Spinning
until I get dizzy
around my cubicle.

What a view.

10% me
90% what I never thought I would be

"The current webpage is trying to open a site in
your trusted sites list."

I don't trust anyone.
So,
let's extend that pleasure to this site.

I blur all the gossip.
Catch a glimpse of the Spiderman Timmy found in the landfill.
After everytime I use it I squirt some hand sanitizer.

The wall to my right
now left
is full of
certificates,
showing how important I can be.

There goes my Sierra Club calendar.
My slice of the outside environment.
This month is a river bed,
frozen,
choked with multicolored leaves.
Smooth water pushing through
smooth rocks.
Reminding me
that I give a presentation two Wednesdays from now.

The one constant
is the over-abundance
of files...
All over.
Reminding me
that I had a deadline
and
that I shouldn't be writing poetry...

I think it's time for a walk.

I had a dream last night.
Yes, another of those poems.
Fooled you.
Unoriginal hack of a poet.
well,
deal with it.
Just listen.

Where was I?

The dream...
It started out well enough.
I was in an unfamiliar place,
walking down a city street.

I'm over this dream.
It's all the same.
Same experiences.
Same dreams.

Fast forward.

I woke up at 1:32 AM.
Yes, I always remember the exact times.
Thirsty as hell, I drained my orange juice.
Warm orange juice tastes like ****.
It didn't satisfy this craving.
It had to be the teriyaki chicken...
I wouldn't be able to sleep.

Fell back asleep.

2:34 AM, still
thirsty.
Drained two glass of what tasted like Fruit Punch.

Fell back asleep.

6:35 AM alarm starts going off.
Time to go about the day.
Remember what yesterday was,
what tomorrow could have been.

Maybe I will dream tonight.
Maybe,
It will be blank.
Wouldn't be the first time it happened.

Oh,
how emotional.

If you're wondering
the street turned into green fields,
wet with morning,
smelling of fresh life.
I ran by ___.

You make up the rest.
Not even my dreams are original.

Life is rough
when you make it.

Lets do this
before the fire fight.
Hard, piercing eyes
blindfolded.
Awaiting time to
show one
the
way
to where they
came from.
Final moments flash
pseudo-relief.
This is all just
a trip down
an unfamiliar road.
The wait
is worse than
the event.
This isn't Heavens gate.
Thunderous
black heat
for
cold blood.
White hot reminders
piercing
through tired spirit.
The past breeds
tainted memories.
It's empty when
the world ends.
Lets do this.

Sometimes the hero must die
masking the hopeful vision.
A blanket of black.

Not all tales begin with “once upon a time
and end with twilight.
The villain will win.
Ushering in an unholy time.
Happily ever after?
Consider it dead.
This may not work out in the end.
The only question is
How will it end?
Will it end?
How long can this last?

To Death,
roses smell like
spirits
six feet deep.

Life is spent searching for life.

St. Michael,
The Archangel
Defend us in battle.

The oppressed will rise,
only to be crushed again.
Never forget…

Hope takes time.

But what if hope never comes.

That
is how stories end.

And if the story has to end,
at least the beginning can be remembered.

Watching as the flagship spirals
out of control.
Sweet neon lights
sputtering supernova
lighting the path back home.

Where is home?

A sign of the times.

Men of the year
walking down cracked walks
sideways.
These imperfections.
Imagine the path
smooth as whiskey
and water.
The element of life.

Imagine the path cleared
by pseudo-wilderness.
Wouldn't it be lovely?
Only interrupted by
the cat-calls of
taxis, metro, trains flying overhead.

Which way is the right way?

Row houses rise on either side
a testament to the time
when this broken down
trains car of a town
was a Pullman City.

Degrading into bricks and mortar,
rusting to the point of
being obsolete.

For a good time
call me
old-fashioned.
This is my former glory,
made into a city.

It's time to decommission.

This is what every show becomes
when the lights fade
and the curtain falls.
When sunlight turns to shadow.

I expect less.

Tonight, I will
begin drafting
the most amazing poem.

The poem that will define
not just my age,
but myself.

Wait.

No, I wont.
I have other
priorities to attend to.

This section of my life
will have to wait.

I am
eternally
listening to
a symphony of
coffee pots,
gossip,
and cheap ***.

A red coffee cup
chipped,
sits on my desk,
half full.

Where is this going?

I can be filthy.
However,
I find it to be cheap,
a play.
Oh, sure,
use another idiotic
graphic in your
mess of a poem.

Where is this going?