Suffice to Say

poetry

The alcohol’s numbed my lips
But honestly I promise
If I could speak
My mouth is tumbling with words
So I’ll tip back
And keep looking for answers
Written in the froth of another draught
Cause we both know
We’re not that strong
Ernest as your tears attempt to talk
I’m preoccupied
Ordering another
Shot of heartache please?
No, make it two
We’ll drink to existence
Secretly hoping it ends
But would you mind taking
That bullet out of my glass
I’ve bitten it one too many times
Shame I couldn’t say it sober
But cheers to another stupor
The longer it lasts
The less time we’ll regret

diary entry from a shipmate

poetry

the oceans currents go into
circulate around in
and through my brain
on this damned ship
of which i am the only
sane man.
they save me when i jump,
nothing could be more
maddening,
having a ship of loons
save your life and call
you mad,
you.
i have forgotten where
we are going, though
the captain is assuring
us all that “we will
make it.”
his words sting worse
than the cold water
after leaping off
board.
must it be a 5th time
before they let me
float like an angel
in the ocean of god’s
arms?

Not Quite World-shattering, But We’ll Deal.

poetry

There’s nothing quite as offensive
as a lit cigarette in a room of non-smokers:
the mark of a guest as unwelcome as
the pungent sick he permeates with.

Though, in all measured, fair, and honest
assessments, perhaps that room
could use a little shaking up;
Perhaps those boys and girls
need
their cages rattled.

Well son,
light another one, and get yourself lit too.
There’s a lot of folks that just don’t smoke
(Read: You’ve got a lot of work to do).

when absence hauls you to the very corner of your soul

poetry

Of course hope covers us
of course mercenary love lacerates us
of course music rocks our drownings
of course madness grasps us in the middle of these struck down people
of course sobriety reflect a certain elegance
of course silence unseams souls guilty of having
created nothing, not even a plastic toy to last an eternity
However when you have no one not much is real, not the
city lights, dirty water or paycheck in your pocket
When you have no one,wings spread in loneliness at the top of a bridge

8:41 am

poetry

through the night
rain fell thick and thunderous

by morning the sky was clear
blindingly scattering photons
sharply at a watery wavelength

by morning the ground was as dry
as the fallen leaves
leaving me pajama’d and wondering
what i’d dreamt
or not.

Chevalier

poetry

Chivalry is dead
And I killed it.
Slit its throat
While it slept.
Watched the life
Drain and disappear.
It was I who
Held the sword—
Promising to restore
Peace and reconciliation.
But as backs turned
I took lethal aim.
This is how it ended—
My guilt stained like scars.
The humid air still quivering,
Moist with betrayal.

Adventuring

poetry

They’ve seen something in the forest
just outside the lantern-light
but Adventurers are adventurers
and don’t quite give a good god damn
So stepping lively through the waving
branches of a white-pine grove, the
Boys in Black ain’t looking back: they’ve
half a map and half a plan

Of course, for all adventurers
the first one’s always rather rough
and every little detail not quite
taken in account, so
when the man in back was dragged away
by creatures unbeknown or seen
the other young adventures
kept not their wits about

Fortunately, however,
one lone brown bear, though quite a sight
is no match for six stout walkingstaves,
so was dispatched quite quick
And the boys were quite relieved
when dragged away was dragged on back
and plan were laid for next adventure:
Bring more than just sticks

Evenings

poetry

See, the folks we love,
they get drunk sometimes.
Sometimes, they go and
do things that make us question
(not really, but we think so)
weather we really love them
anymore.

Sometimes, though
the folks we love,
they get drunk,
and then they bare their
very souls
(drunk words are sober thoughts
and all that, though I hardly believe it).
Now, what to do with the
mess they’ve made the morning after?

When Grown Women Go Crazy

poetry

Funny, really, to think about
that we mostly know each-other
these-days, anyway
Indirectly through the meandering
THOUGHTS
we sometimes feel pressed to press
pen to paper or finger to key, as is
the less poetic, but far-more-common
scenario
to iterate for (potentially) the entire
rest of the world
to read along with at home.

Funny, really, to think about.

Terrifying, truly, that we
know each-other so very, very well
Kindred souls and all that
…(not in a gay way)

(Happy Birthday)