this cup better than yours.
these thoughts hung on for hours.
on this here flooring,
we grow shag carpeting,
and swear these drugs aren’t ours.

nothing to read
no inspiration to write
i cannot browse the interwebs
for much longer without
a slow atrophy of my
creativity.

nothing to read
no inspiration to write

put your dreams on hold and
remove your shoes to enjoy the
silence the sun is creating with
beams so thick it’s absorbing the
sound and your toes moving through the
grass with a distant echo of
some child laughing is the only
input your senses can manage.

put your dreams on hold and
take in the meaninglessness of your
life for a moment.

put your dreams on hold and
recognize your creator. this is for you
and you never even notice.

and your dreams are so easily worthless.

for letting me gush
to pour out rants i knew not were bottled up
for the beer words to have a home
alongside the words i’ve rolled around
in my head for weeks and slowly trickled
out like the Power Balls every week.
(that’s what she said).

you have been more than a friend to me.
you all have been more than friends to me

beer for this upset stomach
less to self-medicate
more to prove to myself
great love covers over pain.

on the kind of stone laid long enough ago
there are cracks in the mortar and weeds
grow through and you sit watching bugs
crawl by on the amphitheater stairs in the
afternoon sun listening to your poetry prof
read you all-too-pornographic renderings
of his own poetry he got published once
and sold to no one other than the members
of his family with whom is close enough to
pressure into a book, but distanced enough
from to not feel awkward about the horrible
undressing he does of himself in his writing
not just of his clothing, but of his own deep
seeded depression.

but it’s okay. because the amphitheater. and
the sun. and the bugs. and the afternoon
spent gaining inspiration from something other
than your teacher’s (disgrace to the human gift
of speech also known as) words.

the moon will fade and gliste
as it flows slowly with blood. or so it
will seem when every stream flows
red from the bodies strewn around as
the end draws near and we fear for
our very lives wondering why we were
foolish enough to bring children into this world.

but I am a mortal being lost in the battle
struggling for existence

and to go down in a glorious firestorm cant
be all bad.

the power of the conjunction should not be denied the argumentuer
but should it be denied.

less like you’re drowning
and more like you’re unable
to swim in water you’re still
able to stand up in, but should
you lose your footing you’re
sure it’d mean certain death.

beer, beer, it’s hard to describe
the more i brew the more i imbibe
the more imbibe the happier i feel
so lets drink beer
before and after every meal and then later in the evening
perhaps right before bed you could have another.

it wouldn’t matter if the rhythm was fast
or slow or if the words rhymed with any reason.
if people heard the music and found they
were taken by surprise, that would suffice for me.
for a season.

the first few miles never make it into my imagination.
you know the ones where you’re wonder if there
is any hope at all of completing this craziness
the ones where your body is still not set into rhythm
and you’re passing over roads you’re still familiar with.

they don’t enter the equation because they’re not the
point for the run out of this state with nothing on my
back. just my shorts and nothing on my feet by these
sandals.

in my mind the ground is dry and dusty and the cars
drive by too fast. i’m always just short of a full on death-wish
and every step brings me closer to a goal i dont understand.
but the people on the way are friendly because somehow
i arouse in them a sympathy for a universal human condition

the desire to run like hell and never look back.

our bodies are not designed to cope with such a universal human experience. our stomach lining melts away before us, our brains fill with images of terrible things and wake us from our slumber then refuse to let us return.

vomit colored vomit surprises no one
on the way out. their shock is more
in response to equation they’re running
in their head to include the resistance of both
air and gravity, and this projectile’s seeming
insistence on ignoring the interference.

the voice of reason shall be silenced
even should it be the final thing i endeavor
to do

my afternoon suddenly makes sense
of people placing needles in them selves.

you can temper fear with panic if you play your cards right.
and lust (they say) can be overcome by love.
but most fascinating of all, (and certainly least awkward)
is the way in which chocolate seems chemically designed
to compliment wine
and destroy beer

my brain will atrophy when this bruise decides it is not enough to slow me down to the speed it has chosen.

sleeplessness is playing its role perfectly; standing outside my window and wielding scalpels and other instruments of both death and salvation laughing like an evil uncle, or mocking child.

the fragrance of the sun-burning-holes-in-my-cheek through the magnification of the window to the right of where i’m productive reminds me sickly of the wood chips they used in elementary school to cover the vomit of the kid we all knew with a weak continence.

my pen sits idle on the blank notebook i purchased on discount and in which found more pleasure in the binding than the words i hoped to use to fill it to bursting.

like clay pots we break open not out of disgust for the clay but out of curiosity. our wonder is greater, more mature than that of the child. we watch in anticipation at where exactly the cracks will appear, hoping for one separate from the seam, perhaps a vertical one across the horizontal lid. yes, our sense of curiosity, while rooted in childhood, has matured. we break clay pots to hear the crash and wonder if it’ll be a B flat or a C sharp. there’s a good chance if you break enough pots you’ll eventually get two or three in a row from the same key. something playable on a funk album. something you’d listen to while watching pots fall from a roof, to set a beat, instead of determine a melody. because our wonder is no longer like that of a child’s.

no, we break things for more mature reasons

the focus of the reader was the first casualty
unfortunately followed closely by the attention
span of the writer.

leaving our poetry every day shorter and shorter
until we choose to leave the poem behind
in a tweet rather than on digital paper.

a medium we’re certain has a shorter life, to better suit our shorter attention

i wrote a poem filled with crap
and put it by your door.
i lit it on fire and rang your bell.

because if you can’t enjoy it’s verse
you can at least enjoy its smell, as it
sticks to your shoe this week at work
and nearly burns down your house.