ha ha
joke's on you
it wasn't the
liver
this whole time
it was your gallbladder
filling with sludge

anyway
that'll be $23,000

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.

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

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

Dance! Quickly!
Across the
nihilistic
field day
that is Wednesday morning
where the world has gone mad
and we still can almost
keep our heads up
amid the headlines
and fake-real-fake news cycles
and see humanity moving forward while
the world is coming to an end
and we'll all hold hands before
the cosmos
and say
"Well, it wasn't MY fault."

Sitting here at
10:09 on a Monday
sipping peppermint
tea
and all I can think of
is how much longer
my poems would
be if I wrote them
in a drunken rage
and I say longer
and not better
because drunk words
are sober thoughts
and all I write
is what I'm thinking
at the moment
and call it
Poetry

We watched him fall
from the sky
and thought about
how lucky he was
to be able to follow
his dreams.

I was in a 50's style
ice cream joint
waiting on some Blue Moon
and I was staring at the checkered
floor
feeling nauseous from the pattern
and a couple came in behind me
who were more vivid than
any people I could ever make up

the wife said
"Dale, I got my own wallet, Dale."
and they ordered malts and I wondered
how many malts one could drink in a lifetime
and that my Blue Moon was taking a long time
but the lady turned to me and said
"i love your sweater so much it makes me sick"
and I said
"Thanks"
and she says
"If I were your size, I would knock you down
and try to steal it from you"
and we all laughed
in the beautiful
chrome ensconced ice-cream joint
before I took my Blue Moon
and wandered out back onto the street
of an old railroad town
with nothing else
to offer
other than reality

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 remember this
time I was walking
down a hallway during
my schooldays
and fumbling with
what was currency
among students
--chewing gum
and I had paid
a dollar fifty
for this pack of cinnamon
gum
so when a person
with whom I’d spoken
twice
came up to me and said
“yo, zach, gimme some
of that gum”
I said
“Hell no.”
and he asked why.
“Because I don’t like you!”
and the collective shouts
of ooh’s and ****’s
made me feel as though
I had done something
both great and bad
and the reality was I didn’t mind
the guy at all I just didn’t want
to continue having the discussion
but I wondered if I hurt his feelings
and if the cinnamon gum was worth
the endless re-tellings of me being rude
to a perfect stranger
and a little part of my
soul crumbled that day
all cinnamon and fresh

I'd write a poem
about you
but I haven't fallen
in love with you
nor do I regret meeting
you.
The gray area in which
you reside is poetry
in and of itself
and I would prefer
to keep it that way,
friend.

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

If you have something to say,
say it with conviction
believe in the words coming
from your mouth
because once they're out
they don't go back in
and no mouth to mouth
will resuscitate
a bridge that's in flames
and as long as you
meant every last word
every last volley
shot over the walls
built from years of
friendship
then no blame can be sent
your way
but do not be alarmed
when they come back around,
a little crispy around the edges
all shrieking like demons
faces black and sooty
and eyes red from the smoke
that rose from the fires
that only tears could put out
and they've got a hot coal
in their hand that they
don't feel and they
want to see you burn.

All that makes our demons
scary is who they're
throwing fire at.

My water tastes
like the lake tonight
and plop and fizz
aren't helping this burning
sensation in my heart
and I'm thinking about the lake
mostly due to the taste
and I remember a time when I went
to a lake where the water was so
clear
that I could see the bottom
which was several feet down
and on the bottom
rested many smooth
stones
tossed and tumbled
throughout the endless
motion
and I wonder if those stones
ever look at the jagged stones
and tell them that they just need
to relax and go with the flow
and if these stones tell the ones
that compose our homes
that they work too hard and really should
just take a vacation
like where I would rather be now,
on a lake
with the endless screaming
of stones
holding my body afloat.

I like this place.
so many people
trying to deal with pain
and anger
and talking about
their joys
and so much of it
under the surface
because the profanity
filter is on by default.

