today i wrote my masterpiece
on letterhead from that place
we know
encrusted it in overlaid gold
submitted it for review not by
peers but the higher ups. you know
the people who really decide
if you’re someone or not
today i wrote my masterpiece
i blogged it on the interwebs
i crossed my fingers and hoped
for wealth. but i knew i was willing
to settle for comments
oh my obsessions my obsessions my obsessions
my obsessions have got me down
dreaming for better times without obsessions
obsession free sessions
where life is simpler with no distractions
a place where i can obsess over my lack
of obsessions
oh my obsessions my obsessions my obsessions
my obsessions have got me down
and here i’m dreaming of
obsession free sessions
If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month
The décor would be a nightmare.
Clashing tones and tints competing
With lampshades something ill
Sitting patiently for a waiter to
Take your order would be like
Waiting for the next apocalypse
The chairs would grate against your
Soul like Monday morning, with its
Hard reality and lack of support
The music, (if they have any at all)
I imagine would be like Grandma’s
Lounge-room jazz- but more dreary
Don’t expect a warm smile with
Your service. The waiters are busy
And don’t have time to amuse.
If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month
But did I mention the food?
Oh! The food is positively divine.
Oh darling
I can see you,
with your firey eyes and
your samurai smile
just like in the movies
and you’re looking this way
because you can see me
seeing you, bare teeth and
cut hair and all, squirming
in the warmer spots of sunlight
with this collared shirt unbuttoned
at the top and
All we understand is
old jazz records.
waiting seems an endless thirst
where all things bore
and drone on
a white-washed sun shining
on a hangover day
30 left.
and i want to be alone,
and i want to get drunk,
sopping, stupid, pissed drunk;
so that i’ll see double
the wings on my plate;
and i’ll not mind
the burning, outside my mouth;
and i’ll even sadistically enjoy
the fire soon to come;
and i’ll not notice
that i’m alone,
instead focusing only
on the close companionship
of greasy, spicy, wing flavored alcohol,
cause I don’t want to feel alone tonight.
Pour out, sweet mercy like a stream
Your ways bring waves
No longer in my own power to stand
But for yours, and only yours
Pour, steadily pour, through all land
Your stream becomes a sea
No longer without footsteps to follow
But for yours, and only yours
Pour onto parched tree and forest
Your water brings reprieve
No other grace can touch me
But for yours, and only yours
Pour a thousand days in me
Your endless cup spills out
No heart can find peace but your arms
But for yours, and only yours
I don’t know what’s supposed to grind,
nobody does, really,
so we’ll keep greasing axles
and replacing parts ’till
hopefully
that grinding goes away
Try writing the word
Loneliness
When you’re really
Truly
Alone.
The letters stretch like
Highways
In a city that isn’t
Your
Own.
a wonder was born on to this sphere
to bring joy and gladness to all who
would meet him and his parents gave
him a name which he later lied and said
was roger
this was the day that roger was made
you should rejoice and be glad in it
for this is the day
this is the day
the roger was made to bring joy and
gladness to all who would meet him
i tried to make it less painful,
a concession to the wife,
by switching from the buzz-buzz-buzz
to the delightful sound of the radio;
but even music can be a bad start
especially when it’s in the form
of Hall and Oates or some-such other
overly-happy sounding band
that seems to be playing
everyday at exactly wake-up time,
as if they are watching,
waiting for the exact moment
to spring the trap,
to darken the day
with horrible morning music.
The street light is but a
stone’s throw
away from me. I can see it,
pushing back the darkness pushing
back the darkness pushing back the
terror pushing back the beauty pushing
back the night
I fear I’ll never make it,
for the stone may throw, but
it may also bounce off,
in to the great big horror that is
uncertainty
I could not be let to skip,
nor could I make to be thrown,
There is no one strong enough
to pitch me.
So I look towards the street light
while standing under another one
Reflect.
Not too hard.
Thoughts aren’t cheap.
While it breathes,
undo your top two buttons.
Fire off a text or two.
Ponder the wordy label.
Check the fridge for cheese.
With the first sip,
be classy.
Swirl and glare or
you’ll forget what it feels like.
Sit down.
Take your damp boots off.
It tastes better that way.
While you wait for company,
don’t sigh.
Text someone else.
Put an album on.
Think about how tired you are,
how tired you’ll be
after just. one. glass.
As you unwind,
sip slowly.
Roll your head around.
Sing badly and casually.
Top the glass up.
Open a window.
Don’t rush it.
Meditate to the velvet.
When you’re half a bottle in
and the doorbell rings,
don’t hurry towards it.
Be calm.
Smooth your fringe and
check your teeth in the mirror.
Feel the scarlet syrup
linger.
Take a second or two longer than
necessary.
Open the door.
Begin.
there’s a fire in the city;
it was not started by me,
whiskey drunk.
i am only dancing,
dancing in the ember-
snow.
the reds are killing
the blues, i am green,
my things can fit in
a backpack so i dance,
dance,
dance in the fire.
my eyes are fed
with the fire when
the wind blows and
if a big enough gust
comes along i
wont fight it.
still jacket weather
but painful no more;
let dreams of travel commence.
intimacy incarnate in
monkey on monkey love
(stay tuned for poo flinging
starting now except
on the west coast)
Like thieves, we stole through the night.
We waited for the last pair of taillights to pass
and then crossed the street in the vacuous silence of their wake.
You were several steps ahead,
familiar with the way.
The school was immutable in its brick slumber.
We pressed our faces to cold glass and peered
into darkened classrooms populated by slouched shadows.
Emergency exit signs reflected gently in waxen linoleum,
lingering like lipstick.
We continued to the back of the building,
half carried on rebellion’s breeze,
half scared we’d see the principal or a cop or my mom.
Our steps scraped echoes from the parking lot pavement,
we exhaled momentary contrails into the autumn air.
This is it, you said, as if to God,
in front of a tall conglomeration of metal vents and conduits,
set in gravel, surrounded by chain link fence.
You began to climb and I followed,
the delinquent rattle of our ascent shaking the evening calm.
The rooftop surprised our feet with skull-sized stones.
The deep knocks of their shifting gave our steps new meaning
as we moved across the sky.
You sat confidently on the ledge,
took a cigarette from your front coat pocket and lit it.
It was then I nearly pushed you,
my head flashing with lightning rage–but it passed.
I sat a few feet from your oblivious form,
requested a cigarette, and surveyed the sleeping town
from those three stories
that seemed like thirty that night.
on confrontation today i fled to my nothing box. a small place inside of me where i keep nothing. and to where i retreat when what i desire is nothing. in said box i find nothing at all. i’d say it brings rest but that would be something and altogether more than i’m seeking when i seek nothing in my nothing box.
There are a thousand words to say
over and over and over and over and
over again, but truths still exist.
Your friend is dead and buried
There’s a dark spot on the radar,
right between the low-flying planes
and the weather balloons, that gets
reserved for all the little things that
nobody can see coming
(this is a glitch in the system
and it’s been there for years)
Like all things worth doing, though,
there’s a trick to the method:
Just pay real close attention
to the things passing into darkness,
and you may just have a good idea
on where they’ll be coming out
Oh Goodness, I hope they end up coming out.
I’m stepping over books
That smell like rotting onions
And since the authors of them
Are now dead, I’m hopping
Over books that smell like
Rotting onions and since the
Authors of them are now
Forgotten I’m jumping on
The books that smell like
Rotting onions.
the sieve and the sand 
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