Won’t you be my neighbor?
Won’t you be my lover?
Won’t you be my friend?
Through thick? Through thin?
Here in the neighborhood
Or in the land of make believe.
Because we should tell each other,
the truth and the facts.
Because we should tell each other,
That it’s a beautiful day to be alive.
So won’t you be mine? Would you,
Be mine? Won’t you be?
There’s been 143 times 33
Days since we’ve married.
And 1 + 4 + 3 still equals
I like you.
I love you.
I want you.
I need you.
Just the way you are.

My Porch has Caved In

And that’s gotta mean something,
perhaps symbolizing the constant march of time
or the impermanence of what we rely upon.

Or it could be more personal,
so that my house’s projection
is no longer erect.
The shelter from the storm,
no longer sheltering;
impotent protection.

Or, it is just that a tree had to fall,
when hit by winds of 90 mph,
and the direction of the gust,
combined with the untrimmed foliage,
and the comparative strength of some
branches as opposed to others
led to the half of the tree that
crushed my porch, caving it in.
But what’s poetic about that?

Filtered Expectations

The filtered sunlight
shines on bare ground,
lighting and warming
where there’s nothing to feed,
merely a dry expanse of dirt,
covered with unraked leaves.
Yet still, the sunlight shines,
lighting and warming over
my filtered expectations.

Questioned Idealism

What makes you happy?
What makes you you?
Follow your dreams
and you’ll be happy too!

And here I sit
at age thirty and three,
living my dream as a teen,
while often wanting to scream.

Is this what I wanted,
back as a teen?
Why did I not
dream bigger dreams?

Or why were my dreams
not made up of dollar signs,
things that are well worth my times?

Behind all these questions,
I know the answer quite well.
I do what I do because
I want to give a hell.

It all gets better eventually,

except for when it doesn’t.
But we never remember that
because those are losers anyway
and what do they matter?

And this too, my friend,
it will also improve,
just wait and you’ll see.
Unless it doesn’t,
and you’re just screwed.


Fill me up a cup,
Cause it’s been a long day.
And I’d love to say
That I’ve been out on the range.
Ropin’ the cattle,
And cuttin’ off their balls,
Brandin’ my mark,
Coverin’ it all.
But, I think you know me,
Know me enough to say
That all I’ve been doin’,
Doin’ the live-long day,
Is playin’ some video games
And watchin’ some TV.
But even so, I feel the need,
The need to get some whisky in me.

The Lecture Hall

Tans abound, bathed in
reflecting, radiating, vibrating
softly, glowing fluorescent light.

Worn carpet rests under;
never-in-style patterns surround
as ideas are tossed lazily about.

Some have merit,
some do not.
Some are young and vibrant,
most are not.

Reflected, radiated, vibrated
in lifeless fluorescent light,
surrounded by worn tans,
trying not to stand out.


I used to be better at this,

but no matter, for still I go

up and down, down and up.

And as I climb, I see you there,

over the fence, laying in the sun.

Then all I see is wood, on the descent,

until yet again, there you are,

smiling as you see me.

And too late, I return an awkward smile,

only to have it blocked by the downward fall.

But just as gravity sucks me down,

so also will it spit me up again,

and perhaps you’ll see me smile back.

Spring Break

If holidays were ranked,

first of course would be

the holiday of holidays,

the everythingakidcouldwantallrolledintoone extravaganza!

Of course I’m talking about Christmas.

And I can see the argument, of course,

to rank Thanksgiving next,

with the food and the leaves,

and the food and the family,

and, of course, the food and the, did I say food?

But up there somewhere is the break of spring,

which trades presents for getaways

and trades family for lazy days.

And, yes, the food may not be as nice,

but I’d trade it for sleeping late twice.

A Heart of Flesh

A heart of flesh

is a dangerous thing

because it causes so much pain.

How much easier I always find it to be

to live with a heart of stone

inside of me.

Because a stone does not feel.

Because a stone has no need to heal.

Instead, it just chips away,

weathered and ripped apart

by the wind and the rain.

And flesh is just so weak,

able to be stabbedtornbroken

by the hands of man.

And it hurts so much to feel,

because every piece that breaks

causes so much ache.

So the temptation is so strong

to be a stone that rolls along

without feeling,

without touching,

without purpose.

But that life is not for me,

not since I looked at that tree.

And that life is not for me,

because even through the pain

a heart of flesh can find joy in the rain.


I’m tired of being defined
by circumstance
by apathy
by me

So moving forward, this is the plan
to be brave
to be tough
to be what I want

And I am quite sure
that I’ll slip
that I’ll fail
that I’ll fall

But I can live with that
just as long
as I keep on
being who I want to be.

Father’s Day

“Father knows best,”
they used to say,
but I know what’s in my chest,
and usually it’s not Okay;

And considering dear old dad,
I can’t believe it’s true;
he’s never been too bad,
I’m just not convinced he knew;

Then there is dad number two,
who ran far, far away
at the old age of forty-two,
and then died on a highway;

Finally there is dad number three,
the next roll of the dice,
who may be lucky,
who may be lightning striking thrice.

The Elevator

The doors have closed,
but down I don’t go,
instead content

to hear the buzzing
of unknown origin,

to lean on the wall
of cool, cool metal,

to enclose myself
in a metal box,

where there is no noise
and there is no strife;
there is no movement in the box,
but somehow I end
on another floor.

my coffee runneth over

yet unclench, I shall not!
refusing to render
the satisfaction of release,
despite the pain!
despite the heat!
despite the puss filled blisters,
fit to burst,
I shall not unclasp!
I shall not remit!
I shall hold the cup!
for within is the only salvation
of this beautifully sunny spring morning.

if i could get rich today

i’d send this all away;
i’d walk right out the door
and never look for more.

i’d grow my hair long,
my beard would be fit for song,
and all anyone would see
would be the slightest resemblance of me.

i’d turn into a bum,
and shut myself in from the sun,
only coming out at night,
to protect my eyes from the light.

and no one would give me a thought,
i’d let me reputation rot,
glad to have finally disappeared,
glad to have finally repaired.

the art dealer

sat there, lonely
in the flow of the crowd,
watching the passers-by
and all of the drug-store connoisseurs,
waiting for the real buyer
that he knew would never come.
but still he waits.
and is there even now,
silently judging the drug-store connoisseurs.