You are the elixir of overworked men a companion for lonely souls and a boxing ring for the fighting spirit Your camaraderie leads to immediate regret but such pain forces peace in the new day
if we abandoned the pursuit of quick cash and instead fortified dignity with the rusted remnants of ancestors workers would know justice they would feel joy
I poured the last of the whiskey into a glass and then walked out. It waits for me atop the stove as another chance after the failures of labor and love.
The poet regularly battles the mob and displays those scars carved into his heart. The poet is despised in his time and admired by the generations he never meets.
Sometimes I'm the boy who stood helpless on my grandmother's porch looking down the hill upon Hell's fire and the black plumes that pushed men into early graves
In the first pandemic of the 21st Century, there's nothing to do, but get drunk on well bourbon, scream at the memories of ****** gone astray, and write poetry on cheap paper.
She said, ‘You really don’t know how to love.’ I disagreed. The next one said, ‘You don’t express love.’ I disagreed. The last one didn’t say anything. She just walked. Now, I agree.
On Sundays, I drink more coffee and more whiskey. Reflections on the previous week provide for accurate predictions about the week ahead. Books and snacks go down easily. Attaining clear focus helps the writer observe society to build the words that raise spirits and raze evil.
At dusk, under gray skies, whiskey thoughts wander in the lust of lost hopes. Memories surface of forgotten love and the memorable rage of injustice. We are the chaos. We are the solution. We are the beginning and the end.
Cracks in sidewalks are dark pockets in the Earth that contain forgotten histories of workers and parents, students and dreamers. Every time we step over a crack, a charge of energy from the past enters our souls. That energy informs us, our perspectives, our judgement, our wisdom.
Many Twitter profiles have statements that read: “My tweets do not speak for my employer.” I suggest revising those statements to read: “My employer does not speak for me.” After all, who is the master of your 80 years on this Earth? I'm rooting for you.
When the proles see in reds, the rich lose their heads. Bathed in the blood of villains, workers dance and laugh, they **** and love. ****** are redeemed. Books are embraced. Drink is consumed. The blue-green Earth, after such a long abuse, is finally reclaimed.
I’m a ***** who sells himself for the privilege of food. Existing in your world of surface beauty and splendor, that’s the only payday I’ve ever known.
You have more power than you realize The problem is you're more worried about gossip and hatred of neighbors Therefore you stay apart and never come together That power is lost
Sometimes we crush a bug in self-defense. Other times we crush bugs in annoyance. However, there are times when we go out of the way to step upon a lesser life form. Such ******* arouses a sadistic pleasure we cannot savor or even admit in civilized society.
Keep your back straight when walking in the rain. You'll have a better view of the frightened rats who scurry for the salvation you've already found within yourself.
When I was young, only the courageous women colored their hair pink or green. They risked job security and they ignored the conformed standards. That strength of spirit turned me on far more than **** or legs. That hair is now mainstream, so I pretend courage is mainstream.
...from behind the counter, she smiled at me in a deeper way. Her eyes told stories about ecstasy and the prison of family life. So, I went back to the table, drank the coffee, and I tried to exorcise the temptations through words. The typer has always been my most loyal lover.
I may never understand you. For certain, you will never understand me. That’s okay. It’s the mystery, baby that keeps the heart pumping. I can’t think of another reason to allow the blood to remain in my veins.
Old lady perfume wafts through the café. The smell of wildflowers rolled through baby powder baffles me. That scent is an asexual surrender of life and love. That stink is the active ****** of the will to go on. It is malevolence in the wind.
Humans need less inspiration and more answers, less hope and more truth, less spectacle and more words, less *** and more love. We need to listen and understand, drink water, eat good food, laugh, kiss, and weep until a long sleep.
Dating is a blood sport where one must scrape for life. If the match is won, you help each other limp together as champions through the struggles of time. If the game is lost, you stare out windows alone, always wondering about the life that could have been had you triumphed.
