A cheerleader
once wrote me a
love song
and it had lots of
horse imagery
and it turned out
that she had lifted
the song from some kids
tv show
but none of that mattered
because she wasn't a cheerleader
quite yet
and I wasn't educated enough
to scoff at plagiarism
when someone was trying
to show that they cared

I saw the sky falling
but it didn't make a sound
seeing as you weren't around
to hear it

I have a tremendously
cinematic memory
all sepia-toned
and the good moments
are surrounded
in perfect lighting
and orchestral swells
and the bad moments
are filled with endless
drum beats
and I imagine one of my
mothers as Judy Garland
and my father as Ernest Hemingway
and it makes it just
a little bit easier
to understand how
they were so consumed
by their ambitions and
their self-destructive
tendencies

"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.

He liked to use
clip-on promises
because it was so much
easier
than learning to tie knots
and facing down the
fear
that you could strangle yourself
if you weren't careful

I don't even own
a wall clock
yet I keep hearing a persistent
tick-tock tick-tock tonight.
Maybe it's because it's one thirty
in the morning and I should be asleep
but instead I'm writing poetry
to relax and take my mind off of things
with the added benefit of validation from strangers
who think that my words are pleasant to read
even though my poetry feels like a big run-on sentence
to me and all of these poems are a part
of a larger, more coherent
narrative but all I can do
is amputate and crop
here and there
and break the hands off of the wall
clock that I don't own
in the hopes that for
an unmeasured moment,
my mind will be clear from all
the white noise
that tick tick ticks
away,
hurtling at
one second per second
into infinity.

I'm tired of
drink-coaster
poetry
words that are
forever inspiring
that can hang on
your fridge
and make you feel
good and deep
and so very
inspired
to carry on with the
day as planned
bolstered with the
strength of
a thought
or a prayer
and it's so
easily digestible
through and through
and I want teeth
I want gristle
I want poetry that
rips me out of my sleep
words that haunt me
like they're in on something
I've never known
but we settle for that which
brings us comfort
we settle for the airy quotes
that we co-opt into our
daily mantras that everything
will eventually be okay

When in all reality
every poem
every string of thoughts
will have to end

unremembered and
pure

Coffee is gross
Though I still drink it.
Why would anyone subject
Themselves to something
That tastes like the inside
Of someone’s ***** muffler?

Yes, that was a *** joke.

I guess there comes a point
In everyone’s life where
Practicality outweighs pleasure
And it’s far easier to pay a dollar for
A cup of swill
Than five for a cup of personality.
I guess that point happened to me already
But I was too busy blinking
From the flavor of this ****** coffee
To notice that
I somehow became an adult.

Another plane
homeward bound
and once again
Texas feels a little
colder
without you

When we kissed I laughed
Because I thought it was funny
How you tasted like communion wine
A concept so immaculate
A salvation so immediate
The Fall could never find us.
Through Holy Sonnets we wandered
Through earthly sunsets we sat
Feeling nothing but the pull that keeps us to the ground
Never acknowledging that the pull of gravity will keep us in our graves when the time comes.
communion wine flavored memories
paint an endless still-life of something
that suffers in motion
hurtling, hurtling towards disintegration

They say you
can't
truly know somebody
until you
see them
hurt
so I write
these words
and peddle emotional
****
for the lonely ones I'll
never meet
in an effort to
better get to
know myself

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

A friend once
offered me a
cupcake.
Not just any cupcake,
but a Gourmet (capital G) Cupcake
from some bakery that sells
cupcakes and cupcakes
alone at almost four dollars a pop.
It was a beautiful creation,
pink with a little candy crown on top,
promising a fantasy world
of strawberry flavor.
It was named the Pink Princess
and I threw it away after one bite.

Because, much like everything else
in life,
it doesn't matter how much
frosting
sugar
and bright color
you use to present something.
If it still tastes like ****,
it is.

