The subtle whishing
Of flowing gasoline
Sets the mood;
An ugly, teal-colored,
German-engineered insect
Rolls up to the pump
Alongside mine.
I note the empty car seat
Cramped in the back
As she steps out,
Her balayage-curls swishing
As she flashes me
A cursory,
Carefree smile.
Grinning stupidly back,
My eyes gloss over;
Déjà vu grips me and
I search my memory
For her face—

The insect scuttles off;
My tank is full.

scene I:

a squirrel
in the road,
cars whizzing by
left and right,
narrowly missing
the fearless traveler
by the shortest hair
of its bushy tail.

scene II:

a young bird
in a nest,
screeching loudly
as a human child does,
though not for fear
or hunger,
but anticipation;
then leaping into unknown vastness.

scene III:

a caterpillar
traversing a leaf,
the green ground
shifting, swaying,
as the teenage insect
searches for the place,
the perfect place,
for a coming of age.

scene IV:

an ant
building,
laboring feverishly,
driven by pure instinct,
innate obligation—
perhaps love?—
to create a world
it likely will not see.

scene V:

a mantis
praying,
a final worship
to an unseen,
unknown God,
preparing for the ultimate,
honorable sacrifice,
to be unremembered by his brood.

scene VI:

a grizzly
charging through the brush,
a mad fear in her eyes,
in her heart,
as she bull-rushes
the two barrels
that threaten her only child
and will surely take her.

scene VII:

a rebel flag
emblazoned on the
rear window of the truck,
the truck driven by a man
who cares little that
his 7/11 cup now lays by
the side of the road,
or for the journey he just ended.

Doggy paddle isn't swimming,
It's "active drowning."
The little pieces of information
Learned in the conference room of a YMCA,
Preparation to carry a red tube
And sit in a chair, observing;
To preside over age extremes
Swimming to and fro.

I sit in my chair
Carefully keeping track
As people come in and out of the room.
Someone comes up to me;
I stand up, shake their hand,
And maintain eye contact just as I was taught.
They walk away, leaving me to sink
Deeper and deeper into this chair.

Graphite looks nice in the light,
Like stars in a pitch black night,
Words popping like popcorn...

I’m torn;
Why do the girls over there laugh at me?
Am I like some comedy act—but free?
Perhaps it’s my face
Or the way I like to trace
These words on this table,
These little meaningless fables
Flowing straight from my mind,
Only to be left behind
On this starry night sky,
Installed by some guy
That nobody knows
Or remembers when he goes...

Across the room,
Through the undulating mass;
Somehow, we discover,
Inexplicably,
Each other's eyes.
She holds my gaze for but a moment,
Then quickly looks away,
Timidly brushing aside a curly strand of hair,
Staring anywhere else.

In the corridor,
Swiftly walking, pushing and shoving;
Our eyes meet once again,
And again,
Her pupils dart immediately to the left or right,
Studying the wall,
Suddenly in love with the smeared fingerprints and tacky posters.
I silently hope to be perceived once again
As she disappears.

Often, it seems
This process repeats.
Who is she?
What is her name?
How is it that, without fail,
We find each other
In one world or another,
One intrigued, the other embarrassed?
For the sake of the miracle, I refuse to know.

little treeling
reaching down into ground
attempting life

An onomatopoeia
From another time,
And yet metastasized into this age
Of silent computation—
Faster than thought.
Seamless auditory stimulation
Permeates;
Many cannot go without a soundtrack
In which to willfully drown.

Click...whirrr...
Another ubiquitous day dawns;
The moon falls and the sun rises
And the bright little creature
Emerges from the darkness
To end the oblivion,
To replace,
To put an end to the silent pain.

He awoke.

His eyes opened slowly with a purposeful slowness; an action that for most people is the beginning of their life was, for him, a procrastination.

He arose.

The floor felt cold, unwelcoming as he stumbled reluctantly to the sink. The bristles rasped against his teeth, gums bleeding out of spite.

He entered.

Breakfast—a lonely egg, boring toast—entered his body; each bite was scooped with the utilitarian vigor of one who is no longer enchanted by food, yet the relationship must continue: a compulsory marriage without option for divorce. This discomfort washed down with lemon-water.

He contemplated.

Thoughts, those musings that are feared, condemned by most and yet became the greatest of comforts for him, reminded him that one day it all would end and he would be free.

He wasted.

He stretched out his hands, offering up his life force in the daily sacrifice to the eager god that, in return, lit up with the brightness of a thousand stars that blinded him from all that he wished not to see.

He showered.

