Brightly pale
Hunter's moon
turn midnight
into noon.

Beseech beset
beside myself
put upon you
up on the shelf.

Talks and tales
told not too soon
sunder underneath
our Hunter's moon.

Sometimes it claps.
Sometimes it rasps.
Sometimes its silent,
     sneaking out of my ***.

Sometimes it's loud.
Sometimes it's quiet.
Sometimes I'm proud,
     even when I'm in private.

Sometimes it's stinky.
Sometimes it causes strife.
Sometimes my mud *****
     go pppffft in the night.

I expected to wait my whole life away.
Never thought that bird would return home.
What if.
What if she didn't have meaning
tied in a note around her leg?
What if I was happy
to have some anguish to relish in?

Do I tend?
Pick something up off
the floor of my memory?
Do I find something new,
yet long gone,
to ascribe my longing for?
To apply my doubt to?
What if anguish has always been here,
untapped and brimming,
and I just keep picking things
to soak in it.

I fear it was never the bird having flown,
that brought me to such depths.
I fear I've been living in these depths all along,
and just finding reasons to persist there.

Been here before,
done this a thousand times.
Yet still I find
something new.

Sometimes I obsess heavily
and not in a good way
Sometimes I think in circles
all throughout the day

I just don't know what I want
and looking at your pictures
is driving me insane with lust

I care
I don't care
It's all the same and
I'll never forget your name

Richard is a good guy.

The temperature is turned too hot, but,
it feels good for now.
I lean my face into the falling water
and let it just douse my entire world.
I start soaping myself up and,
with a subtle pang of regret,
I wash her scent from my beard.

I hear the door click open.
I smile before she pulls the curtain aside,
she's naked and climbing in with me.
I smile and pull her in, pressing myself
up against her and kissing her cheek, her neck.
I smile with the memories of how
my beard picked up her scent last night.
The brief pang of regret from earlier
is gone as I imagine doing it all over again.
I smile as our foreheads press together
and our soapy bodies slip against each other.

I smile.
She smiles back.

I wash her back.
She washes mine.

I saw someone I knew from high school
as I was walking into the bar.
He was doing shots with some other guy
in a corner booth on the other end of the room.
so I strode over and made myself at home
showing them both how to really drink.

Then I recognized a few of the girls they were with,
well one in particular, and that was all that mattered.
The instant I recognized her I knew it was a dream.
I knew that it couldn't be real.
She was pretty, but I didn't talk to her right away,
I had my fair share of ***** until everyone wanted
to take the party back to someone's house.

I saw her glancing my way,
and vaguely realized I was making her glance.
Making her steal quick looks at me among the crowd.
Making her smile at me.

When I convinced myself of this I walked over to her
and made nonsensical small talk as we walked out of the party.

She took me to her apartment, filled with cats.

She started to cry, inexplicably, and I folded her up into my arms.

And I flew us into the sky, slowly floating between buildings and trees.

"Why does this have to be a dream?" She whispered in my ear.
And I chuckled quietly.

Because I knew it was actually me saying it.

"Goodmorning"
says the *****

I fret and twist my hair into little knots
I twist and I twist until it all falls off
I like to hit my teeth with a hammer
I pick my skin until it bleeds
I pick the scabs I pick the moles
I peel off my skin in layers
And leave them on the desk to dry
I scratch my scalp and shed my dandruff
Onto the kitchen counter
And line it up with a dunkin donuts gift card
And snort up the lines of dead skin
I pick my nose and eat my boogers
The wet and bloodier the better tasting
They stick to the roof of my mouth
And I hawk a loogie on the ground
I *** right onto the ******* carpet
And never ever clean it up
The crusty hard spot that forms
Is dark and yellow with time and accumulation
I clean my ears with my pinky
Then lick it out from under my nails
I slam my head against the wall
Until all the photos fall
I play with knives and fire and drugs
I love to give myself a hug.
The look on my face inside the mirror
Is pure bliss from popping all my zits
My eyes shining the same color
As the flecks of **** inside the toilet
I never ever clean the shower
I **** in the sink sometimes too
I hung all my posters with glue
I stack my laundry in a tower
And wear my clothes until they reek
Drank every night for 20 weeks
I hide my toenails under the carpet
I dry myself off with the drapes
I like to live all alone
I'm finally free inside my home
I saved those photos on the shelf
Someone save me from myself

I hate.

It's not me,
it's Bukowski.

She hides her little sighs
Behind bouts of subtle laughter,
Her eyes whisper lies
Of inevitable disaster.

