and heading for conference
then beach
but more importantly people
and downtime
where i plan to regenerate
myself with books.

yes. i’ll bring them on my phone
a computer in itself
and i’ll lay in bed and read
and sink my feet in to sand
and run.

somehow this will bring me back
to the job i love
ready to do it even better.

or so me hopes.

she opens the envelope
replaces it on the table
closes eyes inhales
the words
written in cursive recognizably
rising and falling
written in syntax matching
the map of her thoughts limited by
blue lines blue lies
and all she ever hoped
you might say.

the fun police aren’t fun
until you’re one
and you begin to compare
what is and isn’t fair
“why should he be given free
what cost so much for me?”
and you hate what loves you
and become jealous in your dreams, too
living in a human zoo.

me, over here
my mouth numb with ecstasy
i am lazy
but i am not dumb
in the jungle you can not
remain easy

Days
stretch on as
the halls of a mortuary
stretch,
leaving guests
and grief to
wander in to infinity

but the nights,
they seem to burn like
paper on a candle
or a devil
in the sun,
sleep and solace lost
among the cold, unruffled
bedstuffs

but,
one day
I hope to have a night
and, after
easing my days
from the stretching,
perhaps
I’ll take my night
and call it one

many more
(as a percentage)
of people
will ignore
dissimilar principles
(concerning longevity)
giving in to
the short term.
choosing one donut
now over two donuts later

She spoke Thick German
with an accent that felt
like it’d get caught in her throat,
and it worried you.

So you worked so hard, your magic,
mixing concoction after potion
after cure-all, but your whiskey
and sour mix and snake oil only
goes so far.

So her tongue lilts ethereally
floating past your ears and right
in to the core of you and
now you have to stop and stare
and perhaps mix up a Wonder Tonic
for your own benefit

They found the dialogue
engaging,
and especially from
half a dining room away.

Words carried on lips but
twisted on fingers
with that
BODY LANGUAGE
waltzing in the candle-
light

And in all the spit and
sputum I
found no cause to fear,
for my blades are kept
sharp
and my tongue just as well
and for just such an
occasion
as eviscerating our dinner
‘guests’

there’s a place where folk go
pre-death but post-life.
where they’ve ceased any hope
of home brewing their beer
and they sit around staring
instead of laughing with cheer.

this place ain’t called limbo
or purga-tor-amy or anything
special, like southern miami.

they just give up on life but
from fear keep moving through it.
hoping someday more money
or a bigger car will better fit.

but the truth is
what they’er seeking
is long gone by now.

they gave it up.
turned their back.
forgot to ‘wow’.

cosmetically he cant stack up.
but where the man lacks visually
he more than makes up for
olifactarily

Am I in a place where you can step in and move?
Will I open the door when you knock,
Answer when you beckon?

Maybe I’m not prepared.
I need to set the table.

How can we feast if I’m not ready to eat?
If I’ve ruined my appetite elsewhere,
Hungering after stale and spoiled fare?

Sometimes I forget who I am in you,
And only remember who I was.
I need to set the table.

There are whispers in the night speaking
spells and swears and dares and proclamations
and they sound as playground chatter sounds,
or somewhat-dated hip-hop (Just like that?)
And when the sun comes up each morning
all that’s to be found are the drinking glasses
from the night before.

But to count the glasses is to count the mis-
steps in your adventures, and steps so missed
are not so forgiven by Pitfalls or God or Anyone
(Or Me)
So know, as truly as one can know anything,
that when I catch your lips sipping from another cup,
I will not cut out your cheating tongue.
I’ll have known you’ve bit it off yourself already.

christmas lights burn
quietly
into mid-january.

Alas, poor Surrey,
you receive no credit for the English sonnet
as Shakespeare has stolen your glory,
and King Henry, your head.

Aye, now that’s the rub.
in homage,
I write in no rhyme nor iambic pentameter.
Call it the nonnet.

Them boys is just a-
pickin’ and a-grinnin’ an’
the drummer ain’t bad
neither and they got themselfs
a real-life, full-size
Imitation Jerry Reed out front,
with a tractor hat and
a smile fer miles and
he’s just singin’ and a-roarin’
and a-pickin’ and a-grinnin’
and Son! I said Son!
you best feast yer eyes
‘cuz as far as sights go
this big feller’s top-stack,
why, I think I’d bet the farm,
at least, that
he’s the best one I ever seed,
that Imitation Jerry Reed

these days i wake up early and spend
all day in class learning things about
philosophy and sitting square on my
ass as i try and comprehend

the words out of this mans mouth i process
thoughts and key them into my phone while
sipping myself full of tea trying not
to pee myself or flee out of fear
i wont make it through the next break or two
reminding me (yeah myself) three
credits more and we’ll see if i can
finish this crapping degree.

i’m so tired of finding
disgusting things in the
most beautiful places
hidden in secret cavities

i can’t stand to see it
i just can’t stand to see it
this perversion makes me
want to die

in a place with a beautiful sunset
only to find the deepest destruction
behind one single cloud
that engulfs everything, eventually

and where would i find myself then?
the most profound despair
found in every smile
with less will than i have currently?

from where would
i draw inspiration for
a single breath?