A leaf fell slowly,
Wafting in the autumn breeze.
I saw it mirrored
In the water's reflection.
I met my eyes again
Before it touched down,
And watched myself scatter
Into the ripples.

The water never calmed down,
The wind was pushing steadily
Into the sleepy boughs and limbs.

The trees all stretched
And sighed,
And shook themselves free
Of the summer growth.

They showed me how
Not to focus too much
On myself,
But to see the scattered refractions
Of everything else.

And I breathed in, raising my head.
With a hand on my cheek and
Feeling the stubble there,
I wondered how long
I'd been just staring
Into the eyes
Of the face on the water.

and the things I've forgotten
will line the seams of my mind,
and every last nail driven
into the coffin of my memory
will echo in my ears
just like they always have

so I'll quietly stare at these
photographs of tomorrow night,
when everything is alright,
and I'll just keep trying
to remember that they are
underdeveloped and overexposed

He watches the world pass by
as streetlights periodically flood
the inside of his cab with the orange
glow of the buzzing arc sodium bulbs.

Everything is painted lines
on wet asphalt and the streaks
that tiny beads of water make
as rain splatters the windshield.

Tones of exhaust and the RPM
of the engine vibrate within him
as the tachometer races back and
forth between each changing gear.

When he isn't busy working the clutch
he likes to steer with his knees, and
reaches his hands outward, stretching
the sore muscles of his arms and neck.

The night is bountiful with subtle gifts
of empty highways and a full moon
in a cloudless sky that hovers above
the horizon like an absconded balloon.

Sometimes life makes sense and it's
times like this that he can begin to
add everything up into a simple sum
of sensory input, emotion, & memory.

Sometimes life is a singularity to each
within their own mind, and other
times it seems a broad umbrella that
covers us all equally with similarities.

Sometimes life is as easy as keeping
on trucking down an empty road in
the middle of the night. He does his
best to remember this.

Confucius say,
the deeper the tread on workboot,
the harder it is to remove dog ****.

as 'The Dark Tower' was King's "magnum opus"
it had an ending worth dwelling on.
and now he suffers over
not writing about Roland
as I continue to suffer over
having to write about you.

As if you were my "greatest achievement of an artist or writer"
I voluntarily chose not to move on,
long since alone under the covers.
I think back and remember when
you showed me how to forget lovers.

Yet as I practice the simple techniques
that you painstakingly taught me,
I can't help but remember
I'm trying to forget you.

My theory is this:
no matter what mood
someone is in,
whether happy or sad,
the more you assert the idea
that actually they're grumpy
then the more likely it is
to inevitably be true.

Death,
like a mother's love,
is forever.

Never stop smiling,
even if it's through
gritted teeth.

The water laps eagerly at the stony bank,
the sun peeks her rays around a passing cloud.
My skin drinks deeply of both,
pruned toes and tanned chest.
The kayak gently bobs
in the shallow wake from the breeze.
Mithrandir falls below Moria,
I put down the book and reach
for a beer.
The resident swan has been paddling
little laps at a safe distance from me.
I catch him looking at me
side-eyed, flipping his head back and forth.
I make kissy sounds and hold my hand out,
he comes over to see if I have any bread for him.

It's nice here. Little fish pick dead skin from my legs.
It's nice here. My shoulders don't get sore from paddling anymore.
It's nice here.
I do this almost
every day.

The dawn broke quietly through the last of the night,
and he rose with the sun.
As the morning light shown red and orange on the ceiling
he opened his eyes to the day's first flame.

Scott stirred, feeling the last of his dreams leave him to wake,
and felt a subtle yet prominent throb in the back of his head.
He felt the shape of her body curled into a ball beside him,
and briefly basked in the cumulative warmth they generated.
Turning away from her with a yawn he reached for the bottle
on the end table beside him, fumbling in the dwindling darkness.
The brandy was warm but still undeniably brandy as he brought it
to his lips and bit himself off a good swallow, grimacing.
He stood then, and strode to the window. The orange glow
from the rising sun contracted his irises and expanded his pores.

He felt whole. He was real here. He knew she was real too,
and that knowledge left him deeply satisfied as he turned to
explore her sleeping body with his eyes.


She heard him wake and take a gulp of that foul liquor he drank
twenty-four hours a day, recalling memories of his breath on her
from the night before. It wasn't that she was angry at his appetite
for *****, just sometimes it frightened her. She soulfully believed
he had a brilliant mind and just wished he would use it someway
other than a sponge for liquor. It was pity, she felt bad for him, and
a part of her thought that he knew it, and he fed off of that pity.
With this thought she turned and opened her eyes to the sunshine
pouring through the bay window at the foot of the bed, and saw his silhouette turn and meet her gaze at the same instant. For a moment
they just looked, pondering each other's doubts and certainties in a
way that made everything else in the room seem to fade out of existence.

