One hundred poems
one hundred fractured thoughts
spawned by less than one hundred heartbreaks
but I suppose a city hit by a magnitude 8
earthquake
is worse off than one hit by one hundred
at the level of magnitude 2.

One hundred poems
one hundred running narratives
all telling a story that's some truth
some lie
and a whole lot of pain.

One hundred poems
and someday I'll be one hundred years old
and tell a story to a stranger on a park
bench in which I describe how writing
can help the soul mend itself.

twenty four
days
since thoughts met
action
met data
met words
and I don't know
how or why I ever stopped writing.

I remember how
you got upset over
the fact that I didn't cry when
we reconnected after several years
apart
and I still think
about how absurd that
is to me
because there's no way in hell
that after two marriages
and countless jobs
that you hadn't encountered
a situation in which the narrative
in your mind
did not match up with
how things unfolded in your life
and what do tears do anyway?
Sobbing in a George Webb's
would only make the desolate
atmosphere even worse.

A friend of mine
died some years back
while trying to do a U-turn
and I found out secondhand
through gossip
"Did you hear that she died?"
"Why is everyone saying RIP
about her on Facebook, what happened?"
and I will never forget the smirk
that you had when you told me.
Was it the juicy gossip that had you excited?
Was it the exposure to death?
All you had to say to me in the aftermath
was
"Oh I heard there were drugs in her system"
as you mimed out the action
of smoking a joint
as though being high
and wanting to dull your senses
for pleasure
meant that the accident
was somehow deserved
as punishment from above
and I'm not sure about heaven
but I know Hell was living with you.

I couldn't even cry at her funeral
because you were there.
I cried for her when another friend
died three weeks later.

I can't stop thinking
about a stranger
from my graduating class
who killed himself a while back
and how he was a quiet type
and had a cloud of hateful rumors floating
around him at all times and
a few years back he took a shotgun
and you know the rest
and all I can think about is how
there are a thousand people
on his memorial page on Facebook
all reminiscing about their time
with the boy they ignored
but all really cared about
deep down
and it makes me afraid of death
because I don't want to be remembered
on some page that gets filed away
with all the other pages and groups
and noise
about buy/sell/trade
and swap meets
and the latest crazy wrap thing.

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.

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

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.

New Year's Eve,
two breakups,
four deaths,
all within five months
and the depression
had taken a firm hold.
I sat hunched over
a computer spending
virtual time
at a virtual party
with strangers online
and he messaged me.
An ex of an ex,
is that how it goes?
he said he was sorry
for being rude before
and that he was upset
that she had taken me
to the same place she
had taken him on their first
date.
I told him I was sorry
for being rude
and that she had left me
because
"she didn't want the
responsibility of a relationship
anymore"
and he said that's what
she had told him
when she broke up with him
and we both shared a bittersweet
laugh
and parted ways,
a little less fractured than before.

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

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

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.

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

I appreciate the
fact that
I'm able to stand on
the corner here
and *****
and *****
and moan
and complain
and it's being
accepted as
poetry

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.

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.

I wonder if in
the far flung
future they'll
look at our poetry
here with the same
regard we had for
cave paintings in
the Chauvet Cave
looking on with
fascination
as we fling words
at the walls of our own caves
trying to make sense
of our individual stories
through art

I imagine a scenario
in my head where
my father stood in the doorway
before he left and pondered
his decision to leave

this of course
never happened
and he just unceremoniously took off
one day
(yawn. Am I right?)

but hey,
it's just another day
where we tell ourselves
the stories that make sense
or at least sound a bit less
boring in eyes of the audience
for whom we're constantly
performing

I remember the way
the alcohol
lubricated our words to each other
and she told me those three
poisonous words:
"I love you"
Except she added
my name to the end
to make sure I knew
how important it was.
"You're the only
person I've said that to,"
She told me that night
as we parted ways

The next day she told
me that it didn't count
and that she was being
dramatic
and I remained in place
amongst those
who function better
as shadows,
withering under her
light,
hoping to hear the
meaningless words
again.

