Blocked and unfriended
blocked and unfriended
blocked and unfriended
is this truly the death
sentence we make it out
to be?

It fascinates me how pervasive
technology has become
and how a friend request
gives way to knowing
every intimate detail
about each other's lives

Congrats on that baby, by the way
Yes it looks just like the father!
(No it doesn't, it looks like an alien
because it is a newborn baby)

But when we cut the umbilical
cords that we have attached to each other
for emotional sustenance,
what are we saying?

I don't want you to know
about my life!
We aren't friends online
so you can't permanently
eavesdrop on my eventful
and much-more-exciting-than-yours life!

And you should feel bad
about that.
You're being left out.
I don't value you enough
to let you be
a bystander
an extra
in my life hoping for a little screentime.

What a creative way to hurt each other.

There's nothing
noble
about suffering without
change.
We do not
cheer
as buildings burn
and crumble to ash,
we cheer the ones that
stay standing in face of
adversity
and fire.
It's okay to become ash
but to stay in there
and not rise up
as a phoenix
is not why
your heart
has so much
fire burning within

you spend so much
time
writing poems
in the form of
love letters
to memories
that you can't be
one hundred percent
sure
ever existed
in the first place

We scooted along down
main street
past the bars where the drunks
and their secrets stand in
doors and clouds of cigarette smoke
and the cops walk through
"just to make sure there's no
funny business"
and up the road we went
hearts beating in time with
flashing street lights
passing a jewelry establishment
billing itself as
"the hardware store for women"
even though we knew it's already been
sold and would be shutting down within
six months
and we crawled through the great
oblivion
of main street at night
past the neon cavalcade
of fast food joints
and their ******* contests
of who is out selling who
and the billions of burgers
that plague the conscience
of nobody during this great obesity epidemic
and a police officer started following us because we stared
too long at the bars perhaps and so
we had to make a quick
getaway to a purveyor of tacos
to pretend we were up to no-good
just to give the boring police
in this boring town
something to do for a few minutes before
they had to go back to watching the
drunks and their secrets
and keeping an eye out for funny business
at the bars

We took turns
placing headphones
on each other and
plugging them into
our hearts in hopes
that we would be able
to hear all the things
we should have said

Pitch dark rumbling
as the plane crawled
into the night sky
away from you once again

and out the window I saw
blinking
another plane perhaps
taking other lives along
their given paths

and I looked again
and saw only the stars
against the blackened infinity
and in those stars
I saw only you

We have all this
technology in the world
and yet we still haven't found
a way to dampen the pain
of putting my best half
on a plane
bound for the other side
of the country

He sat
writing
writing
writhing
slithering out
words from a
heart
half functioning
half patchwork
all bleeding
and trying to find
the best words to call
for the downfall of
the old ideals of love
and happiness
because if he didn't have it
then it didn't have value
and nobody knows how
burned you can get
when you crawl into
the center of the sun
for warmth

I am a storyteller
and my life is a series of dusty open books
and I'll tell you whatever you want to know
if you ask.
My only request
is that you do not use my
life
as a litmus test
to gauge how bad a time
you're having these days.

"War is good for the economy
like cannibalism is nutritious"
I sent that text,
knowing that you were a rebel
and trying to show that
we were of like minds.
I waited,
hoping for some sort of response
in agreement,
especially after you went to the
protests in Madison.
You wore your political
leanings in a patchwork
across your canvas
backpack that my family
couldn't afford.

Instead you sent back
" cannibalism gives you brain worms
and war boosts the economy I don't
get it."

I knew you were lying
and realized how
badly I wanted
to join your *******
pretentious friend group.

Maybe I'm a *******.
Maybe that's why I write
poems that are open letters
the the skeletons
that shriek at me
from the closet in
my mind.