He was surprised to see her looking at him in the earliest hours of
the day, she tended to enjoy sleeping in so he always considered
these moments of waking his own. Standing before the window,
and the rising sun shining through it, his shadow was cast perfectly
across her body if he were on top of her. At that thought a quiet
stirring of heat and primal instinct passed over his body and mind
and he smiled at her laying in his shadow, letting his eyes roll easily
over the hills and valleys of her naked body, further fanning the flame
in his *****. She smiled back at him and sighed, feeling the heat herself.

She saw him step forward and out of the light, and was briefly blinded
as his shadow moved from between the sun and her still sleep-ridden
eyes. Wincing and shielding her face from the sun with her hand, she
closed her eyes to the light and before she could open them again she felt his touch on her neck and on her outstretched hand as he brought
her face up to meet his. Lips full of static electricity touched her own
with a shock and she jolted, fully awake, and opened her eyes in surprise. When she saw the same expression mirrored on his face they
both laughed heartily into the long silence of the morning, breathing deeply in giant, hitching, breaths. Sighing and regaining his composure
he lay back down beside her and felt her curl up against him, almost
automatically at this point.

He played with her hair and she touched
his chest, feeling his heartbeat in rhythm with hers.

Comfort, she thought.
Comfort can be so dangerous.
Comfort is a double edged sword.

Brandy, he thought.
Brandy can be so delicious.
Brandy... I need to buy more.

From you to me it's only
about 2,455 miles.

We could both start now
and meet somewhere
in between

Or I could drop everything
and book a flight
Only for my airplane to
crash tonight.

But if I survive I'll still walk,
I'll meet you up in Seattle
before my death rattle.

Press yourself against me and
embrace my broken body.

**** me with your eyes,
stop my breath with your lips.

I see her every now and then, always briefly.
She's busy these days. Holiday season. Peak.
The little white van is gone before I know it,
she's in and out of it in a flash of packages.
A blizzard of letters.

She delivers them precisely, but not rigidly.
She flows, dances with deliveries.
She carries Christmas cards and bills,
her arms full of presents come early.
She brings pen pals to fruition,
she brings eviction notices.
She dances with deliveries.

I smile and watch,
idly sifting through my new envelopes.
Bill from my therapist, local tax reminders,
coupons for the hardware store.
Oh, and a birthday card from my Aunt!

I want to ask the woman in the little white van
if there's anything else for me. A letter from Dad maybe.
Foolishness.

Maybe I'll start buying more things for myself,
making sure to ship them USPS. Little tchotchkes,
trinkets or what have you, it wouldn't matter.
Just to have her dance my way more often.

A magical place
of repose
and composure,
a place of dreams.

The moon winked at me
when I glanced the windy midnight sky.
Its eyelid a lone cloud,
trundling heavy and tired.
Trees' leaves danced all around
with the sound of a hushed little sigh.
Oh sleeping evening,
oh great seeping eye.
Kindly quiet your come hithers
and just leave me to die.
The cold gives way to warmth,
the warmth blankets my mind.
Give up your heart,
for then comes the freedom to fly.

Sights set on the tallest of timbers,
feathered wings outstretched at my sides.
Trying to escape the remembers
though no matter how hard I try,
glimpses of the past still flash
like reflections of moonlight in my eye.
Faster now, I reach for the stars
as I pump air and fly
all the way up
to the top of the sky.
Heart racing, breathless to boot,
I fold up my feathers and find
that I'll never be able to reach it.
Reasons I'll never be able to find.
Soundless, I'll fall to the Earth
and gravity will feel just fine.

Though,
I wanted to skim on the waters,
I wanted to sing of those times
That I watched the sun turn to embers
and the moon wink in the midnight sky.

Vince gives me five bucks
to feed the hungry jukebox

Low in a midnight sky,
above cityscape horizons,
I see the face floating
larger than it ever has before.

Those little white bottles
to help you smile.

The long drives to work
and home again.

You were beautiful
and miserable then.

It's easy to forget
the miserable part
when looking back.

It's easier to forget
everything about you.

But my dreams
will always remember.

Tommy said
"everything changes"
when I tried to bring up
the good days spent drinking
up in Sheppton at Vince's bar.

Back when it was still Vince's
and I was still mourning a life
that I didn't even enjoy living.

It didn't matter though,
I would've mourned anything.
Any reason to drink
was reason enough for me.

I looked over at Tommy
and we shared a moment
of remembrance
for those ****** up nights.

