Prince charming
is a wastrel
living off of
bummed cigarettes
and on
borrowed couches,
forever unwanted,
terminally free
and he's searching
for his Princess
hidden under the beds
and needles
but how does one fight
a dragon when the
dragon is trapped inside your
ribs
and so
and so
and so our prince's sword
and our prince's heart meet
in an embrace that puts the
love
he has for the princess
to shame.

I remember
when you were
a giant,
huddled in your cave
with your friends
role-playing
the heroes
that you couldn't
be to your own children.

I keep throwing
dice at the wall
hoping to land a saving
roll that would
prompt you to come back.

I can't rhyme when
it comes to writing poetry.
I can't rhyme because it limits
the words that I want to use
to describe my thoughts and ideas
and what if those thoughts have
something to do with
orange or
purple or
silver?
Are your thoughts valid if they
can't rhyme with anything?
As is the case in life,
the things I write about do not share
phonic similarities and cannot be
bound by rhyming structures.
It's not that my ideas are too big,
because they aren't,
they're just too **** messy
and the more I trim off,
the less powerful these words feel

This summer vacation
I chose to write poetry
and someone told me
that I'm not the worst
at it because I am a human
and not a Vogon
and I spent my time standing
on a digital street corner
shouting my threnodies
into the digital white sky
to join the cacophony of
suffering
and healing
and dwelling
and moving on
and of love and hate
and how
the thought of you keeps us up so
god ****** late
that we forgot to set an alarm
and were late to work for the second
time in four years
but in the darkness we
are huddled
bleeding binary
into words of hope.
Rise, rise
and shine
better than the sun ever could.

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

My father was always
a bit of a showman
but I'll never know
if he was aware of that
fact
as he would stand up a little
straighter and puff out his
chest and his slight
Ohio/Texas twang would
become a full on
Sam Elliot drawl
but three octaves lower
like he was a real life cowboy
only to be outdone
by his favorite president
Ol' Papa Reagan
and I guess I found it strange
that he could never really
get into the role
of being a caring, kind, and sweet
parent

The blood in my veins
is as frozen as the
sap in the trees and I can't
come up with a better
analogy because my
head hurts from it
being so **** cold out
and I get depressed
when I see pictures of
lush
green
landscapes and
I dream about the warmth
of the sun
because there's nothing
green around here
other than the green
I spend trying to keep
myself from dying of frostbite

and yet

there's always a guy
walking around in shorts
and a tank top

We stood there,
the fire lapping
at our feet,
and argued about
the best way
to achieve salvation
instead of putting
the fire out.

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

Deep breaths
in and out
and we recite the mantra
that one has sangria
on a Wednesday
to reward ourselves
for just how normal
everything is
and that we definitely
haven't been
dreaming about leaving
everyone behind
and running off into
the Italian countryside
to find a nice picturesque spot
to cease existing

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.

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

On a one way
path
to martyrdom
he endlessly
causes suffering
so that he may hoard
the scars left by those
who leave him
because sometime
somewhere
somebody
gave him the idea
that the only way
to be valid
to be real
to be human
is to suffer immensely
and that the more
scars you have
the more genuine
you are
and he hopes that
one day he'll be able
to buy
his humanity
with his pain

Every day brings a new adventure!
or so the sign had told me
hanging so delicately
on some sort of kombucha based
drink
as though I could augment my life
and invite adventure in just by
drinking a drink
but that's how advertising works
I suppose
and we must be above the ads
because we are all independent and
free
unless...
that too is an ad
and the revolution has been bought and sold
and we are all just loosely strung along
quirks
that are indicative of our specific
ideals of humanity

here's looking at you
white dude with flannel and dreadlocks
and Rastafarian colored shoes

here's looking at you kid with pompadour
haircut, pastel shorts, and a MAGA hat hanging
off his backpack

are we all truly going our own ways
or are we just advertisements for
something better than
being unknown
and undefined?