I mostly smile as i drive,
With thoses eyes in my mind
And wonder why fate
Has been so uncannily kind.

Fate? Or maybe a wheel
That was designed
To whip around and around,
Like a great cog of time.

I slip past a fellow
With my eyes on the lines,
Blasting across double yellow
To leave my problems behind.

The clocks are all laughing
At my desire to rewind
Because whats done is done
And she's so naturally kind.

Momma said, momma said,
It might be time to try, but
Now momma's long dead
So maybe just one more night.

Indulgence.

And it's rivers, rivers flowing through
the veins of the earth.

Clean the filth, dear rivers,
drink the filth greedily with your mouths
and store it in your banks, lovely rivers,
store it in your banks.

Oh rivers, rivers carry us all
into your beds,
into your heads,
lay us down to rest.

But rivers, rivers never slow
that rushing white noise,
the white noise like snow
carrying a forgotten voice.

Deafening rivers, rivers, forever.

She doesn't love me
when she tells me goodnight,
and I wouldn't have it
any other way.

Horse girls.

I think that horse girls
secretly play with,
and caress,
their stallions' *****.

They need that steed seed,
if you catch my drift.

Furthermore I believe
that their shameful fetishization
is intentionally kept hidden behind
a facade of general love and care for animals.

Especially when they say things like
"I care about animals more than people."

Like, *****
no you don't.
You just get wet thinking about big animal ****.
Which is completely fine, just be honest about it.
And, uhh...
Can I watch?

Two thousand four hundred and fifty five days
spent floating the vacuum of space.

My lungs ache with misplaced distaste
for the beautiful sights surrounding me.

I used to add them all up in romantic displays
but my math of late just ain't what it used to be.

Obtuse angles of obtrusive angels portray
ninety degrees of too little, too late.

Soon the memories you're making now
will be the ones you long to remember.

nevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryn­evertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryne­vertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynev­ertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryneve­rtrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynever­trynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevert­rynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertr­ynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertry­nevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryn­evertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryne­vertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynev­ertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryneve­rtrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynever­trynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevert­rynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertry

Doesn't take a cashier
To make some change
And there'll always be time
And it'll feel familiar
And it will frighten you
I think that's what defines
The proposition of change
Better now than later
Hair will grow back
These things will be different
But always somewhat the same

There's nothing quite like
a fresh pair of work boots,
stiff and clean.

There's nothing better for
stepping right into a pile
of wet, hot dog feces.

Because what good would
work boots be without
some **** underneath?

An arctic smile,
pockets full of tissues,
floral aromas mingled
with talc and perfume.

The waiting.

A line forming,
A line dwindling,
bottoms finding chairs,
and you're dead.

The reading.

Crying, sniffling,
snot flying,
you can taste it
in the air.

The prayers.

It feels like
the hospitals
all over again,
but for the last time.

Turning the page
has never been
as rewarding as
it is with her.

Finally I've
started a
new chapter
that's actually
worth reading.

The kind of book
that has me eager
to learn what
happens next.

I've calluses from working,
but writing always leaves me
with a couple fresh blisters.

A new house
In a new state,
She wants people
To come and stay.

It's tough
To justify a visit
When you moved
Four hours away.

I wanted to see
How it would be,
But maybe not during
A pandemic holiday.

Dreams still come true,
A place down by the beach
Is still a place down by the beach,
And I look forward to it every day.

A quite quiet little tapping.
A tapping on the window.
Glass shivering and shaking.
Brittle bones are breaking.
Wishful whispers in the dusk.
Distant voices muffled and hushed.
Tapping, time is ticking away.
Tangled tongues clicking in pain.
Furled fingers forced inside.
Shattered shards all pushed aside.
Hangers strewn across the room.
A shadow, a hymn hummed true.

Tapping. Tapping. Tapping. Fright.
Unknown noises in the night.

Stood up again by sleep.
A sickly fickle friend, indeed.
Should the dawn ever come,
then let it ******* come
like a blessed loaded gun.

There's a faint
Scent
Of candle smoke,
Welcoming
My nose.

The afterglow image of
open flames
Is burned into my retinas.

I can hear the song
Echoing,
Throughout the twenty nine
Years.

I can taste light
Whipped cream,
And a hint of vanilla
Mixed with coffee.

I can feel love
Permeate
Through the aether,
And meet my gaze
As I look
Upon the stars.

hhahhahahahahah
hahahahah
hahahahahaah
haha

Whenever it rains
I see her lying before me,
vulnerable atop a picnic table.

