I wonder if the big bang
was a response to god's loneliness

And maybe he sat alone for a long time
half braining ideas
about making things that
might love him

God never said
let there be light
he just put a gun in his mouth and splattered
stars across the wall of the universe

His black hole brain
something like regret
trying to **** all the stars back inside

And I think about the days you tried

But that's not like you kid
Even though you had blood
spilling out a hole in your gut
Bone white shallow breathed

There are still stains on the passenger seat of my car
Which I now call my living room
because I am homeless

And there are no walls that could hold the contents of your head
like jackson ******* bloodspatter
a pretentious painting titled
and homage to the ****** of failure

And you are not our mother
suicide cocktail
no ice

and you are not our father
an Alzheimer's ghost
Haunting a history
we never lived through

You are skinny like water
running down the zylephone of your ribcage
tinny laughter

Asking me questions like
if love is as powerful as they say it is in the movies
then why do people give up sometimes

I'll never give up I said

You asked me if I thought god was mad at you

the doctor chalked up you living
to just luck

and I think of when god made molds of men out of mud
and breathed into them
and the mud men lived
Mud must have felt lucky then

But for us its not luck
we make so much fuss
Just so the world knows
we're alive as ****

I have thirty.

Thirty ways to tell you who I am.
Ways that I didn't know I was.
To be who I never thought I'd be.
Tell me I was a better person then.
You don't even notice me.
Who are you?
I am me.
And now I have thirty one.

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life:
all the pictures you see of me weren't goofy moments
with friends and family whose cameras sympathize.

I'm not one for portraits or photographs.
And I don't do well with a candid capture
of the face I see every morning.

Each angle is meticulously planned and preordained.
Every gesture, the charming smirk you see in my smile,
is scrupulously rehearsed like a Broadway show.

Because lord help this man, if I let them see what I am,
there ain't a body who'd love someone like that.

When I found out you were dead,
I looked at your photo on the mantle.
It seemed older now, your crooked smile
and that Budweiser hat you always wore.

What is it about dying that gives
our portraits a new power of time?
A drunken nostalgia pushing tears
down over our eyelids onto our cheeks.

When I look at your photo on the mantle
I feel a creeping thought crawl through:
"You seem like the one who'da died."
Not fate, not destiny, definitely not God,
but a part of who you are, the man we knew
had a trait that fit death so sweetly,
like a sad song from 1961, and a line we loved
about old cars and holding on, just a little while.

You seem older now, you'd be 33 this year.
Your crooked smile would be different,
and that Budweiser hat you always wore
wouldn't fit as well as in our photos of you.

the voices of the sea
the whisper of the symphony
are calling out your name
and you just turn your head in shame

your hopeless hands are tied
and everything you love has died
you've thrown away your pride
and giving up now, means you never tried

you're still pulling out the arrows
of your former atrophies and perils
fulfilling this discordance
with your future purpose and importance
pulling out the arrows.
pulling out the arrows.
pulling out the arrows.

Reaching for the Surface
but you're on the ocean floor.
Praying for a Purpose,
hoping for an open door.
Scratching at the Surface,
but it's harder than it was before.
But what's the Purpose?
what are you praying for?

and you say
God, please don't let me die.
but you're
Reaching for an Empty Sky.

No one else is there
to hold you're hand and say they care
No one else will come
so give it up, you're on your own.

the forces of the sea
have trapped you in this tragedy
your belief in all their lies
has done no good, open your eyes

see the world as it is
your existence within this nothingness
as worthless as the sea
another useless commodity

you're still bracing for the arrows
of your distant atrophies and perils
fulfilling this whole prophecy
by decoding all their sophistry
bracing for the arrows
bracing for the arrows
bracing for the arrows

Reaching for the Surface
but you're on the ocean floor.
Praying for a Purpose,
hoping for an open door.
Scratching at the Surface,
but it's harder than it was before.
But what's the Purpose?
what are you praying for?

and you say
God, please don't let me die.
but you're
Reaching for an Empty Sky.

Timothy the poet,
With words that speak professionalism
That I envy
His diverse
His sense
The words that flow from him
And the happiness that seems to spring off the page
And force itself down my throat
Until a smile cracks my lips
And my teeth show white
Because Timothy
Your poetry brings me joy.

At night I tear myself to pieces
wondering which organs are failing,
or how many bones are breaking.

I feel for awkward lumps or other signs
of lesions, tumors and rampant disease
that may someday infest my body,
or have already started to **** me.

All the white coats scare me sometimes;
with red test tubes, proof of the life inside me.
But all I see is dark blue and tiny bubbles
watching a little of the life float above me