I need a friend
with whom
I can talk about
things like
poetry
and the shudder of
the earth when we
write a line that
seems to resonate
with infinity
and with whom
I can discuss
the fear of rejection
and the sneaking suspicion
that maybe none of this
is actually very good
and I've struck
an anomaly
and I need a friend
who will bear with me
during moments of weakness
where i want to burn away all of
my words

Instead of trying
to stigmatize
perhaps you should
prioritize
and realize that
everyone flinches from
pain and for some people
life hurts so ******* much
that flinching out of existence
seems to be the only option
and instead of trying
to minimize
perhaps you should be trying
to sympathize
and it doesn't matter
if nobody was there
for you during the
bad times
that you pretend didn't
happen
because withholding
your compassion from
those who need it most
is the worst sort of death
you can inflict
and there's no
justifying it.

All I remember is that we were at the farmer’s market. You see, the easiest way to figure out a time period is to note which vegetables were in season at the time, but unfortunately, I was too busy looking at my love to take note of the produce lined up neatly in rows on the stands; though there was a sample of pickled asparagus that threatened to change my life for the better. The love of my life was blessed with an extra bone in her foot and the tendons, of course, immediately wrapped around this extra bone and caused a great deal of pain for her, and as such she had to wear a BOOT. I walked, and she clomped along the street through the farmers market and because her physical detriment was noticeable in the air, we were surrounded by a group within minutes. “Can I pray over your foot please?” their leader had said. Although, I heard it spelled PREY, given my general distrust of people who go to farmer’s markets to spread religion. Before I realized what was happening, the followers of this woman had formed a circle around my fiancé and blocked me out as the woman gave a full performance invoking Jesus to heal the extra bones in this world and there was clapping and there was staring from other farmer’s market patrons who couldn’t be bothered to swoop in and save us. It’s years later and the extra bone is still in her foot.

In the garden of
worthless hellos
the yellowed smiles
all show their
appreciation to each other
and to the passing sky
unaware
that they move
and the sky
hasn't gone
anywhere

Is it truly
that much of a
sin
to want to be allowed
to make one's
own mistakes?
Every scar
every burden on our souls
is another spark of flame
in which we are forged
and as iron as burn forward
beaten
but whole.

I've got a heartbeat
that's irregular
like the narrative
strings on which
I have danced
throughout my
brief time here
so far

Alas,
here you stand
on my street corner
shouting.
A sainted patron
of a God
that time seems
to be forgetting.
Hoping desperately
for a flood
because
death would be
easier
than being
left behind
forgotten
and dusty
sitting in the back
corner of a nursing
home whispering
to yourself
"He shall strike the earth
and He shall slay the wicked"
hoping you aren't among
the rest of us sinners.

I saw a cat today
a kitten, actually
orange and white
with its guts spilled out
on the street
and as I drove by it kept
trying to get up
and I cried and cried
because it was suffering and
I could not help

I saw it again later
one with the road
now unrecognizable
in death
and I felt a degree of relief
because it was done
and there was no more kitten
trying to drag
its loosed insides
across the cold pavement
near 28th and University
and in that moment
I understood
why some people opt for
the permanent solution
instead of suffering
with their insides out
on the street
as everyone else passes by
unaware

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

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

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

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

It's okay to be angry
it's okay to shout
to scream
to throw hooks
into the sky
to bring God down
to your kitchen table
and demand some
accountability
it's okay to allow blame
to land where it needs to
and to say
I refuse to apologize
for being hurt by you
I refuse to bear the responsibility
for your actions
and it is okay
to move forward
and heal

I watched him
through my window.

A man,
scraping the stick figure decal
of his wife
off the rear window of his minivan.

Death
or
Divorce?

Which is worse?
I suppose that depends on
one's view of
Life
and
Life Everlasting.

I write because
it's the most
fun way to
make sense of the
world around us
and take all the pain
and imperfections
and the beauty
and the hope
and turn it into
something that sloppily
resonates into infinity
in the hopes
that maybe
it'll mean more to someone
than it does to me.

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

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

There's something
I love about amusement parks
in that you can lose yourself
for a minute in all the noise and haze
and you forget that
the Neon Mystics are nothing more
than 15 year-olds
forced into their first job at
the local theme park by their parents
because they need to learn that
the real world isn't all fun and games
and perhaps this profound wisdom
is wasted on the youth
who don't yet realize that there
are worse fates than
a summer job
at the theme park

I keep coming back here
because I crave the rush
of putting words down
and pretending they are
totally original all the
while holding casual
disdain for how this
digital medium rewards
punchline after punchline
and punishes exploration
and long winded
discussions about existence
because even art needs to
fit into our busy schedules

You should keep your head
up high.
If not in the clouds
at least above your shoulders
and out of the sand.
So that I can hear you
and the beautiful things you say
without it all sounding like
gibberishmumbles.
You should keep your head
up high
if only so that when someone
lops it off,
the ride down will be like
the physical manifestation
of the rollercoaster
of your life and emotions

It's a marvel
how often we'll
choose to share a
drink with
the devil himself
in lieu
of drinking
alone

Instead of wasting
your time looking
for princes
and princesses
endlessly stalking the
shadows of castles
you should focus
your effort on being
a *******
dragon.

