So Good.

poetry

Lackadaisically we
found ourselves submerged
within the folds of our
own self-indulgent malaise.

All confidence aside, we
faltered all too willingly
into a sultry – if sordid –
Non-movement.

It’s the worst thing we
could do to ourselves,
but damn it,
sometimes,
it feels so good.

afternoon lull

poetry

strings of thoughts and things
i stand and grab by bag by an arm
strap as it lacks a handle and i have
to bundle it in my hand to keep it
from scraping the ground as we walk
because i’m too tired to go on sitting and
we talk about philosophy, theology,
life, and trees and the things you used
to make people do because you thought
it best but have since learned that while
sometimes it was really quite beneficial
it turns out most of the time you were
beating your head against the wall
uselessly discovering the texture therein
through repeated brief bouts of contact
with your now bloody forehead

i’m glad we’re standing now
i was so tired just one moment ago

durn classmates

poetry

stumbling over words stuck on a single
letter reminiscing over second grade
when i learned to read aloud and not sound
so much a fool as my classmates something
i chose to hold over their heads apparently
to this day now disgusted at my inability
in a new tongue to complete a single sentence
without a pause to think what this word could
possibly be and how it might should fit into
said phrase knowing you’re laughing
as i would if you were reading this and
knowing those second graders would laugh
too at me but i have to stand with grad students
who are mature enough to hold in their laughter
but bad enough poker players to keep me
from seeing it all over their faces

Load-in.

poetry

It’s raining.

four-thousand dollars worth
of expensive electronic equipment
to be moved from one building to
another with a car that
doesn’t have the best weather-
stripping in the world
and it’s raining.

for the hours i feel faint

poetry

and light of heart and head
sugar slowing slowing my heart
to near dead stop
as my thoughts so weightless
lift towards heaven
calling sour candy refined sugar
precious chocolate dear pixie sticks
doctor after doctor claiming
diagnosis after reason after diagnosis
failing to prove the
truth

Brown Paper Bag-full

poetry

There’s a brown paper bag-full
of empty cans and I
never quite know what to do with them.

They’re worth some money,
I’ve been told,
but I often wonder if all
that money is really worth
the effort.

There’s a brown paper bag-full
of empty cans. Know anyone
who knows what to do with them?

Danger.

poetry

He’s never exactly sure why he
always forgets to check when he
starts to change lanes on the
highway

He hopes it won’t end with a
fiery explosion and a
lot of pointless casualties
but still, he leaves the driveway.