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.

A Breath:
A single sound in silence
and inspired
and again
And her hands move.

She works
sort of badly, you know?
but the resulting mess
the endings up
is/are/am beautiful.

And I sit perturbed.
I sit watching and
waiting and I
don’t think I have it in me
and I’m not sure
it’s such a bad thing.

But the resulting mess
The endings up
are Beautiful.

And really
that’s the
only part that matters.

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.

I would like to go there
flowers in my hair
climb that wall too tall for me
hear the angels whisper again
Someone is waiting for me
to grow out of rain and loneliness
but I am a pterodactyl lost in the scorches
and ridges of existence

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

Drop-Dead is just the adjective
and not the effect
thank god
or tonight I’m sure
you would have killed me

The wind roared as a fury
and I
like a fool
tried to grip you just as tight
as when the ships were
dead on water

But I should have held you tighter
because it wasn’t good enough

But those were your winds
I found
and perhaps I should have
loosed my grip instead
so my fingers
were not so sore
when you finally flew from me

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.

Violent mornings of birds chirping, scattered nail clippings
and mid days of doodling, cafeteria nightmare of pointless chatter
and incessant chewing and gulping, and afternoon worn-down faces and
listless corpses, then sunset’s corrupting leisure of beer drinking, corrosive seduction, and self-abandonment up to the midnight burps (a Cinderella’s reminder to not bring any stranger home or their STD s ), echoing mama’s “your body is a temple”, thus stumbling back home, and halfheartedly munching on the thought-resolution that “Nobody will fill my emptiness with crap!” And all is well and good until another morning comes out pointing at the zombie in the mirror, and insisting on selling its soul at auction to somebody else who could do better with it.

I breathed
and every star was gone from my sight
but not gone from me
because I could remember
the shape of Ursa Major
and I could feel the Dipper
and taste the Southern Cross
and in a moment the heater,
it flared to life and suddenly
the stars came back to me,
and now I remember
that I remembered,
and I think that may be
just a tad more beautiful
than all these sweet, sweet stars

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.

So at least we cut ties
like we should have cut ties
so many ties before.

There’s a big brass bell
that hangs
on the side of a building
downtown, near the
galleries and Delicatessen

It shakes so hard that
I think it will fall off
and perhaps I will stand
just
beneath it, so the fall
will crush me so

But my trusts had no
issues,
they were issued freely
if carefully and well funded
and I know trust fund kids
and this ain’t how
it’s supposed to work

But here I am, just beneath
a big brass bell
hoping
that I will crush myself
beneath the weight
of my own red rage

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.

I heard about a man,
once,
with trust issues and when
he was proved right
no one was amused
and there was no mirth
in that vindication.

Never met the man
or his problems
but I feel his pains
as they reverberate
off of every wall and
corner and the big brass
bell
on the building downtown

I wonder if he’ll ever
trust again. Then,
I guess he hasn’t so far
and I guess he was right
and so what does that say?
Should all our trusts
have issues?

Do they?

When I was 17 my heart was gray
then came stilettos, cigarettes butts
and love at arm’s length.
I lived life as if it was real
But things don’t really change
I still lie alone besides a railroad
breathing in sunset clouds and
whispering to myself “dream go slow”