"Everything changes, huh?"
I said, raising my eyebrows.
"It has to,"
he replied
"otherwise we'd all still be the same."

He finished his beer and stood up,
turning up his collar and pulling his paper boy hat down
he left without saying goodbye.
I turned back to face the TV, wondering.

Wondering what was going to change next.

There's a pail
just over there.
Yesterday it was brimming
with things unwanted.
I empty it every morning
and it's always full again
by the time the sun sets.

A fail pail,
a ****-it bucket.

A sacred place
to where I send
all my unwelcome thoughts.
Every drip of them.
I wring out my brain
and watch the colors
slip between my fingers.

I watch the things unwanted,
I watch them puddle and fill and swirl and mix and stain and fight and **** and claim and dry and crack and steep and warm and cool and dance alllllllll together. They dance all together now, bouncing off the walls of
                                                           that pail.

Just over there.

I can always see it. Always.

Always in the periphery. Never out of my sight. I need it near me every day and all **** night. Just in case I wake from sleep thinking something that I don't want to think so I can send it off to join the rest of the misbegotten children spawned by my head.

Twelve, twenty nine, or ninety,
No matter how old I am,
I'll always enjoy
Writing my name in the snow.

When I decide to "tag" something I've written,
I go to the homepage and just copy what's trendy.

One day I was walking to the kitchen,
you know, to eat,
when I passed the mirror in the hallway.

I've walked by that mirror countless times,
you know, on my way to the kitchen,
but this time something really grabbed my attention.

I stopped and caught my glance in the looking glass,
you know, the one in the hallway,
and just could not look away for the life of me.

In fact I did the opposite and got closer and closer,
you know, to the mirror,
until at last my forehead was pressed up against it.

Then my reflection blinked and smiled at me,
you know, showing its teeth,
but it had giant dripping fangs and smouldering eyes.

I screamed as it reached through the glass and grabbed me,
you know, with it's talon claws,
and yanked me right through into the reflective prison.

I looked around and saw the interior of my home reversed,
you know, like in a mirror,
and the only light came from a strange and unfamiliar window.

I peeked tentatively into the glass of this odd window,
you know, only it wasn't a window,
and saw the horrible fanged thing smiling back at me again.

Then it reached up and eagerly waved hello,
you know, like waving goodbye,
and smashed the glass all to pieces.

As it shattered the light ran out of my new world,
you know, like purgatory,
so I sat down and thought: "Man I'm ******* hungry."

She watched a bead of sweat cross the bridge of his nose
and roll all the way down to the tip, where it hung above her
in an eternal moment of ecstasy and primal pleasure.

He saw her looking cross-eyed at his face and he smiled
as she craned her head up and licked the drop of saline
from the tip of his nose. He tasted it on her lips.

They gasped and sighed into each other's mouths,
they lived and died inside of each other's eyes.
They left life behind one stroke at a time,
they ****** the days away.

Golden strands still wafting
slowly down from the rafters
that I held you pressed
against whilst pushing
passion into minutes, maybe
time enough to see her
the goddess,
releasing her mind
embracing the sky
rhythm stretching fabric
making minutes into hours
upon
hours in which I've watched
as she grew , like the tide
I know I've seen
time decide
in the past,
the present,
and now in her eyes
the horrible knowledge
lingers the ever doubtful
promise of lies
she sees now that I
was destined to be
the one I've left behind.

When the feelings
of some people
are more valuable
than our way of life,
well, then
we've lost the plot.

If I traveled
somewhere far
and foreign,
I'd do my best
to conform to
wherever I am.

I don't find that
expecting that same behavior
from people who come here
to be immoral.

I refuse to feel guilty
for who I am,
just as I refuse to let pride
dictate my mindset.
It's two sides
of the same coin.

Guess what?
I get to decide how I feel,
I get to decide what I think,
how I behave.

I get to judge you.

The golden rule still applies though,
thus I conduct myself in a manner
which is expecting of judgement from you.
If I'm ******* up, shame me.
If you're ******* up, I'll shame you.
This is friendship, this is civility
at it's most fundamental level.
I want to respect you,
I want to be respected,
but never unconditionally.
I want to earn it,
I want to be deserving of it.
You should want that too.

Your feelings aren't holding water,
and we're all being flooded
with the repercussions.

Don't drown us.

No, actually,
We're not going to let you drown us.

Whispers in my ear,
memories like ghosts.


Mustn't be present.


Anything to not
be present here.
To not be present
anywhere,
anytime.

Fill up my eyes with monitors,
my ears with buds.
Fill up my mind,
brimming with brandy.
Keep smiling,
maintain an IV drip
of distractions.
Keep laughing.
Keep on
keeping on.

Walls mustn't falter,
I must not be present.
Not now.
Not ever.

