The water laps eagerly at the stony bank,
the sun peeks her rays around a passing cloud.
My skin drinks deeply of both,
pruned toes and tanned chest.
The kayak gently bobs
in the shallow wake from the breeze.
Mithrandir falls below Moria,
I put down the book and reach
for a beer.
The resident swan has been paddling
little laps at a safe distance from me.
I catch him looking at me
side-eyed, flipping his head back and forth.
I make kissy sounds and hold my hand out,
he comes over to see if I have any bread for him.

It's nice here. Little fish pick dead skin from my legs.
It's nice here. My shoulders don't get sore from paddling anymore.
It's nice here.
I do this almost
every day.

Saccharine and sanguine
the allure of a pink tummy
I reach out to rub and squish
but then I'm halted.
Daggers for hands,
I'll be bleeding again,
but the brief soft touch
may just be worth it.

I'll be turning 34 this year too, and I feel it. It feels like a calling, like a proverbial mother ringing a triangle hung on the porch calling me in for dinner on a hot summer night spent hitting lightning bugs with a wiffle ball bat and watching them light up in an arc as they fall to their death. I turn to look towards the warm hue radiating from the house and know that it's time to go in for dinner, but on my walk to the front steps I keep desperately searching for something worthy to distract me from going inside. Something to make this perfect night last just five minutes longer, something worth looking back for and... I don't see a **** thing. Every step I take I keep passing by interesting rocks guaranteed to be hiding all sorts of fun bugs but as I walk I kick them over only to find vapid nothingness. I miss my friends as I climb the first step, with my hand on the banister I look over my shoulder and glance behind me but only see blackness. Everyone else has gone home, and it's just not the same without someone to spend the time with. Friends to paint the canvas of my memories. Just nothing. As I step into the house I realize that this is actually not that bad at all, even though Mom is gone and Grandpa and Dad are gone too. I walk over to the kitchen and grab a pan, fry up some eggs and bacon. "Breakfast for dinner again?" I hear her voice tease me in the back of my mind and answer audibly with a smile "of course, you know I like switching it up." I eat dinner at the kitchen table and google my local trade unions that happen to be taking apprentices. IBEW? International brotherhood of electrical workers huh? I finish off the last of my dippy eggs with the toast I made as I fill out the application, apprehensive at first and then welcoming the questions. Satisfied at how simple it was. A glance at the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge, followed immediately by a peek at the overly-full recycling bin filled with empty bottles.

When I die
and review the footage
of my entire life,
I just really hope that
there's a fast-forward button.

Some day maybe
you'll sing to me.
Not necessarily
to me specifically,
but I'll be
listening
and you'll be
singing.

Maybe in the shower,
maybe pulling in
the driveway
on your way home
from work.
My ear pressed to the door.

I want to see you
in the shower,
singing along.
I want to reach out
to the clear lining
and press it against
your naked, wet body.
I want to wrap you up
in that protective plastic,
and you won't miss a single note.
You'll keep singing and I'll caress
your every curve and mole.
My hands gliding up against
the smooth refined finish,
so gingerly sweeping
across all your bits.
Soapy and slippery.
So close but not.
Not quite touching.
Not quite real.
My skin isn't
something
that you'll
ever feel,
or feel
feeling
you.


Beauty encapsulated,
preserved in time and space.
The sound of falling water.
The blurry look on your face


is telling me to
Stop.


Your voice in my ears,
my make-believe dream.
You'll sing that you love me
and I'll wake with a scream.

We all ignite,
the only difference
is the fuel.

Listless veil,
dancing in the wind of causality.
Covered, yet you translucere
in the faint light of another day.

What is real, is not.
There's a fire
growing hot,
kept fed and fanned
by a facade's rot.

There's no phoenix here,
just a life left
steeped
in ashes.

Oh whispering, listless veil;
behind you hides the tale
of what the truth entails.

Do not part, it won't be missed.
Bury it, cover it,
obfuscate with bliss.

I wear my watch;
all of the time.

Sometimes
just a faint tickle,
sometimes
a firm squeeze.

I'm going to take it
from you,
and you're going
to take it.

It's fun to entertain
your silly notions
of worship and praise,
when in reality
you just want to be had.

I'll do your dance,
for a bit.
Though when I get a taste,
I turn ravenous.

Besides,
with your face
pressed
against the wall...
Well,
this is love
after all.

When the feelings
of some people
are more valuable
than our way of life,
well, then
we've lost the plot.

If I traveled
somewhere far
and foreign,
I'd do my best
to conform to
wherever I am.

I don't find that
expecting that same behavior
from people who come here
to be immoral.

I refuse to feel guilty
for who I am,
just as I refuse to let pride
dictate my mindset.
It's two sides
of the same coin.

