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?

These identity crisis are
viscerally minded ’till the
briny, bitter end.

Pour sugar in my drink and
salt in my wounds and
I’ll tell you which stings more

and you tell me
weather I’ve got this whole thing
backwards.

I have a funny feeling.

Could it be a crisis of
Identity?

I can not tell.

But I am optimistic.

beer made it a party
where pizza would not suffice.
and we thanked our creator
for friendship, hope, vision,
dreams, fun, and one another.
because if there is any sign
in the world of the absurd blessing
of the Lord it would be the
12 children screaming bloody
murder while we try and get something
focused done.

They saw you sleeping
on hoods of cars
and could not fathom
for the life of them
why that’s where you’d be

So that’s why I’m there
with a knife in my pocket
and a huge fucking grin tucked
underneath my coat just
in case one of them wanders by;

I’ll show off the edge with
a twinkle in my eye and
I’d say not a word but
I’d guarantee that
the place where you lay
you’d continue to lie

i agree
“shattered safety glass”
is a perfect description of
your recent relationships.

Slithering snakes reached out once
to touch me,
and I reached back and stroked
the tops of their heads and I
was reckless, but not foolish
and when they bit
and they bit
I could stand the test of teeth-in-flesh

But slithering snakes recede, whether
pulled or on their own and
I am left to nurse my wound
and perhaps to suck the venom
so my fingers don’t just
fall off
and then maybe I’ll send snakes out
of my own
and recklessly
I’ll let them let you feel me

a hole is dug and with your jacket
(made of down)
you take a dive
i’d call it a swim but treading
attempting to stay alive
as you look on in longing
and me laughing.

yea “swim”
is probably not the best word.

we drove something like forever to find that break
in the sky.
We could see it, but it was too far to make out
so well, so
we fed a few more gallons of gas and strapped ourselves
down while the
engine bellowed and white smoke plumed from
the tailpipe.

The wind must have been blowing up there, though,
we couldn’t tell,
but when
we shifted in to gear and looked up, the break had flown
just above
our heads. Unabashed, however, we drove something like
forever
to find another one.