just under nine minutes to go

poetry

until windows update
overtakes everything,
crashing this;
crashing that;
tearing everything apart
with its awesome power
and the majestic way
that it closes programs,
completely on its own,
maybe asking;
maybe not;
depends on its mood.
and all that’s left
for me to do
is acquiesce,
because there is no questioning
and there is no disagreeing
once the update has began.

But it tastes so sweet

poetry

There is death in that water
I can smell it.
It reeks its odorous presence
through to my soul and there it
sits,

grabs hold,
just around the thinner parts
that aren’t so staunch
against the
creeping
terrors all about

Questions.
What if
questions are just
questions, nothing
more? but soon the
questions turn to
worries turn to
terror turns to
I-can’t leave-the-
house-any-more

But those are just the
little parts,
so I still drink that water.

And here I sit
breathing death
with every waking
instant

before we leave

poetry

i am truly taking the
last hits
of this bag
and am thinking
how i let you down,
and died at the
end of this dream.

i hear them knocking
all day,
these days,
but i wanna spend
my minutes between
you and the sad
winter sun
before i awake
and consciousness comes.

good friends

poetry

it might be slow to get going
but eventually it will
and when it does,
it will carry on,
ad infinitum,
and beyond,
for as long as we like,
never waning,
never lolling,
always good,
always too short,
until the time comes
and we have to go,
home,
away,
apart,
just when it started to get good.

In Boston

poetry

In Boston
I see boxy blue cars.
Tired blue buzzards.
On roads, I can’t
Tell if they come or go.
Parked, I don’t know the front
From the back.

They have flown cross country.
Seen deserts and
Churning snow storms.
Fine Swedish engineering
You wish would last forever.

But I ride the train.
I come and go.
In giant, clanky lunch pails
On wheels.
Peeling and rusting on rails.
Full of boots and coats and earbuds
And more blank stares.

verbatim

poetry

the problem with the digital age
is the lack of analog
‘digital’ reproduces in my brilliance
in too strong of color for the average
man to take in all at once

you’d like me better softened
by the blur of wear and tear.

confrontation

poetry

and they never quite go
exactly how i would like,
until sometime after,
safely shut up in my office,
with only Dell around,
and a song on last.fm playing,
i reinvent the whole scene,
giving myself the best lines,
wowing my opponent with wit,
swooning her with passive-aggressive charm,
and above all, showing style
as i say the exactly perfect words
at the exactly perfect time,
and there is no sense of lingering guilt
and no feelings of inadequacy
but only triumph,
exulting in complete and total
verbal dominance.

Questionaire

poetry

When they jingle their keys
and the music plays in their heads
do they listen?

Do they roll around on beds so
soft and big and lonely all night
just to prove they can
because god damn it, they pay
the fucking rent?

What happens when they
leave their different city
for the same city they left
for the different city because
the different city was so much
better?

Where did all those long years go?

grey. this time with refrain

poetry

oy these days press in on me
like walls in windowless rooms
with padded white cloth linings
screaming lack of money
lack of faith
worry worry worry

i know the cure but i fear the pill
because i must focus to partake

ache eases in slowly like the pain
in my back as i sit on these all too
soft all too cheap couches knowing
my posture is bad now but my
back irrevocably ruined

i know the cure but i fear the pill
because i cannot be numb and partake

current status

poetry

up here they call me dr. hugo
i work at a chinese restaurant
where my boss
(an old chinese lady named mary)
calls me josh-ah
i have a scrape on my
knuckles from punching
the bathroom fan
the earth is monochrome
i am only charging the
sun a one trip-fee
for a round-trip flight

i am hoping that it takes
a hint.