When the poetry doesn't work, don't sweat it. Get up from the chair and go for a walk, pet a strange cat, befriend a blind man on the sidewalk. Few items are made of paper, and the best poetry is not printed on it.
When I had joy, I didn't know it. When the joy left, that's when I knew. I've been trying to get the joy back. That work is a struggle. There's sweat and strife. Still, I'm optimistic. The joy will return.
If you seek an education, go to a university or a trade school. If you want to learn, talk to the bums, the ****** the immigrants in fields. They’re the experts on humanity. Their wallets are as empty as their stomachs, but their souls are dipped in gold.
I stood in a pool of **** in front of the ****** after watching a beautiful film about a man who gets the girl. Irrational tears clouded my vision and blocked the putrid scents of real life. My body wanted me to live in that story a little longer. That was nice.
I was born in a room on a triangle of land and soot between three rivers. Just like the rivers, I’ve been running toward the fire and from the smoke all my days. I’ll let you know when I make it.
In the pursuit of truth and justice and growth, we cannot celebrate our angels without acknowledging our demons. Each of us are flawed humans. We are magnificent disasters. In our mutual struggles to breathe and survive a mad world, every step we take and every word we speak is a work of art.
Sitting in the late night bar, I fingered a bottle cap while another tragic love story streamed through my head. The light from a beer sign reflected off the whiskey glass to form a shimmering horizon that gently cradled the cap. Thats when I realized sunrises can happen whenever and wherever we need them.
I really don't know how many glasses of whiskey I've drained or how many hours I've stared out windows while waiting for the world to awaken from its drunken slumber and begin to improve.
Back in the small town, we hung around the gas station in the afternoons and at night. We drank cartons of iced tea and laughed about nothing. We watched others live the lives we wanted, but weren't quite ready to begin.
Inside the café, a cute artist with blackened fingertips sketched in her notebook. A handsome boy took the next table and waited patiently for a chat. Sketching with a fervor, oblivious to her surroundings, that artist and I shared a truth. Imagination is often preferable to the daily realities ****** upon us.
I've grown so tired of hating you, but I’ve hated you so long, it's all I know. After the foul odor of death fades, fresh air will replace that which we cannot change. Staring out the window, my chest tightens from dread. The pollution we’ve spewed may have scorched the soil where new trees must grow.
There are people who love what you do. Others will always hate what you do. The majority have no idea. Those are the souls I observe on sidewalks and in restaurants. They are confused, angry, lost. They stumble beautifully through the fire.
Laying on my back in the alley, drunk and sick, I gazed at the blanket of stars. The cosmos above revealed itself as an endless sea of lost hopes and sacred prayers. In that moment, I was free.
The poets in the digital age hunger for constant approval. As cowards, they hide in fear behind the mob's outrage. In a constant search for validation within shallow mud puddles, every penned word betrays the pursuit of truth in art. Lost in a fog of redactions, I just don't know if these poets will ever find truth again.
Sometimes the sadness comes like a sucker punch to the back of the head. The assailant disappears into the crowded street, and we are stuck nursing a painful wound, never really knowing its reason or cause.
There’s a psychopath at every job, a guy ready to talk your ear off about socks or a woman who admits she has a fetish for hairy *****. I met them in restaurants, on construction sites, and in bland offices. As time went on, the psychos disappeared. I mentioned this to a coworker. He stared at me cold, the way I once looked at a guy who went on and on about his ****** addiction.
Murderers and thieves lurk around every corner. The honest ones use weapons to get what they want. The others allow selfishness to slowly manipulate weak men into the madness of poverty. All remaining strength sapped away, the defeated pray for death.
The guy who wore a scarf at the bar, he chose not to write because he's ‘no Hemingway.’ I told him no one stops me. Memories of Ginsberg, Frost, Thomas, and even Bukowski's drunken ghost make me feel at home in my words. That didn't change the guy's mind, so I told him to drink up and do something else.