We stood in line for twenty minutes behind a family whose baby wouldn’t stop staring at me. Naturally, I waved at the baby and the father sneered at me and moved so that the baby faced the other way. It was probably for the best because I have no idea how to entertain children past making faces and looking like a fool and seeing as I was surrounded by people on all sides, that wouldn’t end well. When we finally paid admission, they stamped the word SMILE on the back of each of our right hands in ink that looked suspiciously like blood. But my brother was ready to get on some rides and so we entered Joyland, a dinky amusement park hidden within the largest actual park in town. Everything was funnel cake and screaming children and entirely different songs being played from each ride giving the air this glossy, almost flexing texture. Joyland has apparently been around since forever and maintenance was likely last done shortly after the park was built. On one of the rides, a security bar popped off and the machine started making a horrible thudding sound when our cart was parallel to the ground but the ride operator was too busy shamelessly checking out the *** of his coworker to notice and I pondered, before what I assumed would be my dramatic and terrible death, how often this had happened before over the years and how silly it would be to die over some pastel colored short-shorts. But that’s how these things happen. “No more noble deaths” we had all agreed on at some point and we put down our swords and took up shovels for the earth and everything was good until someone looked at us wrong and there we were again staring at short-shorts and letting an ancient ride disintegrate with people on it because seeing and hearing two different things at the same time is not something that gets covered during the training days at Joyland.

through circumstance once
I ended up at a punk concert
where I saw a middle-aged
man dressed as a greaser
complete with a leather jacket
and spikes
and I felt under dressed for the occasion
and uncomfortable in my skin
until he punched some kid
with a mohawk in the face
and was asked to leave

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

He liked to throw
rocks
at the sun and
at kids
who had never stopped to
question how they
had gotten their names
because he was sure both
were out to cause him suffering
by bringing joy to the eyes
of strangers
and all he ever saw was a dark
reflection illuminated by
an infinity of setting suns
against his eyes
all glazed over with
chronic daydreams
of being able to play
hero
in a world without consequences

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

I wandered down
the street in
a Manhattan daydream
pretending to be in
a town to which I've never gone
imagining the boring
small-town architecture
to be skyscrapers
and the strangely viable
candy shop down the street
to be something that isn't
the embodiment of the
hokey nature of this town
and all I want is some noise
someone to yell at me from their
car and call me an *******
instead of the vultures who
stand outside the bars
with their cigarettes and secrets
who get all quiet when you walk by
because their conversations are just
that important in this
small town
where nothing happens
and the pulse of the city is
a straight flat line
because any deviation
would cause our local
herald of the free world
to sit down and write
and form everyone's opinion
about just how great it is to
never change,
and that only a fresh coat of paint
is ever acceptable around here

Looking for patterns
in the blowing wind
and waiting for a sign
is a waste of time
for you are made of
star dust
and the wind is moved
only by you.

Sometimes late
at night when I'm
mostly sure no one
is watching,
I like to close my eyes
and breathe deeply
through my nose in hopes
that maybe I could catch
the comforting smell
of death in the air
because decay is the only
thing that reminds me
of you and
your crumbled leaf
psyche,
a reminder that
we'll all be dust some day

Like a broken
copy of Wizard of Oz
on repeat,
watching this situation
is seeing the Wicked Witch,
(Who has problems of her own, mind you.)
ask if the Scarecrow wants
a little fire
over and over again
and he just stands there
and barely moves
and I understand that it's
just a movie and that he wasn't
supposed to move but he
could have done anything to
stop the burn
the second time around
How about a little fire,
Scarecrow?
I've watched you burn up again and again
and yet the film keeps repeating
itself
and all I want to do
is click my ruby slippers
and get the **** out of Oz.

A friend of mine
told me they don't
like to write poetry
because it's too dark
and people tend to
panic when they read it.
When they send poetry
to their friends,
the responses are usually
"are you okay?
let's hang out
I miss you"
As though to make up
for lost time and apply
social interaction to
staunch the bleeding
that has formed such
turbulent verses.

But perhaps if those things
were said more regularly
without provocation,
their poetry wouldn't be so dark.

I had a great aunt
named Karen
"had" being the
operating term here
and she exists in our
family as a cautionary
tale
because she tried
to pray away
her cancer instead of
seeking treatment
and she died
eventually
and some called it
an act of mercy
and some called it
a **** shame
but either way
at the end of the day
the cancer
stopped.

I need an archaeologist
who is willing to sift
through the rubble
of my life
and piece together
the narrative
of my existence
and brush off
the old and dusty
artifacts that
I've forgotten to
look at in years
and tell me
how to brush off the
cobwebs and spiders
without getting
bit.

