk
to tell me that the
man on the screen
being particular about
his food reminds
her of me

quiet nudges
have moved mountains
more than fire ever
could
in our journey together

I love having
positive people
around me
all sunshine
and rainbows
so that my tired cells
can feed and thrive
until I get sunburned
and push them away
because I am a
delicate
*******
flower

All too often
I find myself
looking at my roots
and remembering
the warmth
the comfort
the stability
of the tilled earth
from where I began
where our roots ran
free through the cotton-dried
soil
instead of curling unto themselves
for warmth creating endless
loops and portholes
through which the past
scorched earth
looks greener
than the rolling hills
of the kettle moraine

Tired again
perhaps depressed
or maybe just bummed
but I can't really tell
as I walk through this haze from
one dream
to
the next
and people are
starting to blur
and are as
melodramatic as
ever and
really I
just need a bit
of sleep
so that I can shake off
a bit of the dust that has
accumulate in my
eyes from being
awake all too
much

I once knew a woman
who did jigsaw puzzles
and it was interesting
how
when she would finish them
she would glue all the
pieces together
as a sort of testament to
having conquered chaos
and made order out of
scraps
and I think perhaps
she was on to something
as I see how desperately
people long for
the stability of Facebook
photo albums
and friend lists
stuck in perfect
suspense
and free from the world
and all you have to do
is look at your glued
puzzle collection and say
"I have conquered this day"

It was misty
and gloomy
as though we had
lost rights to the sun
because we'd
misbehaved
and I got out of
my car to try and talk
to someone in charge
but the second my door
opened,
huge
heavy
raindrops
fell from the skies,
spat by angels at our
collective sin
and I tried to tell them
they had the wrong guy
but the rain just went
into my mouth and
made me choke
and I ran into the library
newly baptized and shivering
and an old man
all dry and sweatered
asked me
"It's it raining out there still?"

I'm more tired
than not
these days
and the man on
the television
tells me that
this means I am
successful
because to be busy
is to not be idle
and being idle
is a sin
so I am exhausted
all the time now
and I hope that everyone
will be proud
of the bags under my
eyes in which I carry
everyone else's
problems and solutions
because to be busy
is to not be idle
and being idle is
a sin

He spent all his
time
digging holes in his soul,
deep wells where others could
throw in their coins
and wish for better
things and while
it never made him
happy it did make
him awful rich
and he found that
the key to happiness
was shaped an awful lot
like a 40 foot yacht
and a supermodel wife

I hear Buddha
whispering something
in the corner
both profound
and simple
(not that the two are mutually exclusive)
and I'm sitting here
not raging
I don't "rage"
at anything
but I do find this world
so
so....

Unsatisfactory

But I'm not sure why
since things are pretty
okay right now
all things considered
and we must remember
to consider
all things
like
the lobster
the children
the inevitable heat-death of the universe
and rejoice
in our abilities to consider
and to evolve
things like the
poetry we write
by adding creative
spacing
as a flourish for
simple words
that feel profound when
we write them
but when we read them
they are as obvious
as they ever were.

They're all a bit
fuzzy around the
edges,
what with the constant
flux in personalities
and tastes
and it's strange to
watch them try to freeze
the liquid in their souls
so as to have something solid
to hold onto in the rocking
of the seas
and maybe I notice that because
it's a reflection of me
or maybe the secret is
that when I look at people

I don't see them at all.

He wasn't much
to look at
all raging
against mediocrity
trying to make sense
of the hurts in the world
by seeing how much
pain he could tolerate
and how many others
could bear
that pain with him

Look around, kid,
and breathe deep
because everything
that has ever happened
has led to this moment right
now
and I know it's all sorta scary
and that you feel small
in the narrative
but understand
that everything that will
ever happen
will be eventually
tied back to you
someday
so get out there
and start creating
the kind of future
the kind of narrative
where you are so much more

Human beings
being human
always looking
with despair at
the sheen
from which they
stumbled
always swearing to be better
than the previous people
as a means of rebellion
against existence itself

I am
and
I am not
leaving the
impression
of a flickering flame
of a candle
never ignored
but always forgotten
as a the light
in the cave
on a deadman's switch
always threatening
but never burning out
as we piled
on to feel warmth

The problem with
living
in a sort of
fantasy world
where people
live like
fireworks
all passion
and fury
burning eternally
after the story
ends is
just that

the story ends

and you're left sitting
on the couch you
bought on a five dollar
budget
with no adventure
lurking over
the horizon
other than the
commute to work
the next day
in hopes that
something
amazing
will happen

I do not
know
what I struggle with
every day
but I do
know that I struggle
otherwise
I wouldn't be
so worn out
from waking up

Why is it that
we romanticize
self-destruction
and buy so heavily
into the archetype
of
tortured artist
tortured soul
and since when did suffering
start to be used
as validation
and survival
and resilience
ignored
as we try to
collect and count
our scars,
only trading them
when something is
to be gained

historically speaking
lobster was food
for the poor
and carp and
dandelions were
staples in our diets
and now that time
has passed
lobster
is a delicacy
and carp and
dandelions are
considered
nuisances
all the while
we seem to forget
that at the end
of the day
lobster
carp
and dandelions
are just
a crustacean
a fish
and a plant
that all exist in their
own right
without any inherent
meaning other than
what we outwardly
project