Breathe fire from
your soul, kid.

I went to
the Lake
today.
One of the
big ones.
As we pulled in
my brother says
to me
"If this is a lake
and it's this huge,
what's the ocean
look like?"
I told him
that it probably
looks the same
but only because
we are so small
compared to the
endless water.

"Kiss me, Judas,
for I do not wish
to be alone"

the Dramamine
won't stop the vertigo
when one is floating
to this heaven
where someone must've
left the thermostat up
because it's a touch
warmer than usual
around these parts

leave, leave
won't you?
now that the air is getting
chilly again and the bite
of winter is coming hard
leave, leave
with the changing trees
as there is no space in this
cooled off utopia
for the bitter flames of
hated
you hold so near to your soul
in lieu
of an actual identity.

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

Welcome to the land of make-believe
where we all like to pretend
that the sun is always rising
and our dreams will never end
and here we are liars
defenders of the soul
believing we'll never tire
of making each other whole
but a brief word of warning,
something to keep you safe
don't let any of us lie to you
and say wine tastes like anything but grapes.

We wandered through the
upper floor of the library
surrounded by the endless
words from people long dead
whispering to us from the endless
shelves that serve as mausoleums
standing parallel and closing in
on me as I leafed through random
books hoping to find a dollar or
two among the priceless ideas
so that I could pay off the $1.75
late fee I had garnered from a
book I don't remember taking home.

I was having a rough life
and somehow found God
and was progressing
through the valley of the shadow of death
until I was told to shut the **** up
by somebody on Twitter.

Perth,
where Heath Ledger came from,
was where she was from
and she was explaining to me
what Marmite was
and the other guy in the room
just kept playing his guitar
and singing
louder and louder
for an audience of
white bricks
that made up the walls
because jealously makes
you see eyes in
everything
and you don't know
if the performance will
be your last

The thing about
prolonged loneliness
especially as a child
is that eventually you
blur
the lines of understanding
and feel as though there is
something
that is fundamentally
broken
about you and has rendered
you unlovable
so you value those around you too much
and if and when they leave
you are brought back to all the
pain and confusion that came when your
father left on valentine's day,
a month and a half into the new
millennium
and hurtled into his own future
leaving you in the
Texas dust.

Some fool once
suggested
that I start to
carry around a
little notebook
to write my poetry
in whenever
inspiration strikes.

I'd rather not live like
a
caricature
all scribbling melodrama
in the corner of darkened
bars and seemingly
unable to work out the mystery
of women
and exuding an infinite
aura of depth
to draw
the eyes of strangers on
a passenger train
as I ride from mystery
to mystery

the fact of the matter is that
there are
no ******* trains
in this town and
there are no picturesque
vistas with which to fall in
love
but rather an endless
array of fast-food
joints
and thinly disguised
bigotry
and the neon red, white and blue
gets nauseating after a while

truth be told
I had a notebook
once
and a stranger came up
to me and asked me what
I was writing
and I said "poetry"
and he laughed
and sneered
and said
"oh, SOMEBODY is getting cultured!"
and I learned at that point
that more often than not
"nothing" is a good answer
for strangers and that
my poetry is better kept
in my head until it is time
to type it all out
because writing poetry is not
a spectator sport for me

my poetry is a *****
little secret between
myself
and the few who care and
my thoughts are not a persona
I am not a performer for strangers
in an endless act of
"more cultured than thou"
I write for me
and
notebook or no

I am a god ****** poet.

I'm stuck
in a perpetual loop
of longing for something
that I don't know
how to explain
but it comes out when
I listen to all-female
pop rock bands
and I want to be anywhere
but here

I seem to have
lost
form and structure
and spark
and fire
and the words
won't come when
I call

Is this what it's
like to be alone?
To be without?

Where are the words
when I need them most?

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