Poor in health,
high in spirits

Death my darling
I keep writing you
because I'm finding it
harder
and harder
to talk
to people
and not feel
empty

he walked
from station
to station
his heart in a paper bag
holding it out
asking for spare change
because it doesn't matter
when the heart's not beating
all clogged and weighed
down by quarters
and half-cent platitudes
that it'll all get better in time
and that everything happens for a reason
and there is nothing to worry about

and all the kid really needed
was a little blood

It's like a thunderstorm
hidden behind your
eyes
ready to strike
and send lightning
streaking across the subconscious
like branches and roots
of a poisoned vine
strangling what gardens
of joy used to grow there
leaving only bitter thorns
and the vague idea of
a beauty that has the potential
to exist where only blackened
skies roam

one of the greatest
mysteries of my
life
revolves around
a dozen roses
and a card that read:

"for crying out loud..."

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

Someone should
call a doctor
as it seems
I have the
human condition.

Do not be afraid to write
poetry,
do not be afraid to let parts
of your soul take form
in word and verse
and do not be afraid to crush the mountains
of doubt from the ones you love
and show them that what you have
to say is worthwhile and permanent
and show them that you are not afraid
of your scars and your thoughts
and your mistakes
and do not be afraid of the pain
of reopening old wounds
and letting the gush splash across
the page in witty diatribes
that make you feel a little better
about the fact that you let a relationship
nearly **** you
and do not be afraid to line up all the painful
memories and conversations you'll never be able to have
and one by one
write them into poetry
and get them out of your soul
where they've been rotting
and turning you inside out.

She asked me to write her
a poem
for Christmas
and so while I sit here
waiting for the car to warm up
I look at all the sets of
footprints in the snow
all going in different directions
going to different locations
some out of religious obligation
some out of unconditional love
and all I really know is that
I don't care where I go
as long as my footsteps in the snow
get to be alongside hers
from now until eternity

Don't write home about
me
I can never live up to
the expectations
put forth in abstract
poetry.
How do you expect me
to be a waterfall
when I can barely
get out of bed some
mornings?
I don't move mountains.
I am not a mountain.
I am not what you need
me to be.
I am only that which
will enable me to survive.

Downtown has
36000 people going 36000 different ways
All noses turned up or looking down
Each experience better than the last
Footsteps on faded asphalt carry echoes
Of friendships unfocused
Blurred by distance and ***
The conversations carry
Manifestos lifted to the sky
“we are going to have a good time tonight”
“I don’t like drama but I have to say something”
“I haven’t heard from him since he went to rehab”
The endless void of downtown holding these revelations
Only to release them when the people are long dead
And downtown crumbles
And the footsteps echo no longer.

I dreamt last
night of a long
lost friend
which was strange
because I hadn't been
drinking
and this friend
talked me out
of suicide
even though I wasn't
considering it
and I almost reached
out to her
when I woke up
but that would
be worse than
suicide

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.

Last night I dreamt
that eagles came
to bring the end of
civilization as we knew it
and with every beat of
their wings more of our
society would crumble
all the while on the ground
we argued about whether
or not this happening
was the fault
of Wolves

It's too early
for this
there's a kid
whose subwoofers
that keep shaking
the trunk of his '04
Honda Civic
providing a tribal
staccato
a background
trance
to keep me
motivated
as I use a
screwdriver
to pop the latch on my
door for the
third time
this week
because I accidentally
ripped the
door handle off
and
I realize that I
forgot
my coffee on the counter at
home
and I forgot to tell
my cats that I love
them
before I left
and this is
all being obscured
by the threat of
sleep in this parking
lot
because I can never
seem to get to bed
early enough

I'm writing
poetry
instead of
writing notes
for Econ
because I
derive higher
marginal utility
from poetry
than from
notes about
consumer surpluses.

See?
I've been paying attention.
Look at how I can apply
Economics
to my life.