Cold water ran down his soul, icing the most superficial inflammations while taunting the deepest wounds; no matter how long he remained behind the curtain, there would be no true respite.

He returned.

The blackness beckoned. He entered willingly, surrendering himself to the dark embrace of that demonic respite, his beloved above all others.

He died, once again.

I dread the sunrise each morning.

Even darkness,
My oldest friend,
Abandons me each day
To fend for myself
In the world, naked, exposed,
Alone and unprepared.

They reach out to me,
A warm,
Welcoming embrace,
Tentacles licking at my stiff heart strings,
Striking up a tune
More melancholy than a funeral dirge.

I can't help but to fall into a trance;
They whirl me around
And I easily keep step
With their back-and-forth dance,
Slipping and sliding
On angry tears mixed with mucus.

Finally, I've had enough of the dance...
I push away the monsters,
Hurling sticks and stones
And laughing coldly, unfeelingly
As they hiss in surprised pain;
Tentacles recoil.

And I retreat back to my hole.

As I do every day,
I sit in my silver Altima;
Joss Stone serenades
My damaged soul,
Lifting my spirits as I turn the volume
Up and up,
Drowning out the jeering throng of my peers
And my heart's own anguished cries.

There is no escape
From the ruthless, wrathful scourge
Of my intestines

An empty room,
Full of ancient boxes
And *******
And other discarded things,
Accumulated over
Years and years;
But still, emptiness.

I return to this
Room more often than not
When I am
Trying to remember them,
Remember the things I
Left behind;
But they are gone.

I start to back into a spot,
Then they drive in front or behind, rushing
Somewhere; those people are the worst.

A lone plastic bag
Of unknown, mysterious origin,
Now floats, heaven-bound.

Picture a meadow:
Sheep graze peacefully,
Happily bleating
At one another and
Moving together,
Obliviously, to and fro in a sort of
Natural harmony.

Yet none stray too near
The treeline
At the edge,
For within the dense foliage,
The dark shadow,
Awaits sharp yellow teeth
And a swift end to peace.

A lone sheepdog watches
Over this flock,
Carefully, suspiciously,
Scrutinizing each member,
Searching vigorously, endlessly
For a hint of gray fur
Somewhere in all the wool.

Walking into the building:
Cold parking lot,
****** music blaring from that lifted truck,
People honking;

Glass doors,
Short, insufficient eye contact,
"Good morning!" from the lady who guards the door
With a laptop and a forced smile;

Quick strides,
A pinball-like dance,
Yelling, screaming, arguing, sometimes fighting,
Fake greetings and meaningful silences;

A tiny bubble of social-media-manufactured society,
Without the trials and tribulations
That make one human
Or the experience that makes one sensible;

I can't ******* wait to graduate.

Rain drip dropping
On the outside of my bivy sack
Cold air, breathing

Ever think that the world
Does nothing but tear us up
And beat us down
Because it knows that it is just
A ball of dirt
And we are made of stars?

From the back of the line—
Well, second to the back—
I see her there;
She is beautiful:
Piercing blue eyes,
Wavy brunette,
Sharp, cute nose,
Striking chin;
She is beautiful
Like the other two she is with—
Yet with the melancholy in her jewel-eyes,
More so.

She is much prettier
Than your average third-wheel;
And yet there she stands,
Waving a dismissive hand
At the offer of her two friends—
A couple, hands all over each other;
It is difficult to tell
Whose hands are whose—
To pay for her coffee;
She pays for her own.

Once again, lying in bed,
The day's events
Flowing through my head
Like a movie
I don't want to see.

The dreams come and go.
I push them aside,
Each time wishing they would return;
They don't, of course.
Why would they?

I see her eyes—
His eyes—
Their eyes,
Painted on the back of my eyelids
Like graffiti on the silver screen.

Covers pulled over my head
Only serve to catch the vapor of my breath;
The click-clacking of a beast in the hall,
The quiet tick-tocking of a distant clock
Still permeate.

It's been twenty minutes
And I haven't seen his eyes.
He blew his nose twice,
Sneezed once.
One time,
I saw him eat—
That was days ago, though.
His fingers tip-tap
On the click-clacking keys,
Hands moving faster
Than the greatest gunfighter.
He would never have
The patience or desire
To duel me, however.
I can't decide which I want:
To smash his face into the keyboard
Or to wrap him in fraternal embrace
Until he remembers he is human;
So I just sit motionless on the couch,
Guiltier than he.

the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...

...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...

...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...

...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...

...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
“******* cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...

a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.

no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***.

no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.