night ache from an unknown source
caused luigi more pain than he’s seen
since jr. high wrestling when a dinkus
named bob kneed him
morning came with neck pain to boot
thinking i’m too young for this i mounted
my bike and rode till everything went a
blissful noticeable numb
home and showering as luigi reminds
me he still hurts
left my baby earth-side
for a cold steel sphere in space
and here i am in the void
with a black tin can sky
and i feel dry
I can’t
accomplish
much
when there’s
nothing
to
accomplish.
Alternatively
I’m at least
half-
way
lying
“Woohooha, we’re monkey boys!”
We yelled.
Jumping up and
down
on the old tractor wagon.
Plucking banana shaped leaves
off the ancient tree out back.
The days were endless
in our magical ship
through the jungle.
Four years old and beaming
at our newly hoarded stash.
Then we became hungry,
racing inside for supper,
to escape the giant gorilla.
i don’t know whether
to root for my success
or court my failure.
Can’t decide if I
Want to shout expletives or
Buy British clothing
bring relief and reminders
that life isn’t only about trying
to find words to describe our daily
travel through death defying
skull and cross-bone warning
creaky, dusty, burned out, deserted
hallways and rooms of old
its also about friends and family
and life outside outside our own
box.
but then the publishers write
and i get confused again
(today i got an email from lulu
saying they wanted to put our book
for sale up at amazon – weird)
The urge to wander
SWELLS
within one’s being, pushing,
coaxing one to tarry
just behind the line of
automatic people
that they
MUST
follow.
But, the urge to wander
SWELLS
so great, sometimes
it is impossible
to resist, despite
one’s own automatic
gearing.
The urge has
SWOLLEN
now. Throbbing just beneath
my breast, oh-so-near the
SOUL,
which I hold oh-so-dear.
I’ve since begun to tarry.
I’ve since gone to the shop.
It’s expensive, but they’re
changing my transmission
to a manual.
make me feel guilty
at my own lack of
dedication to extract
beauty from
each day
at least once.
It’s been twelve days
Since you briskly exited the room
Walking through the ornately carved
Dark cherry coloured door,
A resounding click as the lever fell into place.
We could’ve had some great times—
Sip diner coffee at two in the morning,
Black, two sugars and free refills.
Cheer boisterously at baseball games,
You got so excited you spilled your soda.
Could’ve shared our writing,
My favorite was the one set in Boston—
If only I would have introduced myself.
a flock of
birds circle
the courtyard
like foamy waves
breaking
at forty stories.
open the door and
take the elevator down,
down, down, down, down, down;
into the dark and
the smoke that swirls around,
down, down, down, down, down;
into the past where
that prohibition feeling surrounds,
down, down, down, down, down;
where the music pervades
filling every crevisce with sound,
down, down, down, down, down;
where heads grow light
as drink after drink goes down,
down, down, down, down, down.
cast about for words
that don’t seem to come
because there’s nothing,
nothing on the surface to say,
and we don’t want to go
beyond the surface
because if we were open,
really, really open,
then everything would change,
and we would never again laugh together
because the shadow of the depth,
the shadow would always remain,
tinting and tainting our mirth,
striking it away;
so we’ll perpetually sit in silence
until only the silence remains.
“It’s so nice to be together
but to not feel like we have to talk,”
I found myself thinking
whilst driving with old friends
to whom I had no idea what to say;
and I all but convinced myself
that this was how it should be,
trying to not recognize the probability
that our friendship had passed away,
and that only a faint semblance remained.
No-one’s sure
where they went
but everyone knows
that they’re back
by popular demand.
Punk Rock will
hardly be the same.
the ones with no core
because they’re heartless in a fruity
kind of way that lacks both pit
and love and every emotion
because while it technically lives
it lives in an “I absorb my
nutrition through a process call
photosynthicrap, you ever heard of it?”
kind of a way which no one even
in your vicinity appreciates
especially for someone that looks
like you
we just have less patience i suppose
because
Productivity
Is relative
To the amount
Of work
Being done
In the first place.
Perhaps to feel more
Productive
The least
Amount of work
Should be produced
In order
To feel more
Productive
So that
When any progress
Is made
I feel much more
Productive
Than I had been.
Relatively speaking.
It’s such a strange
feeling
when you suddenly
realize
that you might be
in it deep
and you
might be really stuck
this time.
At least
there’s all this
Company
down here.
We’ll be just fine.
The glass isn’t half full
It’s not half empty either
It’s completely, dried out
Utterly bare and empty
I’m spitting in it
Scraping pencil shavings on top
Churning it into a moist residue
Caking the bottom of the glass
Charcoal mixing with saliva
I have nothing left to articulate
Rinse and start over
Tomorrow’s another day
Maybe I’ll care then, maybe I won’t
But at least I’ll have forgotten that I should
I should have gotten up.
Just five more minutes I said
I hit the snooze button
and rolled over in bed.
All I need is five more minutes.
So I went back to sleep instead.
the sieve and the sand 
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