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

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

It’s the first day of
summer
and from here on out
the days get shorter so
we are racing against
the clock and the setting sun
to ensure that only the
very best of our memories
survive and the pain
gets lost in the impending
shadows of winter

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

We do things
in hopes of the
perpetual tangibility
of happiness
trying to seize
as many days
as we can before
the winter comes
and leaves us with
picturesque backdrops
in front of which
our hearts freeze and break
because we rubbed them too hard
in trying to keep each other
warm

someone once
told me
"zach, the eyes
are the windows
to the soul and
if you look hard enough
you can see what people are
truly like"
of course
this was all fueled by
drug and drink
and perhaps my
friend was just feeling
philosophical
and perhaps
I ignore that adage
because I was always
afraid to look into
your eyes
because I didn't want
to end up being
disappointed
that your soul
was nothing like I had
imagined

The last time I saw
him
he was sitting on
a park bench all
denim-clad and
cowboy boots
reading a worn out
copy of
True Grit
trying to find
his way home
to an idea of
the old west

I go back and
forth on whether I
should make an effort to make
my poetry rhyme
in order to make it seem
more poetic(?)
but my thoughts
don't fit into
rhyme
and when I try to
force it,
the rhymes feel
fake
and rigid
and I feel like rhyming for
the sake of rhyming doesn't
inherently make something
good poetry
and I hope that if
we can give Kid Rock
a pass for rhyming
"things"
with
"things"
I'm hoping you
can give me a pass for
writing a poem that has
nothing to do with Father's Day.

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.

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

I want
My Way
playing,
the Sinatra version
so that when
each one of those
******* goes home
he’ll be remembering
“And now the end is near
and so I face my final curtain”

Love burns you
--even when we
describe it as something
positive
a burning love
so to speak
we are still
describing destruction
although not all
destruction is bad
such as the destruction
of your flawed coping mechanisms
and the walls you build around
your vulnerability
after the last brush with love
melted your wings
and sent you plummeting
into the icy sea below
where the cold helped your
heart come together once
more and all that’s left
now is to destroy
the shell of your former self
with fire.

Woke up on
the wrong side
of the world again
today
and thought about
how we never meant
all those things
we never said
all along these secret streets
going nowhere
never returning
illuminated only by
forgotten bulbs
all failing in
incandescence.

I saw a flower
wilting beautifully
in a bed of
uncertainty
and I wondered if it
was afraid to face the sun
because it perhaps forgot
sunscreen
and in its attempts
at self preservation
it starved itself of what
it needed
--the sunshine.

I fundamentally
believe
that the best way
you can show
someone
you care about them
is to cook for them.

To take something
and spend your
time
energy
and love
to convert it to a dish
that quite literally
sustains the
existence
of another being
is
to me
the epitome of love.

Death is the absence
of Life
and Food sustains Life
so by feeding those around you,
you indirectly say,
"I want you to live."

You've got a big heart
and you'll find someone
with a heart just as
big as yours
and who cares to the same
degree
that you do.
I'm one of those
who loves way too much
and it worked out for me alright
(after countless heartbreaks)
but the point here is that
someone out there will be
totally accepting of you
and will love talking to you
and will hang onto your every word
as poetry
and they will see the beautiful love
you have to offer
and I know it ***** right now
and it seems like you're spinning your wheels
in the mud
but I believe in you.

I believe that the beauty
I see in you will
envelop you and
and that big heart of yours
and you will find a home
in which that heart shall
just be.

You asked me the other day
the level to which I would be affected
if you were to die suddenly
and I keep thinking about that
and I keep imagining you gone
and a piece of me dies every day
imagining the loss of you
even though you're just a phone call
away and we just talked about
beans this morning
and everything is fine and beautiful
and our hearts ache peacefully
across the country from one another

My friend,
my colleague,
my fellow human.

Life is ******* hard.
And I wish there were
something
anything
I could say to make you feel better
about this whole living thing.
I will never claim to understand
why people
in trying to carve out an identity
for themselves,
decided to carve great holes in your
soul.
Through these holes I can see your
kindness and your love escaping,
and it breaks my heart.

I don't know what you should do,
friend,
but I do know this:

Your path in life is nebulous at best.
And that's not a bad thing,
because when everything's in the ****
like this,
and you want to get somewhere better,
all you have to do is
point your feet in a direction

and
Walk.

I once knew a woman
who said she had a dream about
water and that it had helped
her predict 9/11
and I still don't know
how to make heads or tails
of that
other than it's just something
that is.

Don't forget the past
but rather forgive
it because of the two
choices only one
stops
the bleeding
memories
that come forth to haunt
you in your dreams
and waking hours
and when you let go
of the pain and let it
fall below
you will be truly free
to remember the lessons
learned
without a need for
revenge