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

Live
Laugh
Love
printed on a piece
of wood deliberately
designed
to look worn and
vintage
so you don't have to
actually
go on adventures,
you can just hang it up
and show your friends
how worldly you are
while drinking boxed wine
and discussing your children's
failures.

play your stringless
guitar and shout
at the sky
words previously
unheard by
God himself

I'm delirious from
the pressure in my head
and I can't help but wonder
what the first sick caveman thought
about his illness
and if he was concerned with
the frailty of life
or did none of that matter
until we didn't have to be
worried about being killed
by large beasts
to whom
we were the
disease

I remember
laying there
with you
on a quilted blanket
under the stars
with a storm
creeping in the distance.
I remember
staying silent
when I should have told you
I loved you
and letting the
rain and reckless
thunder
cut our evening short.

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 stood
in that parking lot
the one that overlooked
the lake
and remembered the time
that I shared a cigarette with
you.
And you said,
"This is the first
time I have had nicotine
in a while."

Part of me
felt bad
that I had reintroduced
you to the beast
of addiction
but then again
I was addicted
to you
and your words
and your smile
so maybe it wasnt all that bad
and we were young
so whats the worst that could happen?
I quit smoking
because it feels good
to self-destruct
and I know cigarettes
taste better when
pondering the days
that have blown
away like toxic
smoke
and I have too many
of those
and spend too much
time thinking
about the immutable
past that I
myself
would inevitably become ash.

One of these poems
could probably be a suicide note
and we're just not
aware
of it yet.

She had eyes
like the Devil's Accountant
always making sure
we were up to some good
and I never thought she'd
find me
while I did some sleeping
in the grass
of an empty lot
in the old neighborhood
and of course the
divine punishment was rich
with irony
and pure and good
as is the case when one
inflicts the best
sort of pain

the kind of pain that
teaches a lesson

Some things in my life
will never be transferred
to poetry
because they were
only pain
and nothing more.

Your age is
but the number
of times you've traveled
around the sun
hurtling at
nineteen miles per second
endlessly through the expanding
void
so don't tell me
that there's nothing
interesting about you
fellow space traveler
don't tell me there is nothing
remarkable about crashing
through the universe
while sitting in your armchair
you are an astronaut
capable of searing
the stars
Do not float.
Fly.

When you told me about
how you had hit a low
and a Gorillaz song
led to you taking the
blade
to your skin
I remember hitting you
because I felt betrayed that
you were self destructing
faster than I was
and I didn't want to be left
alone
burning out in the sky,
a novel constellation
for people who always had it better
to look upon
and cheer

how often we
block the future
by scrambling to
pick up all of the stolen
seconds that we gave
to people we want only
to forget
all while we
are in a continuous
state of forgetting
that you can't un-live
moments
you can't un-****
somebody
and you can't
rewrite your own
string of moments
no matter how much
they make you
flinch

We skipped stones
flinging them at
the waves
with just the right amount
of spin
in hopes that they
would catch the front
of a wave and shoot
skywards
and in the moment
those stones
so smooth and
worn by endless
water
would soar skyward
no longer bound
by the gravity
that kept pulling
us down
into the sand

We all have
a story
and rumor
has it that
the more
scars
you collect
the more
wronged
you are
the higher the chances
are of you winning
the Prize
and I hear it's
a good one.
So take that pain
take that sorrow
impale it on your
words
and let it
bleed
bleed
bleed
into something
more beautiful
and more permanent
than pain.

There ain't a thing
here other than
ghost stories
for you to pack up
and tell over your
campfire made of
burning books
and love letters
leaving our memories
suspended in the smoke
and the carcinogens blend
and I don't know where I begin
or end
and I refuse to choke
because that's not what you
do at a campfire
to which you weren't invited
but it's a show for you
for your birthday
and the ghost stories
are there to tell you
to behave
because you are nothing
but a book
a story that is
oh
so
flammable

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

That which doesn't
**** you
only gives you
one hell of a life
story to tell.