All I can do is
say the words
over and over
again to show
that the power
to keep fighting
is in me and
burning enough
to keep me warm
in this frozen world

Most days
I exist solely
as a rebellion
against the countless
dead
whose numbers I will
eventually join

I write my best
poetry
when I'm at my worst
with the words I am
able to call out
while my head
goes under the
water again
and again
forming a beautiful
narrative that
attracts an audience
who pay no attention
to the person
causing all the ripples
and splashing sounds
casting sharp notes
to contrast the laughter
on the boardwalk
and I find myself
arguing a case
for meaninglessness
because that's the
only way I can
purge and create
these words
that so spectacularly
resonate with
those who need them

I am not sacrificing
myself because I'm
a savior
I'm doing it because
it feels good.

I'm not losing my
grip on reality
though it may
seem that way
with how abstract
my writing is
starting to
become
on the contrary
I somehow have
managed to
get a death grip
around the throat of
reality and the harder
I stare into the now-turning-blue
face of life itself
the more and more
nebulous it gets

Gone are the
didactic binaries
of right and wrong
and good and evil
and love and hate
it all just sort of
blends together
in a sticky narrative
of just what it means
to be alive and well
carving meaning
out of the universe's
hide in order to keep
warm against
the endless chilling
gusts of strangers
sighing and God
shaking his head
at the fact that
we stunt our
lives by
trying to contain
it in vessels
that hold the
organic flow of existence
in stasis for long
enough that we can
look at all the peculiarities
of this world
and classify them
without the risk
of living among
fellow human beings

why do we cling so
desperately to the past
and the ghosts of memories
of those with whom we
no longer speak
is it because they stay still?
because the ground underneath
our feet is constantly
shifting and rolling
with each new ideal
and we hold on to the flickering
still-life images
of summers long gone
as a means of anchoring ourselves
against the storm?
there has to be so much
more to this life other
than doggy-paddling
from buoy to buoy
memory to memory
endlessly bracing for
the next wave
the next wave
the next wave
until we finally
reach dry land
and can rest easy
on the beaches
of longevity
relaxing in the sand
made up of the bones
of those who just
couldn't make it
to the next
flashing
lighthouse

I write poetry
as journal entries
since I am all out
of secrets to keep
after the birds
I talked to
flew off with
the very notion
of trust
and here I struggle
against the idea
of identity

I read through
my recent stuff
again and I
appear to be
profoundly
depressed
over something
or other
but the words
sound nice
as I write
about my
waning hope
and I suppose that's
all a poet
can really ask for

Which brings
us to the
issue
of Deuteronomic
thinking
and nothing is
all one way
or another
all ruled by
the things
we must do to
get by

I can't know
if God notices
us

I don't know
if I'd want
Him to

All I've ever done
is recount the
permanent blessing
bestowed by a homeless
woman
outside the seven-eleven
with my slurpee communion
and a bag of snacks
that were all junk food
because sugary
treats taste best
alongside chaos
and I haven't
had good luck
since
she called upon
God
to bless and keep
me after I gave her
a dollar

Maybe I'm just
getting tired
and overworked
and overwhelmed
and this is wearing
my faith
in humanity
and an intermittently-existent
God
thin and frail
and like the Autumn
leaves
I'm just another strong
breeze away from
floating off into
the gray sky

Save me a spot
next to you
on the next bus
out of town
as I'd rather go
anywhere with
you than
stay here
looking into
the faces of strangers
and trying to see
the divine

It sneaks up on you
tasteless
breathless
and you suddenly realize
that maybe teaching
a fish to climb
isn't going to solve
the turbulent waters
within

It's not that I'm a
pessimist
or that I've been hurt
so much
that I've decided that
glorification of suffering
would be more validating
than seeking comfort in others
I don't think the world is
a fundamentally broken place
nor do I think that people
are broken too
People are what I need them
to be at times and
the world is all part of a greater
narrative
and the truth is just
whatever is useful
at that moment
and right now
it all is veering
towards being
meaningless

The world moves
in shades of gray
around me
and people aren't
one way
or another
they just sort of
are
and they sometimes
do great things
and sometimes
terrible
but they themselves
are just shades of gray
arguing over who
makes the best
stormy sky

It's Wednesday
and I realized
I haven't taken
a breath since
the Sunday
before my birthday
and the only way
I found out was that
people kept asking
"Why are you so blue?
How can we help you
be happy?"
but I am happy
I am so very happy
at least that's what I
was thinking while
my head was spinning
against the earth
due to oxygen
deprivation

In our attempts
to remain unknown
it's no surprise
how long we're
alone

great whales
swim through my dreams
and Ahab is there
but he always screams
when he loses his leg
and I can't help but
hold my breath when the
whales go back under
the water to see if I'd
be able to follow them
and live
just for a little bit
out of reach
of the sunlight

"You look like a California Boy"
the Albanian man said
"What does that mean, a California Boy?"
I asked
"I don't know."
he said,
"But I said it so you figure out
what it means and tell me."
All I knew is that I was still wearing
a sweater that I had put on in the morning
when it was still only fifty degrees out
and that I was starting to bake a little
in the strange, eighty-degree October
sunlight