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.

He avoided the dread monsters of the New World
and passed peacefully from the back to the front,
stepping jovially and uncarefully and stopping
just beneath the longest, tallest bridge and he said
he didn’t much mean to cross it for fear of
being blown in to the ice water – a cold wet grave –
but he’d have to give it a shot and so he
climbed up the hill to where he’d pay his toll, and
when he did not have quite enough change the man
was very nice and let him walk on anyway.
so he went and made it half-way along the longest
tallest bridge, but the wind had picked up and,
it is such a shame that a man who avoided
the dread monsters of the New World, would
be blown so unceremoniously in to the coldest
water he had yet been in. It then became
his everlasting grave, oh what a shame it is.

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.

So pretty soon
your hands are off the wheel
and you dodged what you could
and you’re already floating

and when the first hit sounds
you don’t feel so bad
and the second one,
it rattles you loose

But the music keeps playing
and it’s still okay to drive
as long as the going’s slow.
The cops won’t seem to mind.

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.