The illusion of a self-inflicted burden

poetry

Pulling out the
scratch-pad
to take notes on a
passing fancy
takes too damn long
to bother with,
despite the fact that
that’s why we’ve got ’em
any damn way.

But we’ll carry
the thing
everywhere and
whenever we want to
look important or
look too busy to bother or
look like
we know
something
that we don’t

Out it comes.

Sometimes with a
fancy pen too.

cusp

poetry

pride fills my lungs (not air)
as i descend these steps (no elevator)
holding stacks of books (no backpack)
at arms length
at waist height
thinking how much i’ll learn (i know so little)
if i can plow through these (likely I wont)
line after line (not page by page)
of language i dont understand (its all tahitian to me)
as i write
as i read
lacking comprehension
eternally standing on the cusp of brilliance

never jumping

special

poetry

put the towel on the rack
let the steam create him
as a mold
contemplate space and time
and how he can never get
it back
wishes he could go back
just to watch or give
advice
wishes he could sieze
the day and practice what
he preaches.

And Me And Rob

poetry

And me and Rob
would go driving on
two gallons of gas
with no where to go
we didn’t have a phone
we’d just drive and hope
that something
would happen
to keep us
occupied
for a couple more hours
until we got sick of
wandering around the middle school
and looking at instruments
we couldn’t afford
and finally had to
head home
where we’d sit in the alley
’till the cops came and
threatened to arrest us
if they saw us there again.

Those were the days.

germination

poetry

i’m buried
deep in the ground
in darkness and doubt
reaching and breathing
dirt
but knowing there’s
something inside
fed by faith that
will be born when the
time comes bursting
through this brittle
shell shedding
this heavy skin emerging
into the atmosphere until
it blocks the moon creating
a new day from night
its leaves the sky its petals
the clouds its sweet center
smelling of mango
shining salvation.

:0

poetry

all of you can rot in hell
‘cuz i know i’m right
about how little potential
really matters in the end

yeah i’m on top of the fucking
world and i aint comin’ down
for shit

all of you can keep throwing
your bricks about the height
of grass, we don’t need
any more carbon dioxide

yeah i dropped the box
and can see circles and
triangles

lovebitch why don’t you come over here and set me free i don’t want your sister’s disease i just want to kill kill kill kill kill
i just want to kill kill kill

keeping you healthy since 1980

poetry

old wives tales
heading advice we know is garbage
and choosing to wear sweaters
just because our mothers are cold
eating apples obsessively
because of embarrassing rhymes
unworthy of even the worst poetry
books
and brushing our teeth for three
whole minutes for reasons we remember not
but surely have something to do
with some sort of film of black and white
cartoon
narrated by our grandfathers
but forgetting all along
our bodies (be they ours or someone else’s)
still end up in dust
and mold eaten by that which even
we would not dare to eat
whether you help us out or not
we’re only postponing our inevitable
trips to that eternal golf course above

truth is fleeting

poetry

why would you kill yourself
over the same thing again?
those smiles look so good
from a distance, just like
everything else. there’s
nowhere you can get where
you wont be and there’s
nothing you can see that
you can’t see and there’s
no one you’ve met that
you haven’t torn to pieces.
and if you take the pill
it will just dissolve
in your stomach like
all the rest. just
like
all
the
rest. and you know how
much you hate all the rest.