the wailing may be over
but the weeping has only begun,
and the only thought that comes
in the early morning hours
and late into the night
is that she’s gone
and won’t be coming back,
no matter what anyone wants
because this is what she wanted.
a rock and a hard place
poetrywhen everything
piled together
becomes too much,
what is there to do
but to lock up one’s feelings,
to lock up one’s thoughts,
to do away with one’s humanity
and become something hard
that can’t feel the pain
of a lost love,
of a lost child,
of a lost friend,
gone for good,
for no good reason.
if life didnt revolve around beer what then? Huh? Tell me dang it
poetrylife just ain’t what it used to be
when your beer gets cold
cars move a little too slow
and you can’t run worth beans
when your beer gets cold
your brats lose their flavor
your wallet feels light and empty
your friends all blame you for their farts
when your beer gets cold gets cold gets cold
when your beer
gets cold
gets cold
Correct Terminology
poetryOh God
there are bodies
everywhere
but so far as
I can tell,
most of them
are breathing
I suppose that’s
the difference
between bodies
and people.
Oh God
there are people
everywhere.
little shop of horrors
poetrywhen i first saw them,
all i could see was him
sitting quietly,
defeated and in shock,
surrounded by those he loved
and who loved him best,
but utterly alone,
lost in his own thoughts
and dark memories.
no one had anything to say,
except for “i love you,”
whispered in a hug
or with a brief touch,
trying not to break
the silence that we all knew
would soon be broken in shouts
of painfrustrationdisbeliefanger,
as the realization washed over us all
staining our minds and memories
to match the blood covering his hands.
A Variety of Vessels
poetryI’ve gotten sort of hung up
on this vessel kind of thing
you know?
Drinking vessels, sailing vessels
and even vessels for the immortal
Soul
And I’m very fond of
rhetoric, but not so much
Hyperbole
and though they can be
similar, they are not
necessarily
The Same
lack of delcious happiness horrors
poetryhorror is not a too-white kid in a hallway
nor a man outside your bathtub with a knife
no
true horror comes
in stores of grocer
on shelves
empty of donuts
Expected.
poetryEven after one two many
no-one ever wants to
stretch out
head ’round back
and fight me.
Pussies.
this is not a sexual reference
poetrythey wrapped it up and stuffed my insides like a burrito
layering tortillas then chicken
(dark meat)
and pounds of black beans
before the barbecue sauce around my midsection
topping it off with cool silantro
(you can never have too much)
they layered in some sour cream before my esophogas then reached down
(below my belt)
and pulled the tortilla up around my ears then back down again and i
would be a lot more comfortable
if you’d unwrap my foil shell
and devour me
Epigram of sorts
poetrySo if life isn’t a race then
Why is everyone running?
in shadows
poetryyour skin feels softer in shadows
and
your words pulsate with
syrupy significance
and
your touches
electrify me
until i’m wide awake
in the middle of the night
wondering at the creation
of such a being as you.
poetry – an etymology in short form
poetryi could prose your love but
sexier i would find it shoulds’t it be versed
instead
Bury rhymes with terri(fying)
poetryDirt and other
certain types
of sedatives
surround us
as we
contemplate the simple joys
of being above ground
And of laying on it
cock-sure that we’d
never have to contemplate
the horror of a world contained
within a cramped, yet
relatively roomy pinewood box
For all eternity.
not quite a haiku
poetrybeer completes the
perfect atmosphere warped
large moon while driving
home filled night
i hate running but sometimes it helps
poetryheart pounding
breath burning,
running through the pain
running through the frustration,
finding peace on the other side,
after getting my heart started again.
Tanka
poetryRed brick masonry
Climbs alternating patterns
Up time worn structures
Ascending into open skies
As the earth crumbles below
future past tense
poetrywe met in a dark alleyway
my heart was beatin’ fast that day
i grabbed her hard and we made love
back behind the club
and afterwords i called her a whore
and left her on the ally floor
i’m sure, for me, that it was love
but i don’t wear that glove
when i got home to write it down
a bright sun dying in the background
another one was waitin’ there
she scratched my skin, she pulled my hair
i swear by god that she was lost
and being weighed down by such a cross
she’d never find her way to go
as days will drain your soul
a case of the mondays
poetrymonday,
steriotypically conspired
to ruin my attitude,
taking all of its best shots, like:
long work-days
throwing-up wives
unwarranted depression
unaccountably cold rooms
unexplainable hostility;
when will it be time
for bed?
.
poetrycant do what you cant do unless
you’re powered by something bigger
than a claimed 9.5 hour battery life
which keeps going and going and going
until 9.51 hours at which point you will
die perfectly without lasting even a second
longer than you’re measured to do that’s what
you’re like when you try to do what you cant
do
stick to what you’re good at
got2gogot2go
poetryyou live right-of-center
chest cavity
as a hollow feeling
you poke at my ignition
gas floods my eyes
and if i do not move
i will explode
and if i do move i will
drive ’till the atlantic
or pacific or
indian
and i don’t even want
you to come with me
i don’t even want
you at all
if not for a second.
the sieve and the sand 
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