All poetry is drunk poetry
but some of it doesn't
involve
any alcohol at all

It's not that
I have troubles
with people
it's more that
I spend far too
much time
putting words
to made-up
fantastic landscapes
and scenarios
because I find
people so much
more interesting
when they're hiding
in the rain

Though I am
diametrically opposed
to looking into other
people's vehicles,
I couldn't help but
notice that this one
in the library parking lot
had eleven welcome mats
in the back seat and it was
a welcome sight indeed
but then someone started
yelling at the church across
the street
perhaps the holy spirit had
finally arrived in all its glory
or maybe it's just tax season and Jesus
is coming to collect
but I could sell this painting
at the library
it's a giant cat all neon orange
and green
or perhaps I'll just head
home since the library closes
early on Saturdays

I took a walk through
an old park that used to
be important to me
and the air still smelled
slightly fruity and rich with
wildlife
and I found that one
Very Special Tree
in which I had carved the initials
of myself and a girl I had loved at the time
and as the tree has grown
the letters have become blurred
with scar tissue
and are now unreadable
which is probably for the best
all things considered

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

He just wanted
to fly
so that he could
escape this place
and see everything
from on high.

Last time I saw him
he was clutching
a pair of wings,
one paper mache
the other still bleeding
and I prayed that
he had just found one
and hadn't gone hunting
angels.

He spent the evening
talking with a poor Australian accent
to impress a strange girl
who couldn't decide
whether or not
she had a boyfriend
and on our way home
he told me about how
he liked to walk closer to the curb
in case he had to
valiantly
shove someone
out of the way
of a car
that had careened out of control
and hopped the curb
and he would martyr himself
to save those around him
if only because it would
save him from his
greatest fear
of dying and not
being known.

it is easy to hoard
scars and hope
that the collection
would deter others
from wanting to provide
new ones
but eventually all that
scar tissue
binds up and
you stop being able
to move

I don't edit
my poetry
for the most part
it's first draft
final draft
and a writer friend of
mine
tells me that this makes the
poetry more real
and perhaps I'm
inclined to agree
in that it's more real
in the same way that
blood
at a crime scene is infinitely
more real than the grainy
photos that make it to the
papers with the chalk outlines
and the grayscale
acting as formalities,
muddying up the
action and excitement

Camels are
in fact
my favorite animal
not that you asked
but I love how
beautifully efficient they are
and I prefer the dromedary
to the bactrian camel
but that's only because
I rode a bactrian camel at
a fair when I was a kid
and they sat me between the
humps and every step the camel took
led to my head being bounced
forward
then back
then forward
then back
against each ****
and I spent more time shielding
myself
than actually enjoying the ride.

I saw some
sand hill cranes
on the soccer field
on my way into campus
today and the male
with all the fire on his head
was dancing in a circle
to get the attention
of the female who
was too busy rooting
in the grass to be
concerned
and the poor guy
looked like such a
fool
all long legged
and beautiful
that we all mistook
him for a lonely
college freshman
except lovesick college freshmen
don't get to fly off at the end of
the day

but sand hill cranes
don't get to fall in love
either
as far as we know
so maybe today it's still
one notch better to be
human and
lonely

Which box do I check
when born an anomaly
a paradox
to a white supremacist
father
and a Mexican
mother
and not looking
much the part for either
half
since I don't speak Spanish
and don't like Nascar
I reside in a gray
area
like the empty space
between the boxes for
white
and
Hispanic
and I feel like an
outsider to both cultures.

I woke up this morning
with the sneaking suspicion
that I was missing out on
something special today.

What was it?
Another manufactured holiday
from another manufacturer of
greeting cards?

Had I blinked for too long
and skipped all the way to the next holiday?
What was next, anyway?
Father's day?
No reason to celebrate that.

But hey, fourth of July
is coming up real soon
and we can all gather and
watch
colorful explosions
expressing more than we can
with our words.

