There’s something to be
said
about
being
sick and tired
of being
sick
and tired.

The main problem
being, however
that the
thing
to
be
said,
is sure damn
tiring to say.

Difficulty phrasing
can be more painful
than the worst Indian Burn you ever
got from your uncle
when you were a kid.
But only, I suppose,
if you fancy yourself as
having a way with words.

I went through those tran
sitional phases, where you
stutter just a bit because you
haven’t quite calibrated the differences
in the speed at which your
brain thinks, and your mouth
moves.

Now things are all lined up,
though.
Now I talk just when
I want the words to come out,
and not an instant
prior.

But even now,
it’s hard to
bring
myself
to use up
all that
(precious)
energy
saying something
that I really don’t
have
to say.

Somewhere in the middle
It becomes difficult
(Impossible)
To tell
Right from Left
And once consumed
There’s really no escaping—
At least, until,
The damage is done

Like a fog and underwater—
Still able to breathe
But unsure if it’s air—

Equilibrium                            thrown

Off/On?

Decisions suspect
Inhibitions to surely distrust
Questionably dubious—

Choices to be made—
Short supply/limited quantity
And are they even right?

There are times when I don’t need your
patronizing my every
word or move or pensive stance.
Times when I can carry my
verbosity and end up landing on
my own two feet.

And there are times
when the strange thoughts
I tend to string together make
just enough sense to just enough
of us, that it wasn’t such a complete
waste of everyone’s time sitting
around and listening ’till 4 A.M.

Do you remember when we used
to think we knew each other?
I keep looking across the room at you
hardly believing you could ever
be the same person I went to school with
all those years ago.

Do I know you? I must.
Because even though you
look a little different, you smell
just the same, and I guess my
face will have to be sore,
‘cuz goodness knows
I certainly can’t stop smiling.

these bags of yours
you drag around
dumping pieces you’ve collected
on all your friends

i’d say we like your crap
but i’m sick of lying

Three hours under hot lights does
funny things to your thought-process.
Soon it’s keys and notes and stops and
starts and ones and twos and threes and
fours and then it’s nothing.

Nothing but the melody.

(and, perhaps, a bit of rhythm)

i forgot how cold can permeate
every little layer of epidermis
making even the heart cold

just leaving room to be warmed
by the beauty of the communal
suffering making life epic as we
live it together hoping together
we’ll survive the night

all of us

The heat’s on high, the water starts
boiling,
boiling,
boiling,
boiling,
running over edges on to ranges
surely ain’t been cleaned off in ages
but not a lot to worry about:
Water stains always come out
of metal

life is an ouroboros
or: ouroouroouroorououro
ouroouroouroouroouro
ouroouroouroouroborus etc.
why? well,
love is blind! things of
that nature, like,
christian capitalists…
like, freedom.
like, how…youth is wasted
on us poor folk. spent endlessly
drudging through homework and
work at the minimum wage legally
allowed to pay a human being
and spent not experiencing
anything, unless, of course
you are a hippy,
drug-addict,
good-for-nothing,
hobo. of course.
in america, freedom is most
surely dead.
for if i were to sit in one
spot i would be sued or
some such legal rigmarole,
though, that is all i really
wanna do (to sit in one spot,
not to get sued).

I’ll never know her name
You’ll never tell me.
She’ll keep taunting me anonymously
Otherwise I would have a name to my hate.
Holding on to one last piece
And you want me to forgive you?
Let go then,
Stop protecting your sin.
What did you think would happen
When you drove a stake of betrayal
Into the heart of your family’s foundation?
Did you think we would welcome you back
With an open armed embrace?
Saying, ‘it’s okay, everyone’s fallible?’
How couldn’t you see the line
When you crossed it?
Don’t enter here
Believing you have a home anymore.
You and your guilt will sleep on the couch.

its true and you know it
humility would be a lie
our words bring you inspiration
to your knees you fall and beg
for more turning page after
page hoping for another letter
written as well as the last and
shocked you notice the hours
have passed and you’re not
writing that book they’re paying you
for instead you’re stuck in the sieve
in awe as each grain of sand
glides on through and you’re jealous
to be humble would be to lie
your hands aren’t here bringing
verse to those in need instead you’ve
dedicated yourself to money instead
of daily brilliance

(wish we had both sometimes)

but even though the bastards never
notice and i can call them that because
this isn’t some creating writing department
of a larger institution that’s going to reject
my request for the major simply because
i curse them out in four short poems
boasting of my invincible awesomeness
no this is our territory and if you don’t want
in then get the crap out because these
words aren’t for the faint of heart
they’re here to remind you that it is us
who paid the nearly ten dollars to own
this piece of web real estate and we’ll
write on it exactly what we mean
mistakes in all just to stick it you
(the man)

and one day when one of the twelve
of us however many there are actually
makes it somewhere big in this world
well he’ll look back and say it was there
and hopefully he’ll buy me lunch

i’d really love it if someone bought me lunch

It’s not always an
interesting last name
putting you at the bottom
of every list.

Just saying.

the same sins
back and bugging me
like hiccups

not terrible
just enough to keep me from
sleep

Careful words are normally
a careless waste of time,
so please, cut all the bullshit
and just say what’s on your mind.
(Well, odds are good you’ll
at least be surprised with what you find).

You’re leaving.
And standing in the threshold
Of the open doorway
Unraveling your umbrella
You enter into the rain.

I cannot follow
And nothing I can say
Will halt the deluge
Will seal the door
Will convince you to stay.

The door squeals on its hinges
Heels click on the pavement
Curtains of rain close behind you
And I’m left behind
With no further explanation.