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

Perhaps we
could take
a lesson
from the
surgeon
whose knife
excises
any and all
inconveniences
from her life
standing knee deep
in fictional blood
spilled over
fictional drama
where
"just being honest"
is a license
to maim
and otherwise
eradicate
any answers
other than
"yes ma'am"
because like
a malignant tumor,
dissent messes
with the
clockwork equilibrium
of the idyllic
life in
chronic
glittering
suburbia

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

she walks
unbridled
through the
gardens of sunset
and plants all
turn to see just
what radiance has
come into the
garden of Eden

what Eve shall remain
as we grow old together
and our suns
begin their descents
into tomorrow?

The sun
is a beautiful
thing from afar,
bringing life and color
to the world and faces
around us.
Almost makes you
forget that it's a screaming
ball of turmoil that would
destroy you in an instant
if you got too close.

Speaking of which
I once knew a couple,
two particularly sunny people,
who found that their
individual lights looked better
together
and though their
relationship
was short,
the fireworks
were fun to watch
before everyone got
burned out.

Life is full
of surprises
like that time
the repair shop
told you that the
checkup on your
car was a courtesy
and then told you that
their courtesy would
cost you fifty dollars
but if you brought the car
back and did the repairs with
them,
they would take that fifty dollars
off the repair costs.

Reminds me of that time
we were rescued
out of the selflessness
of her heart
and were expected
not to flinch at her hand
held out,
waiting for infinite gratitude.

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

I really shouldn't
get another cat
but they just
keep finding me
and wrapping themselves
around my leaks and holes
and purring until I feel better
and it's probably best for my
mental health
to get at least one more cat so that
my other two aren't bored hanging
out with each other
I mean,
three's a crowd, right?
and the only thing missing
from this fever dream
is a crowd of kittens
all loving and pure.

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

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

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

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

From the parking lot
by the park
you walk a little bit down
the road and there's an opening
in the woods and hidden there
is a teepee.

It's more of a bunch of sticks
arranged to look like a teepee
than an actual teepee
but it still offers a little shelter
from the weight of the world
when you're hanging out in
there with a bunch of your
misfit friends
and talking about the future
as the cacophony of all the
animals and bugs in the trees
wells up like the 1812 Overture
at sundown,
the fading orange light
challenged by the glow of your faces.

I haven't been there
in years,
but have directed many
of my younger acquaintances there
to offer a little bit of solace
that can't be expressed
in any way other than experience.

Often, when I disclose the fact that I'm from,
The Lone Star State,
I am asked,
"Do you miss it?"

I don't miss the people,
but I miss a lot of things about it.

I miss the warm springs,
blazing summers,
warm falls,
and the chilly winters.
Chilly, but warm enough that you can still go outside and have fun.

I miss how flat everything was.
I was like the landscape itself was saying,
"I have nothing to hide. This is your adventure,
traverse me with force."
I miss the cotton fields that would be the spectators,
the spectators of the fun times and the hard times.

When I'm asked if I miss Texas,
I respond with "the weather",
but there is always more to every story.

I'm still
down about
the little kitty cat
and I think my
other cat
knows because she's
relaxing with me
while I listen to
an old Doobie Brothers
record
even though she's more of a
Marty Robbins kind of cat
so that's how
I know she's thinking
of me.

Maybe original sin
is just a term
we gave to
justify
our inability
to believe
in anything
so pure
as love

The best I can do
is give you advice
that I should've followed
so that I don't have to see
you get hurt in that way
because it's easier to dig
a moat around your castle
than it is to build a new castle
out of the bombed out fragments
of an acropolis devoted to the
concept of what she could've been.

On a particularly rough
night I found myself
on a bridge overlooking
a shallow, icy river below
and while I was contemplating
how much it would hurt to land
and whether or not it would be
the impact or the cold water
to which I would succumb
someone honked their horn
scaring me
and I turned and shouted
"You *******!
I could have fallen in because of you!"