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

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

My father
my hero
has crumbled to dust
and I really just
don't feel like vacuuming
tonight

how inconvenient, indeed

We are all planets
wanderers in an
endless waltz
across the canvases
of the cosmos
trying to find the
nearest star to
provide warmth
and light
to support the life
within and
we sometimes get
sunburned and
we sometimes get
frozen
but
the endless vacuum
seems a lot less desperate
when we are in synchronous
orbit with
one another

The hardest part
about living through
trauma
is when someone wants to
claim you
and use your suffering as
a badge of honor in that
they helped you get to a better
place and time in your life
but all you can hear is how
they introduce you to others
and leave all of your trauma
attached to your identity
instead of in the past where
it would die
and you know,
maybe this has a negative effect sometimes
like,
say,
for example,
a third grade boy introducing himself
to his teacher and immediately
explaining the sad tale of abuse and
people gone astray
because up to that point all he had
known was how to be injured,
how to be a trophy
for mother dearest
after all,
there can be no heroes
without victims
and some heroes find it better
to just keep a victim around to
be brought out and dance
to the same sad song
of the evil that men do.

"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

I.

It had taken something
like fourteen hours
for the devil
to make a cake for her
perfect daughter
all custard-filled
and chocolate
and I threw it down the stairs.

Not that I was trying
to do so.

II.

It's just that
I slipped
on a rogue sock that
had made its home
on the sixth step down
and when I lost balance
I instinctively extended
my legs and
l a u n c h e d
myself into the musty
cosmos of the basement

And for a brief moment,
I was Superman

III.

"Great, it's in the
******* carpeting"
was all she had to say
as I lay gasping on
the concrete floor of the
basement,
pain blooming in
my side
and for a moment
I thought that maybe I deserved
to the pain because
I broke the cake.

Either way,
I hid the pain in my side
for weeks
and haven't
eaten chocolate cake since.

IV.

My side doesn't hurt much
anymore.
And my soul burns a whole lot less.

here's to those who still
get drunk
and hang out on elementary
school playground sets
and tell each other
secrets overheard only
by the stars
because feeling a bit tipsy
is easier than
feeling nothing at all

I sometimes catch
my eyes and mind
latching onto the
Autumn leaves
all bathed in the
inherent frailty of
change between
life and death
and I remember how
beautifully you crumbled
like a forgotten statue
of a forgotten temple
with only rubble
and dead leaves
crunching underfoot
as reminders of what was.

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

Music pulsing in my ears
and even though it's a sixteen minute
song,
I feel like my time is running
out as I plod along
the near empty historic downtown
on a sunday evening
and I'm feeling antsy
and on edge
for some unknown reason.
I round the corner while
my eyes are distracted by
endless daydreams of heroism
and death
and I run into a bush
and in my panic I flail at the non-burning bush
to scare away any gods that are going
to tell me that I need to tell people
how to live their lives
but I had McDonald's for dinner,
so I really can't be trusted
with that sort of thing anyway.
All I'm left with is a scratched up hand
and a blank sky with the stars as
endless eyes
staring blankly at my hysteria.

I am aware
that I sometimes
write rambling
senseless
words with strange
spacing and indentation
and it's overall not very
good poetry
but it's a really
good way of cataloging
the thoughts that flutter in for a
moment or two like:

Whatever happened to
Emilio Estevez?

I could Google it, but I'm happier with
the mystery.

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.

I don't go
to bars.
Not that I have anything
against alcohol,
I just can’t drink because
my liver will immediately
fail
and **** me
and I’m far too young
and beautiful
to die from alcoholism.
Not to mention,
I’ve not made nearly
enough mistakes in my
life
to have earned the
right to die miserable at the bottom
of a glass.

So I don’t go to
the bars
as there is nothing
for me there to do
other than count
how many times
that guy said
I love you
to his friend
who took him there
to get over a
recent ex

It’s 1:22 am
and I’m sitting on the
patio furniture
of the restaurant above
which I live
and I can see a bar
down the road with
a regal sounding name
and we’re nearing
bar time
when all dreams end
and a lady comes out
stumbling
and loudly yelling to her friend
points at me
“What’s he doing?”
“What are you doing?”
and I wave and say
“Come over here!
I’ll write you a poem!”
and she hesitates
for a split second
and decides that
a buzzed ride home
would be less dangerous
than a conversation with
a stranger in the middle
of the night and a free
poem
but all poetry is free
and maybe she knew this
and I had fooled myself
by assuming my
words
would enrich her night.