Guess what?
I get to decide how I feel,
I get to decide what I think,
how I behave.

I get to judge you.

The golden rule still applies though,
thus I conduct myself in a manner
which is expecting of judgement from you.
If I'm ******* up, shame me.
If you're ******* up, I'll shame you.
This is friendship, this is civility
at it's most fundamental level.
I want to respect you,
I want to be respected,
but never unconditionally.
I want to earn it,
I want to be deserving of it.
You should want that too.

Your feelings aren't holding water,
and we're all being flooded
with the repercussions.

Don't drown us.

No, actually,
We're not going to let you drown us.

Do you resent me
for such a hang up?
What am I supposed to do?
Oftentimes I'm torn,
frayed and tattered
along my edges,
trying to dance between
what is right
and what I like.
The stretch of space
between those two
have only grown more vast
with age.
Sprawling wastes fills that void,
wider and wider and
I'm always left reeling from my choice.
Indecision is the ghoul
that haunts my soul,
telling me to
avoid these feelings all told.
For when I do decide,
I can't seem to pick right
and I'm always left
reading the bones.

Save the planet;
**** yourself.

My body heat
in a bottle.
Camera on the floor,
balance empty Mr. Beam
atop its lense.
Did I hit record?
**** it,
I gotta let go.
Bubbling up, man,
protein in my ****.
Yeah yeah yeah.
I'm dying
sure,
but so are you
and you
and you.
Outta room.
Pinch off
and save it for later.
Stop recording.
Another thing
that I'll never
show to
anyone.
Great.
Just
great.
Good job Justin.

Crunchy,
heavy taste.
I love them
as much as paste.
Now free
from the burden
of intelligency,
happy
as can bee.
Green smiles
from me,
that's the color
the parlor
used to be.
Let's brake a
thermometer
so we can play
with the mercury.
I like the way it beads
in my palm,
but it gets smaller
and smaller
until it's gone.
It's okay
I still feel
relieved.
I still feel.
It's okay.
See?

My thoughts start to wander
and right as I begin to wonder
my phone buzzes.

I get home from a long day at work,
in the shower my mind begins to search
then I get out and turn on the TV.

I wake up from a vibrant dream
where a gripping idea comes to me,
so I sit down at the computer
to google what it means
but before I even hit enter
I open up another tab
and click on YouTube
to see where my favorites are at.

Whiskey goes in there somewhere too.
Bourbon, rather. Whatever.

I think back on the times
where I had nothing.
Often with longing.

I've gotta take a **** so bad I can taste it.

That sun is deceiving.
Faux fluorescence, fickle morning light.
In my eyes
so bright,
on my skin
cold as night.

Conniving contrivance of combustion,
yellow liar in the sky
feeding my hopeful mind
full of summertime delight.

Don't step outside,
lest you find
that sun is deceiving.
False light,
bitterly white,
dancing in the
azure heights.

Learning how to type is hard in your 30s.
****,
I guess learning anything
is hard in your 30s.

I don't know how to type, so
last night
I started taking free lessons.

The learning isn't hard, but
the forgetting
is going to be a struggle.

Twenty five years
of bad habits.

****.
I could apply this
to anything
in my life.

When first we met
I thought that you'd
save me.
Now I know that
you were just sent to
betray me.
Crazy.

When I placed my bet
I never thought
it'd be
another twelve days
spent down in
my basement.
Shame me.

Crazy eyes
blame me,
shame me, please just
don't tell me lies.

When first we met
I told you to
shame me
all the time.

Now these days
just flow by
all the time.

Gotten too proud,
too full of ourselves to
walk that line.

That used to divide us
all the time.
Shame me,
blame me,
baby.

Up too late
tonight I've stayed.

Blessed be tomorrow,
Sanctimony of weary.

Can't wait for
Sleep then
work, then
sleep.

Ever have something to say,
something that you REALLY want to say?
Something you're dying to express?

But you just... let it go.
Because you know
you'll never be able
to get it all out.

Now imagine that feeling
for every conversation,
every sentence,
in your entire life.


God I want a whiskey.

I don't know what to say,
or what you want me to say.
I don't want to just say
what you want me to say.
I just want to float.

Salty ripples
lapping at my sides,
squinting at
the summer sunshine.

When I close my eyes,
I'm
there.

Stop peeling up my lids,
don't make me look
at this... this,
this bottomless pit
sunken into my skin.

I don't know what to say,
I just don't want to,
okay?

Ah, but it seems my preferential tendencies
are rendered sundered and inadequate
by your overwhelmingly imposing emotions, and it's like they never ******* mattered
one ******* bit to begin with,
did they?

I'll keep that in mind
for next time.
I'll know just
what
to say.

Never been quite sure
where it all ends,
whether it be down in Hell
or up in the Heavens.