Love isn't always a titanic,
more often then not it's subtle
like hundreds of little life boats
bringing us all to safety.

I find those subtle hints
of her honest love
floating towards me
whenever I start to sink.

I wear that shirt she got me,
I come home to a made bed
and folded laundry,
I see her letters and notes
on my mirror,
her face pops up on my phone
and when I answer all I can say is
"I love you too."

A man walks into a bar,
he's an alcoholic and
it's destroying his life.

Knock-knock.
Who's there?

An abandoned child
on your doorstep.

I ran out
I'm empty
look somewhere else maybe
maybe you'll find something
worth your time but
not here
that's for sure
because I'm all out
and got nothing left.

If you want nothing though,
you're in the right place.
Nothing is what I've got.
I've got nothing for you,
for me,
for everyone.
Heaping piles of nothing,
glimmering, shimmering piles
tightly coiled and
slightly steaming and
reaching up to the sky
of nothing.
Glorious, fat, gluttonous servings
of nothing. That's what I'm handing out
because that's all I've ******* got, okay?

You get it? Do you?

Do you really understand yet?

DO YOU?

I HAVE NOTHING, READ ON ELSEWHERE.
I'M NOT HERE FOR YOU,
I'VE NOTHING IN STORE.







Maybe a joke or two but,
other than that? NO.

NOTHING
NO THING

Blue twirls and twine,
exhaled temporary halos
give us sanctity
in the din and the dark
of this ***** night.

They're still highways
That take you here,
But they seem less so.

Somewhat more like trails,
A hardpan of sorts,
Beaten through the hills.

They're still streetlights
That bring you to a stop,
Painting the wet streets in red.

Somewhat more like a twin dusk that
Demands hesitation, and patience,
To wait for the green dawn.

I imagine that at some point before I **** myself, that I'll have the indignation to jot down a somewhat substantial list of all my usernames and passwords.
I find it romantic to picture people performing digital
archaeology on my life, logging in to my various websites
after I'm dead,
and trying to decipher when and why it all went wrong.
Trying to figure out what led me to making the decision
of suicide, what drove me to some kind of psychological
breaking point.

That indignation,
to think that I'd be worthy of such a
romantic notion,
is rather sickening to the me that sits here
still alive.
To the me
clacking away at some gaudy mechanical keyboard.

What makes me so royal?
Why would I be worthy of
an archaeological, metaphorical dig?
People die constantly.
I'd just be one more.
One more forgotten story,
one more unfulfilled potential.

One more
"gone too soon."

No one gives a ****,
not really.
People love me, sure.
Family, some friends.
A few ex-lovers.
Everyone has their own life to live.
I'm not as important as I think I am,
neither are you.
Or anyone, for that matter.
It's just human nature getting the best of us
that makes us think otherwise.

People have a right to go on with their lives,
I guess just as people have a right to choose death.
I'd hate to get in the way of either one.
It's a fool's errand to imagine I even could,
or would.

Maybe there will be a little list of my passwords,
reeking of self-righteousness.
maybe there will just be a pile of ashes
with a air of a final clarity,
of a 'coming to my senses.'

Maybe I'll live forever, I mean...
So far, so good.

Persistence may sometimes be sickening,
yet never quite as sickening
as suicide.

**** is running in rivulets
into this keyboard, pouring
from the ends of my fingertips,
and it paints these words brown.

Just like my eyes.

Can you smell it?

Some day maybe
you'll sing to me.
Not necessarily
to me specifically,
but I'll be
listening
and you'll be
singing.

Maybe in the shower,
maybe pulling in
the driveway
on your way home
from work.
My ear pressed to the door.

I want to see you
in the shower,
singing along.
I want to reach out
to the clear lining
and press it against
your naked, wet body.
I want to wrap you up
in that protective plastic,
and you won't miss a single note.
You'll keep singing and I'll caress
your every curve and mole.
My hands gliding up against
the smooth refined finish,
so gingerly sweeping
across all your bits.
Soapy and slippery.
So close but not.
Not quite touching.
Not quite real.
My skin isn't
something
that you'll
ever feel,
or feel
feeling
you.


Beauty encapsulated,
preserved in time and space.
The sound of falling water.
The blurry look on your face


is telling me to
Stop.


Your voice in my ears,
my make-believe dream.
You'll sing that you love me
and I'll wake with a scream.

Guess what?
People ******* change.