i

one day i will find a suit that fits

poetry

no…
i don’t feel that bad
i told you i’d leave and
that is that
and so for a moment i feel
nice at home
i guess i quickly get tired
of the open road
really i care less about
what happens or not
all these people they need
to go and get shot
cuz when it looks to be
something you know you are wrong
and that apathy seeps under
your sheets after long
so somewhere oh somewhere
a beautiful girl is wanting me
or there’s some drugs to do
or explosions to see
but even at this point
if i took to the sea
drove across country lines
to get somewhere finally
there’d be something there
to drive me right back here
to think about what-if’s
and cower in fear.

the problem of the self – insight on a sunny day

poetry

i was outside on the porch
taking in the sky with clear
eyes,
she comes out in my shirt
saying “pretty,
pretty boy”
and i go inside with
unfocused eyes
and stare at the broken
oven–and you will call me
after that,
and i will think i
know what you want,
and i will make a song about it,
and i will write about it,
and i will soon disappear.

iiii

poetry

so they killed it all in one night
down the throat and then
back out and he’s hanging over
the ledge thinking
you don’t love me anymore?
they made you not love me anymore
and he says he’s never
gonna
love
anyone
again.

decay

poetry

smell it all the damn time
in the gutters of the streets
in the hallways
in my room
smell it all the god damned time
the decay
creeping into your head
to my head
follows me all the time
like a shadow
or a bruise
manic and inviting
follows me all the god damned time
creeping into my sheets
fowling up my room
the stench that follows me
talks to me all the time
it’s voice a shiver
down my spine
all the time
oh all the god damned time
hiding around corners
and mirrors
and monitors
and pictures
or thin air
the smell of decay

what kind of monster am i?

poetry

all the times i’ve cleaned
this mirror still the monster
is there vomiting his orphan
words
crying
as am i
this has got to go away
like cell phone rings that
never rang or waking up from
dreams mid-drive
leaving
town
trying to become an ant by
pill or smoke or shrinking
machine
i could lift my own weight
and many times more
not be such a monster
with a hunched back under
the weight of all the
miles i can’t ever reach
or with eyes
so large
making
the
villigers flee
seeing them run away
for minutes, and understanding
why
what kind
of monster am i?

fragmented

poetry

i remember 16 as loud as
a gunshot, yet as
boring as cornfeilds in the
summer

it was permanent, then
the insanity
that is
that comes along with
knowing just how long
your
arms
are
exactly
and
not being precisely
sure
not being exactly
perfectly
fucking
sure
of how to use them

i remember 16 as dead as
a cemetary yet as frantic
as hanging to the side of
the earth
(with your nails)

it was all so fragmented, then
love
that is
and now looking back i seem
to miss
every
single
breath
i
took
of
every
day
and the rain that dripped outside
my windows on some stolen night
with the fruition of my higschool
fantasies and the bane of my
young-adult
ones

i remember 16 as well as i remember
anything else these days:
most often when i’d like not to.