Like what lies between these words,
miles and years isolate us,
empty characters filled with rust
and time filled with beers
drive us further away
each and every day.

And we are forever left longing
for each other's lust,
with bitten lips
and lack of trust.

She uses her tongue
to write her name
on my skin,
and I can smell autumn
in the firey tapestry
of her auburn hair.

I can taste the moon on her breath,
and it reminds me of home.

Polaris is reflected on her eyes
like slumbering summer nights
spent inside
with a distant chorus of crickets
coming in through my bedroom window.

She's water in the creek
babbling beside my childhood memories
where I would play the days away.


I'm too old to feel so young.
Don't stop.

Its circular face mocks and laughs
at me with that numerical circumference.

Red and black hands reach out and
grab me tight, leaving bruises on my psyche.

I'm helplessly cast deep into my past
where time flows like molasses.

Back when the clocks
took their time
counting down my life
and rotting my mind.

Back when they were slow
and I just couldn't wait to grow
up.

I've gotta take a **** so bad I can taste it.

There's value in a strong back,
there's value in ***** hands.

Would my life have been easier
working in an office?
I'm not sure there's a correlation between
happiness and ease of living.
It may have been easier overall,
but I'm not for that life.
I lose those inside jobs.
The hot breath of management on my neck,
the juvenile nature of coworkers...

Not all value is represented monetarily.
Not all money is valuable, necessarily.

Sometimes learning the hard way,
and living the hard way,
is the hidden key
to unlocking hidden fulfillment.

My thoughts start to wander
and right as I begin to wonder
my phone buzzes.

I get home from a long day at work,
in the shower my mind begins to search
then I get out and turn on the TV.

I wake up from a vibrant dream
where a gripping idea comes to me,
so I sit down at the computer
to google what it means
but before I even hit enter
I open up another tab
and click on YouTube
to see where my favorites are at.

Whiskey goes in there somewhere too.
Bourbon, rather. Whatever.

I think back on the times
where I had nothing.
Often with longing.

Songbirds, like lost lovers, call to each other in the pale morning sun.
The wet grass darkens the cloth draped over her torso as she lies
down and considers the people who used to be so **** nice to her.
So joyous, their eyes brimmed with light and appreciation.
She saw those old eyes in the floating clouds, she saw them in the
negative space between the fallen leaves, she saw them seeing her
through the reflections in the ripping creek water as it rushed by.
Little glints of light, like shimmers of the way things used to be,
dance in her sight and taunt her to try and find a way to fix everything.
A way to return the light to her life.
A way to see those eyes again.
The eyes of the people
who used to be so nice.

My, how the trees keep secrets.
My, oh my, how they grow.
Oh, how the trees all whisper
as the fierce winter winds blow.

Tread atop discarded leaves,
between branches; carefully weave.
My, how the forest impedes.
Trees never tell what they know.

They aren't silent, these trees
emit creaks and gutteral groans,
like giants waking from slumber
and stretching their turgid bones.

The canopy then blocks out the sun,
compelling me to break into a run.
One hand clasping tight on my gun,
should've never wandered off alone.

Positive

I just know that you
want me to lie to you
because you and I both
know that seeing the truth
is harder than either
of us are willing to admit to.

The best part of waking up






is picking my nose
and rolling all my gooey boogers up
into one big ball,
an amalgamation of snot and crust,
then flicking it off
and trying to get it to stick
up on that one spot on the ceiling.

Y'know, that one slightly darkened spot
just above my *** stained desk
downstairs in the back room?

It's down there next to all those
empty Jim Beam bottles, well
I mean they're not empty anymore
because I keep filling them up with ****.
But they used to be empty at one point,
actually I guess they've been empty twice;
once before the factory added the liquor
and then again after I drank all the liquor
but before I added the ****.

I digress,
you get it.

The ****** spot on the ceiling.

Good morning. 🌞

Something about a struggle,
relatable and common.
Some profound comparison,
or some kind of simile.

Something very human,
something about overcoming or
about accepting and embracing.
Something about relishing
in negativity,
something about addiction or loss.

Something indictive of heartbreak,
something reminiscent of love.

Something outlandish,
to stand out from the sea of adequacy.
Something something.
Words and
meanings.
Something self-loathing.

Something abstract,
something concrete.

Poetry.

Don these earmuffs of positivity,
To better combat the whispers of apathy.
But don't let your guard down,
They aren't a passive form of protection.
Guarding your mind takes constant effort,
And conscious decisions.
Happiness is a choice. It is work.
It's the antithesis of the easy way out.
Those lazy and uncaring thoughts
Still come, no matter what,
But it's up to you, to me,
To armor our minds against them.