i can't abide the salt waters on the isles
or the dead flowers on the altar
tell them to stop crying
it's a farewell party
something celebratory

don't let them lay me down in cold dirt
break into my hearse and fly me down a cliff
you do not have to worry
the setting sun will catch me

i just hope,
when you look up at the sky
it reminds you of me.

At 3a.m.,
some poets are waiting
to catch the peeling paint
on the ceiling
as if they are shooting stars.

At 3a.m.,
some poets yearn a talk
on the kitchen counter
with a butcher knife right beside
so they can slice their heart,
to heart.

And I, at 3a.m.,
whisper my dreams to the pipe
and ask for the rooster
not to wake me from my trance tonight

It does not matter to me
if the sun ever collides with the moon at 3a.m..
And I think that, perhaps,
I was never a poet.

I’m drowning in all the irony

Thrift store clerks with beards of

iron wool *****

and tattoos of the monsters under my bed



It goes coffee shop coffee shop camera store

bicycle vendor, corner store, coffee shop

parking deck, gas station, thrift shop



I have a pocket full of compliments

and a face full of stolen sunglasses and dental floss

and if I walk long enough

down broad, main, or grace

then maybe I can find the secret

the secret of how not drown

in all of the girls with their yoga pants and plaids

Can I learn to swim

when I’m already this far out?



I saw a homeless man eating a dead magpie

it was ******* weird

I was walking down one too many toward the intersection

of marijuana and spirits

already spinning myself a web of a night of discomfort

but the neon lights shone upon me

making me think it was the cops

so I ran and ran and ran until my shoes flapped worn

only to fall and skin my knee on the punchline

It’s hard to live in Atlantis

without a passport

or gills.

The angels are playing their instruments
as the ship goes down
lifeboats made of billboards float through
the riptide of endlessly mundane adventures
icebreaking the callous apathy
one of these days the sun will tire of
dancing with the moon in the celestial ballroom
and one will fall
down on one knee
whatever the opposite of a proposal is
we ride this rock but don’t listen
when they tell us to keep our arms and legs
inside the car during the duration
the young smolder until they are quenched
or suffocated
and we all worship the first tree to flower in the spring
the line between ADD and stopping to look at all of these miracles
is as blurry as **** on the tv
but feed us with pills, pop-psychology, and poetry
stenciled on the bottoms of bridges
by wandering beaten down heroes
of St. Paul, San Fran, Richmond
Planet Earth
the to-do list consists of
find some paper and a pen
and something to do
country folk with straw in their mouth
a good hard day’s work
But I just rolled out of bed
and the world is flirting with me too much today
to simply ignore it

All of the Richmond Hipsters
and time killing smokers are killing me
The hobos with broken thumbs
They just barely catch the bus
Late nights under the eastern stars
The City of almost-angels
beards and gauges and butts
Tatted up art chicks with more skin than clothing
Invite me over your threshold
Make me some supper, the coffee is in the ***
River tides carrying away the used condoms of the confused
Liquor breath, joints and e-cigs
Poets, painters, photographers
The air reeks of art and death
fist meets face meets pavement meets God
The good times are killing you, and I’m showering until the water runs cold
cough up my phlegm, it tastes like love
grinding against a stranger’s *** all night long - like it was all we knew
We couldn’t feel so we tried to touch
we fell short and drank from the puddles with gasoline rainbows
The bricks and cobblestones all have names that I will never know
Does anybody ever actually listen?
Life versus fun versus life versus death versus boring
Stack them up like tetris
The sun is sick with stories, the moon full of lies
And all the graffiti in the world won’t change that
snow sun rain sun blank canvases
hear the thunder of arrhythmic heartbeats
sweat drips and it tastes like ****
Black eyes on Bowe, black eyes on Goshen
Mad houses filled with gifted pianists
Ghetto driven dreams of another shot
Play that same acoustic guitar tune I like so much
I lost my harmonica in a storm drain
I lost my Mind in Richmond

This week I will pull off the impossible
I will write the greatest cases ever written
I will pull up my GPA
turn in the greatest transcendentalism essay you'll ever read
finish my APUSH
pull off wonders in AP Chem.
Ah, the life of a student
in a highly competetive, tightly-knit arena
going for the win.

Little things like drama
and social tension
just seem to fade away when you reach out
higher, harder, faster
Research, speed drills, caffeine
Lose weight, forget to eat
Gain weight, forget to sleep
But I feel fantastic.
No more emo *******
finally, after too long, I am *passionate.