Don't matter much to me
you see, 'cause
I got friends in both places.

Wheels of time
spin on
and I'm
nauseous.

It's easy to explain, really.
If never a father I become,
then never shall I be a failure at it.

*****.
Half-man, boy-child.
Weak.
Immature.
Unfinished.

All of the above,
sure... but,
not a failed father.

Again wheels start to creak,
and I'm already knee-deep
in empty cans of WD40.

Sun's been gone now
three or four days.
I know it's out there
buried deep atop the greys.
Not bothered much
by bouts of lite rain,
intermittent,
just like my wipers.

Sun's been hidden
again and again and
I just want my eyes
to be filled with rays.
I just want it tangled
in my hair,
warming my heart.

January.
Deep December,
don't bury me
in your naked boughs.
Carry me through you,
on skewed wings
of your damp fallen leaves.

February awaits,
looming.
Buried in the greys,
patiently peering at me
with it's sunless gaze.

Turning into ashes,
burying themselves,
people been really
making that decision
more and more
these days.

Guess it don't make
a great argument
for the state of things.

People'd rather live in hell
than deal with living here
for one more day.

Maybe they're renovating down there.
Maybe it's nicer these days.
I'm sure I'll see it too one day,
one way or another,
but till then I'm just praying
we all stop preying
on ourselves.

There's a car behind me
on the stretch of old interstate
between Artistes and Centralia.
Barren road besides us.
Rub my eyes, check the mirror,
and just like that
they're gone.
Relief, I can slow down a bit.
Hate holding folk up
in this old Peterbilt.

They never play sad songs
on the radio anymore.
DJs are emotional doctors
prescribing me how to feel.
I miss the radio,
seems it don't miss me.

Still trucking,
but basking
in that ringing gold.

Lone open road,
I'll get there and
there ain't nothing
wrong with that.
Though, tomorrow I'll wake
and not want to start again.

Every morning.

Never want to start any more.

But once I get going,
well, it's not so bad.

Flip the radio on
and just be begrudgingly happy.

My suspension of disbelief
is riding on leaf springs,
and trying to enjoy any ******* thing
is a bumpy ride for me.

I just don't know
what I believe.

For being comprised of 60% water
bodies sure do burn real nice.

Sure he always walks around
with his head hanging down,
but I'll be ****** if
he doesn't find the best stones.

Gentlemen.
Ladies.
May I implore you;
where is it?

Where is it.

Where is the meaning
that was promised?

Where is our Great War?

Are we not deserved of
an all-encompassing evil?
Have we not earned the right
to glory, to kinship?

This paltry existence
is riddled with mediocre evils,
made up plights,
self imposed moral ambiguities.
I want more. I want to face more.
I want to watch something bleed.
My mouth waters.

Put me in coach,
put us all in.
We're ready.
The bench has been warmed
for my entire life.
An entire generation,
lost to modern ease
and simplistic complexities,
all just yearning for Hell.
Craving the hundred-yard gaze
granted only to the survivors.
**** your PTSD and fill us with shell shock.
Give us nightmares, memories.
Give us stories that we dare not tell.
Give us our great war.
Give us an ultimate evil to face.

Give us something to ****.
Put me in front of an insurmountable enemy.
Put me beside the righteous, the keen,
put aside the drones and ICBMs
and let us lead a modern blitzkrieg.
I want to be riled by my general
into a primal scream.
I want to watch my brothers die,
I want to weep for something.
Something bigger than me.
I want to be found in pieces
strewn across blood soaked earth.
I want a government *****
knocking on my mother's door
to give her my dog tags.
She would mourn, and grieve,
but she would be ******* proud of me.

Give me that release,
grant us all the relief
from this endless monotony.

The dawn of digital doorbells came,
but I just keep knocking away
because if you're not even home then
what's the ******* point anyway?

I don't want to be seen
through your ******* phone screen.
I want a greeting, a smile,
I want personality.

Now these glass eyes
peer all over me,
like drones in the skies
over foreign countries.
Reminding me
I'm a stranger.

I'm not meeting that gaze.
They can watch my back
as I turn and walk
away.

Even the sunrise.

A party's
not a party
if it happens every night.

Catching a buzz
a bit too much,
it ends up catching you.

Cotton candy skies
every morning,
even the sunrise turns against you.

Days come
and come
and come.

Relentless battering of time
Against my skin,
beating us all
to death.

Even the sunrise gets old.

Even the sunrise.

Happy birthday Mom.

Tangled up in.

The corners of your soul
are growing cobwebs
and I'm caught.
Lightless, sightless.

Tangled up in your sacred flame.
Fingers stretching towards the sun.
Blind eyes searching for warmth.

Free me from these cold shadows
sprouting in the corners of your soul.

These hidden battles,
quiet fights.

Turn it inside out
and
flood with light.