No-one’s sure
where they went
but everyone knows
that they’re back
by popular demand.

Punk Rock will
hardly be the same.

the ones with no core
because they’re heartless in a fruity
kind of way that lacks both pit
and love and every emotion
because while it technically lives
it lives in an “I absorb my
nutrition through a process call
photosynthicrap, you ever heard of it?”
kind of a way which no one even
in your vicinity appreciates
especially for someone that looks
like you
we just have less patience i suppose
because

Productivity
Is relative
To the amount
Of work
Being done
In the first place.
Perhaps to feel more
Productive
The least
Amount of work
Should be produced
In order
To feel more
Productive
So that
When any progress
Is made
I feel much more
Productive
Than I had been.

Relatively speaking.

It’s such a strange
feeling
when you suddenly
realize
that you might be
in it deep
and you
might be really stuck
this time.

At least
there’s all this
Company
down here.

We’ll be just fine.

The glass isn’t half full
It’s not half empty either
It’s completely, dried out
Utterly bare and empty
I’m spitting in it
Scraping pencil shavings on top
Churning it into a moist residue
Caking the bottom of the glass
Charcoal mixing with saliva
I have nothing left to articulate
Rinse and start over
Tomorrow’s another day
Maybe I’ll care then, maybe I won’t
But at least I’ll have forgotten that I should

Sunshine envelops
but for one last time today;
the night is coming.

…And away from home we stray
’till at last we find an old, quaint place
to gather near, and all but pray.
To garner our good graces
in between us, all together
and truly decide, one and all
to wait out foul weather
rather than attempt to sally forth
in to certain disaster.

Rain comes from the east
the tents are staked solidly
We will sleep in peace.

A life.
Fleeting.
Something so genuine,
so unique, like a memory.
A flash, a thought.
A tick, a breeze.
Brief.
Something so trivial
so minor, like a breath
Gone.
In an instant, a second
a beat, a blink
And I am lost.
At a loss,
for words.

We cause
quite the confluence,
you and I.

I swear I’ll probably
miss you. I think I
might already.

i sit,
in my watchtower
viewing hiked skirts
from a 2nd floor
pealing off the skin
crusssssssst
on my arms, thinking
“19”
i,
sit,
green from trees
invading,
pupils dulling,
life multiplying,
i in my infertile
watchtower,
above coffee shop
2nd floor,
watching hiked skirts
bounce through streets
the ghost of
charlie haunting me.

Sustaining life
for extended periods
is much more difficult
when currency
is entered
as a variable
in to the scenario.

If I could, I would
live in the forest.
If I could, I would
sleep under the
stars, every night.

But, alas, I can just
afford the thick wool blankets,
and I surely can’t
begin to rent
a campground lot.

The earth spins on its axis
Dark wine, yellow ochre and blue
The spinster threads her needle
Through an endless spool of colors

hatred builds inside
whenever in your presence;
i don’t understand.

how could i not be naive
when i’ve not seen it
finished yet?
the volcanoes
and asteroids
and hurricanes
in my chest
this sunspot causing
all of my duress
the gravity my lust
fights against
in the end we will
see what’s left

those were the golden days
surrounded by brilliant minds
babbling bull shit from sun peak to sun hide
giving me inspiration to sit
and write every first sentence i heard
for ten minutes in a crowd
furiously trying to keep up
knowing it would spring a poem
i could hope to find useful one day

but then digging through old notebooks
i fail to find you