I would like
to believe that all writers
know this feeling,
the one you get when you're in
the zone
and the words flow naturally
and you're in tune
with the universe
and the vibrations
of your soul
reach out into the
infinite
and come back with the
forces of creation
and we become the shapers of
worlds and words
and that
sort of power
is intoxicating
and that sort of buzz
is what keeps us coming
back to our
infinitely unwritten
universes

This coffee shop
serves its tea
in small lightbulb
shaped carafes
and I appreciate that
because
all the best ideas
have been had
over a cup of tea

Given all the things
humanity is doing
on the land in the name
of Gods and Science
is it really that bad of an idea
to want to live on the open sea
where at least the
sharks look you in the eye
before tearing you in half

I am terrible
at taking compliments.
Not for any major lack
of faith in myself.
After all,
I am my
number one fan

Unfortunately
when you spend so much
of your existence
surrounded by
angry
negative people
you tend to be
in a perpetual state
of tension.

Eternally bracing
against the inevitable
"but"
The qualifier
letting you know that you are good
but
you'll never be good enough
in their eyes.

Far worse than the pain
caused by that
is seeing those who
truly care
hurt
because you shrug
off compliments
as a means of protecting
yourself.

The line between protecting
yourself and opening
to others is a thin one.
And it's one we all
have to cross eventually.

And rest assured,
you did it with grace,
but...

I went on a short trip
to a nearby port town
nestled on a lake that's
greater than any of your
lakes
and this town's identity is
inextricably linked to the
notion of being a port town
and everything is all
lighthouses and blue

I ended up at a deli
by the marina and
paid ten dollars
for a corned beef sandwich
that shouldn't have cost
that much
but maybe part of the extra cost
was paying for the view of seagulls plucking
dead fish out of the water
that was being endlessly rolled
by the late winter winds
and just like how all the other
restaurants were closed
because us food workers
need rest on Mondays,
the wind kept Spring at bay
for one day longer.

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

If you think about it,
being angry all the time is
a pretty great loophole
if you don't want to put in the
effort of growing up,
all you have to do is
react
react
react
to whatever is going on around you
and while the rest of the world moves
and creates and forges forward into
eternity,
you will be left behind
with the Hindenburg
and Herostratus
trying to burn
and you can't tell what's accidental anymore
only knowing that the fire hurts like hell
and ain't nobody around to give you water.

It is often difficult
to pick oneself up
after a tumble.
Especially when the gravity
of the world
matches the gravity
of the situation,
all you can do sometimes
is allow yourself to fall,
to your knees,
eyes skyward,
but nobody is promised
a God ****** thing in life
other than the fact that
deep down,
hidden
and ignored,
there is a power for survival.
A need to carry on,
if only to spit in the faces of fools
and the world
and say,
"You're ****** right I'm still here."
and no matter how shredded
how tattered
how worn our hearts become,
they still beat and burn and stand up against the world.
But,
We must never forget the ones
to whom the world got first.

The tide is high
on this downward spiral
but I'm not seasick yet
despite riding the endless
current
and staring into the belly
of a whirlpool
and waiting for that
abyss
to stare back

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 stories you tell
and the stories
you live
remain endlessly
untitled
in their retellings
only to be quantified
and labeled by those
who can only read them
but never experience
how they truly went

Is it really
any wonder that
our ancestors
looked at the
celestial sphere
they saw the seemingly
random array of stars
and instead of feeling
meaningless created
a narrative of
constellations
flinging
Orion
Taurus
and Ursa
at the temple walls
that make up our
night sky,
ever moving but
staying the same

I can taste the cheap beer
and hear the people screaming
to be heard over the bass-driven
music being blasted by a DJ
even though I'm too afraid to go
out in case I run into one
of the many ghosts of my pasts

Wash off
the blood
it isn't time
to be reborn.
Best thing to do
right now
is point your feet
towards home.
We're all pioneers
of stolen salvation
doing our best
with what flows easiest.
Blood and water.

These days they both
taste the same to me.

Strangely enough
I didn't dread today like
all those years before
but that's probably because
today finally has meaning other
than possession and control
than bowing down and worshipping

I mean,
we bought the guy a truck one year
and he complained about how he didn't
like the color of green

but I digress
as father's day finally has some
significance and in the
afterglow of traditional ideals
we went fishing all day
and talked about stuff
as equal men
and a man I only met a couple years back
became my father
and the one who birthed me is
nowhere to be found.