It only happens
every now and again
where you meet someone who
seems to be almost magical
like when your blinker syncs up
with the song you’re listening to on the radio.
It’s not necessarily fate but you
can't help but wonder
as to whether or not the two
were designed to go together.

Like blinkers and songs
the two weren’t made for each other
but happen to function independently
and just sound good when running in parallel
which is more than can be said
for a lot of the people I know
who are searching
endlessly
for the perfect accompanying beat
to their words while
ignoring
the symphonies within.

We love the dead
more than ourselves
if only because
the dead sit still long
enough for our worship
and love to solidify
around them
ratifying them in the
cosmos
as a memory to rally around
because the people down here
on earth
are all moving too quickly
for love to stick
and the best moments
are the still ones
where we can wrap each other
up in the
honeyed cement
of our love
and just breathe
before the next thing comes
along and we have to go
dropping pieces
all along the way

When we split
it was three days
before my grandmother
died
and the blow was so great that
I couldn't stomach listening
to Andrew Bird
lest I hear the conversation
again
where you talked about how his
music
was for the "higher echelon of people"
and even though I thought this was
absurd
I didn't say anything because
I was so
determined
to make that failing relationship work
because if I couldn't fix the fact
that I heard a piece of my grandmother
dying each and every night
during the month of November
the very least I could do
would be to make the relationship
last so as not to suffer
too much loss all at once.

We continue to act as though
we humans were the first to
discover the beauty
of nature
and that the birds
haven't been singing
about it since the
first little Finch
chirped and created
music as we know it

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.

The statistical impossibility of our births is something that hurts even more when your parents aren't fit for the role as such and you grow up in this haze of if and when. Of "If I catch you, when I catch you", and you learn to run faster than any Olympian but you're too afraid of going to practice because you know your parents will be there and you are a prize, something to be marveled at, and you are breakable and replaceable and you know the second you do wrong, like when you lost the spelling bee on the word Massachusetts, they will be there for you. You will always remember that there are two T's at the end because there's no way to escape the brand on your soul of making a mistake in their eyes. Parents will always be there for you.

But so will vultures when you die.
But so will death, waiting for you to make a mistake.

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

I tend to suffer
from bouts of
paranoia
that only seem to
get worse as
my days get better
as though my
subconscious needs
something
anything
of which
I should be
afraid
to maintain
equilibrium

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

That bridge in your mind, I wonder
how often it is I wander across.
Or did it burn with the rest of our letters,
tattered remnants of the time that we both lost?
Now which way are we running aimlessly,
in hopes that our paths won't cross some day?
The stars had crossed, the moon had cracked,
on the day that you had gone away

As the sun finally sets on our Shakespearean tale,
you said that we shouldn't have to be ******* in a cause that
we both knew had no avail.

Now winter's come 'round again,
filling me some form of bitter clarity.
About the day we decided we'd tear our hearts out
with a special deliberate dexterity.
It's been quite some time now,
and we're both loving without regrets.
With the exception of those nights alone,
haunted by old silhouettes.

You said that you couldn't follow your heart,
because you didn't know where it would lead.
You said that we could no longer be us,
You'd be you and, I, I'd be me.

That bridge in my mind, you wonder,
how it is I stopped you from wandering across.
I had to burn it with all of the sketches,
Lest I be reminded of just what I had lost.
And now you're here, you're standing before me,
talking of regrets and wanting a second chance.
The memories return, they flood in,
of a fateful day, and you ask me if I want to dance.

The bridge in my mind's rebuilt,
as we begin the poisonous waltz across the floor.
The sun, it started rising again,
I turned to your pillow but you were there no more.

The bridge in my mind is ashes,
no longer can you wander across.
Some day it will rebuild itself,
with patches from the hearts that have lost.

I'll
never
have
the
Heart
to
tell
him
how
much
of
our
father
I
se­e
in
him.

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 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...

A camel bit my face once
after I had fed it a whole bag
of carrots
and I really appreciated
his honesty in that moment.

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.

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.