I want to
spend the night with you
on someone else’s furniture
and wake up early
because we both have work in the morning

and I want to drive down the highway
on fumes
and I want to drive down the country road
on the same fumes

I want to
sit and listen to you
almost but not quite
crying
over anything,
everything,
that makes you almost
but not quite
cry

And I want to
FIGHT
I mean I really want to
FIGHT
for anything there is
to fight for

and I want to drive down the highway
on fumes
and I want to drive down the country road
on the same fumes

Though I’m really happy for them
and I’m constantly excited by
the thought of infinite potential
I can only hope that everything
goes wrong

It’ll be that much more
satisfying
when they finally
pull everything
together.

Going back to bed
Is so much better
Than falling asleep in the first place

this morning the sun rose again on my
internet defying my loss of hope
giving me opportunity to enter again
into the nether-poetry-sphere to
dump on you five days of pent up
brilliance

but all my poems
of thoughts and lost socks
seems drab compared to the
color of the bits and bytes
on my glorious connected

world.

Impetuously, the sun seems
to enjoy it’s early rising
with what appears, to me, to be
absolutely
no consideration

Impetuously, I return to
my ever-too-slight-of-a-slumber
with the hopes that
perhaps,
impetuously,
the sun may decide
to hide a while
before it rises again

heaven is so far away
from earth
and why?
it takes so much
effort to get to
the sky
it ruins your
high
you want to go up
but they say
nigh
your persistence
run dry
your bed is
a sty
do we ever leave
earth?
is there something
to find?
some place in
your mind
where all words are
kind?
or is
any way out just
a lie.

It’s the simple things
like
sipping cold milk from a
Collins
or
knowing what a Collins
even is.

Like an open stage format
at a local bar
with
a man and his
5-string
and a man
and his 6-string
and two (count ’em two)
saxophones.

It’s
one more
cliche
free-verse
po-em
written
at the
end of
a long
, long
, day.

but mostly,
it’s
the cold milk
in a Collins

i want to ask you
if you’d like to light
a fire underneath
i am a match itching to
burn
i can promise you a blaze
this wildfire would
take its toll and
roll like a catalyst
through our arteries
and if your world is
too quiet just let me
know

oh my
shooting star
i sit
empty chested
these things
well i can’t stop
these things
sitting in a crowded room i am high as a balloon i want to be with you sitting in a crowded room
oh my
shooting star
i sit
empty chested
hoping

I’ve never even seen
such a sight as a
volcano in the
back yard.

And the smoke
and the fire did
consume all of the
unprecious fuel we
fed it.

And I’m sure we shouldn’t
burn old tires and oil
but sir, I must admit
that it was cool, and
you can’t prove a
god damn thing
anyway.

Glancing along the bookshelf
Don Quixote stares back at me
And underneath him staggered sideways
There’s an infinite number
Watching back at me
Like hundreds of rectangular eyes
Hiding in the shadows of moons and suns
Finding respite in tollbooths and towers
Since the beginning
When red letters spilled onto delicate pages
Tenderly crafted so that even
The smallest rodent and elephants
Can drink from the same water
Until they finally come undone
The voyage ending
Returning to the roots
Alongside the stream
Perfection finds its place

when trouble falls like lemon-ny
drops high above the chim
mini chops thats where you;ll
fiiiiind sheeee
ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo oo oo o
bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu.

somewhere over this painful
feels good lies
and here i wait for therapy
i dont know why i dont die die die!

die die die
oooooo mmmmm ooo oo oo o o
bu bu bu bu bu po po po

i try to think
of a word, any word
to say and break the void
stretching between the two of us
like a tiny time bomb
that could blow at any moment,
you could blow at any moment.