The difference between agony and suffering is the subject of the pain.
Suffering is when you’re the one in pain.
Agony is when the one you love is suffering before your eyes

and you’re helpless to intervene.

April 11, 2013

it keeps me up at night.
the anger
mixed with excitement
and joy coupled
with agony

my health is going
in the waiting.

and now one brother
has been released and
the other remains under
devils thumb. and we wait
some more for an endless
coming, for our God who
doesn’t experience time
in the same way we do
(or so we’re told), for our
God who experiences agony
in much the same way we do
and we beat against the air
in a (hopefully) winning-but-
not-even-one-satisfying-blow
battle.

as i wait helplessly by for my
sons. to embrace and finally
not have to let go.

pipe

April 5, 2013

say what you will
but i aint letting
go of this thing
which i’m slightly
abusing in the
name of freedom.

you think all
tobaccos are
created equal
because you
were taught
of the evils
of paper-wrapped
crap.

it is evil.

but briar wrapped
heaven is a gift
straight from
above.

it’s sad really
but that’s how he ended
up on the warm side
of luke,
(not to be confused with the dark side)

like a four year old getting their first brain freeze and thinking the ice cream has turned on them, you just don’t understand.

just a reminder:
i blame you for the splatter
of blood on my wall above
the dresser i cannot wash
off for the life of me.
the blood is mine, but the cause
was yours. and this limp
i’ll carry as a constant
reminder with me in addition
to the bottle of cleaner
i keep on said dresser
and the plaster of paris
creepy model of your head
you made for me in the drawer.
you told me to take it out
and hit it with a bat. a bat
to bring my anger out on a model
of your head.

how did we end up together in the
first place when your insanity
is bleeding through your teeth?

when i eat deliciousness i cannot help
but worship the One who made
the chickens to eat the grass to soak
in this sauce, the sauce made of the
the grain fermented by the yeast of
heaven for beer to be boiled and
then chicken to be thrown in. i cannot
help but worship the One who made
the ground nutritious wherein the red pepper
can grow slowly more spicy to be chopped
and added to beer sauce for chicken to
soak in.

when i smoke deliciousness i cannot help
but worship the One who made
this Indian weed, and the ground where
the leaf can grow tall, strong, and be cut
down. the One who made the sun dry the leaves
and the One who made the ground perfect
for this tree to be cut down, for it’s wood to be
porous and cool, and light, to be perfectly clenched
between my teeth so i may worship while
my prayers are slowly carried to heaven
in clouds of smoke. something i know is unnecessary
but i like to imagine happening nonetheless.

when i smoke, and when i eat, and when i drink,
i cannot help but praise the Creator.

mine pipe part 2

March 2, 2013

when handled with care
and filled just so
she brings me calm for
some time in a way so
few others can.

thereputize

February 25, 2013

take my
face and dunk it in
chemicals you’ve “man-made”
in china.

water-board the amnesia
out of me and remind
me of life and what it was

mine pipe. part one.

February 22, 2013

i’d say this made me
a better person but we would all know it was a lie.
it does nothing to add or take
away (for that matter)
from my personhood-awesomeness
factor.

rather it makes me a more approachable
man.

it makes me seem down to earth
(as i’m stuck down in it)
and open’s people’s minds to hear
what i might say
think
or do.

they don’t look at me and my aesthetic
and open up naturally.
my beard ruined that possibility
(though they do giggle sometimes).

but this.
this of all things,
brings a personal note they love
adore
relate to.

opens doors otherwise closed
and lets the air in to filter
out the smoke.

no these words will not do you justice
just as they entirely failed me.
leaving me to grope around in the dark
chasing after a poet teachers said i
wrote like, and then later—forgetting—
they told me said
poet should have stuck to editing
and i just stared in response.
because that’s what words do, they fail.

or maybe it’s me who fails them and you’ll suffer an entirely different fate.

but wait….

February 18, 2013

i’m fairly certain this will make me feel manly,
or look manly
or be manly.
what’s a man anymore?

yea, i’ve been distracted.
uhuh, it’s been bad.

my mind has gone places
i wish i could bring it back from
but the beach it’s found there
is wide and the sand is white,
the water is clear and warm
and the mountains are something
of a comfort to a soul that’s simply
tired of fighting the good fight
and want’s a rest.

the problem is my mind
left my body behind to fight
and void of intellect my body
isn’t fighting very well.

sure sword is in hand
and the battlefield is where
i’m standing, but i’m uncertain
if i’m facing the enemy or my
own combatants. what color
are we? are we home or away?
and why are all the commands
of my leadership seemingly in
a language i cant understand?

my mind has gone places i wish
i could bring it back from, but it’s
told me on no uncertain terms that
it expects me to win this one
on my own. when the battleground
is clear, then, and only then will
it brave leaving the beaches behind
for the dumpster that my body
has become.

February 8, 2013

for these wounds
keep healing
faster than i can re-open them

A message of desperation

January 24, 2013

Sometimes when I’m sitting in class I get bored and I start to think about ridiculous things like eating my weight in raw-unpeeled potatoes or cliff diving from absurd heights in to freezing cold water while wearing a clown suit. But somehow no matter hard I work I can’t distract myself well enough to check out.

i’m an artist dammit
and i don’t need you
giving me your opinion on
the curvature of my
sculptures or the shading
of my paintings.

sure art is subjective
except for mine you asshole.

my melodies are objectively
beautiful, my stick figures
objectively perfect and
my nude self-photography
accomplishes exactly what i
was going for and objectively
what you wanted it to.

i’m an artist dammit
and this live exhibition
i’m doing here on this
street is a piece i’ve been
working on for months so, no,
it isn’t my fault if you’re
too stupid to see the work
that went in to the smell in
my dreadlocked hair and the
perfection in the placement
of the holes in my pants.

and i couldn’t give a shit
if you think something inferior
of my objective superiority.

there is that feeling
you get
(not me but you)
(not a universal you, but you)
where one minute you’re
(you you, not all of us)
on top of the world and then
you (… you get the idea)
just fall

and i
(all of us)
stood there
watching not entirely helpless
to do something
but doing nothing nonetheless

i hide my face
from the eyes
of the passerby’s
looking down
from the bridge
i’m on at the crowded
street on the
fourth sunday
since we said
we’d meet. i came
again, but
i know you haven’t been waiting for me.

i know the crickets sounds
will grow with time
and overwhelm the beating
of my heart
in the grass near my
head as they inch
out towards my nose
and my toes grow further
numb buried in the sand
below me.

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