we are not safe
all the markets could come crashing down
it could happen any day now

a blue origin rocket ship
never making it to its final destination

no man knows the hour or the day
no man knoweth that

bridget jones had her cigarettes
with wine and mr darcy
but i only have **** and a plastic
one liter bottle of coke zero
and no mr darcy to know the hour or the day

helen fielding, enabler of the delusional,
recycled happy endings

but the plastic coke bottle
isn't a jane austen novel
and the chinese don't want our garbage anymore

there is enough garbage in china already

"there are 8.3 billion tons of plastic in the world"
8.8 million metric tons are chinese trash
for the yangtze river to carry to the sea

sometimes i feel just like garbage previously shipped to china

trash and blue origin debris
comeuppance for the yangtze river to carry to the sea







endless oceans end
same place plastic rocketship garbage begins

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I love being cliche,
and being lazy too.

Rope
There's no point in splitting hairs
No point in pointing a finger
It's done
The pages are all torn
Trashed and scattered
And dragged through the gutter
Like yesterdays garbage
And all that rope
I supposedly gave
A phantom
There never was a rope,
A leash, nor a chain
Those things are not for sale
At the well
No there never was a rope
Except perhaps
For  the one attached
To the water bucket
From which
We still
Quietly sip
Through
The miles
Of sea
And storm
And time
As long as we stay
This way
This well
Will never dry up

2016-2017 for the attempt to make unconditional, the conditional.

Every Day should be Earth Day
All of us live here don't we?
Right here on this very planet
The one with the rivers and mountains and plains,
Hot sunshine, cold snow and beautiful things.
Do you want to inhabit a garbage space?
Ain't nobody gonna be happy when
You got egg on your face!

It feels as though every day your maggots eat at my brain--
every time i see something rancid, i think of you.
on television, I see the horrors of humanity, I think of you.

How can I blame you for eating away at me?
I am garbage,
rotten,
a horrible shade of gray-green.
You are maggots,
you cling to and feast on those like me.

Being who I am, being what I am,
it must've seemed like an invite.

When garbage cans become infested,
owners blame their own recklessness.
It is the conditions they created
that invited the maggots.

When I became infected with you,
I could only blame my own recklessness.
It is the conditions I created
that invited you.

a sound, a simple movement of the hands
to make sure that every morsel lands.
trash can opens yet again
over and over.

everything useless goes
to a place no one knows.
leftovers leave our palms,
heading away with the rest.

left to get cold and rot
to which we think not.
the satisfaction in the thought
that it is gone and in other hands.

toys that no longer speak
left to die in the wreak.
no longer wanted by those
who once called them family.

leftovers and toys thrown away
are left to find their own way.

those who discard
are have this to regard.
they too become the trash,
forgotten in the waste,
the filth created by others.

we all lay to rot
this we know a lot.
on our own
by those that said
they loved us.

The mountains are alive with smokeless fire.
Yesterday I was running from it all,
I hopped in the car and threw my life out the window
And started to drive
Windows down
Music off
Nothing but the stars in the sky devoid of the moon
And the thoughts in my head that spread out like the road before me.

I didn’t have a destination in mind
When I drove to the harborfront.
Getting out of the car seemed monumental
The cold outside was a barrier I didn’t want to risk crossing
But I braced myself for the slaughter
And opened the door up anyway.

My foot touched the ground
And I winced
But nothing happened.
Each step forward forward forward
Brought me closer to the ocean.

I think it was snowing.
Something was swirling around me in the cold
Encompassing me
I couldn’t tell whether it was controlling me or I was controlling it
But it didn’t seem to matter.
My feet touched the sand
The sand was covered in white dust
The starts reflected on the calm water’s surface
But when I looked down, I didn’t see myself staring back.

Is emotion ponderous?
I suppose it is if I’m writing this,
If I can even ask the question.
Why do I feel so deeply
And have all these thoughts that wash my brain out like the tide
But never can find the right string of words
So that it will impact more people than just myself?

There are things that make sense to me
That don’t seem to make sense to anyone else.
In a fit of passion I see emotions in my brain
And write what I see
To the best of my fleeting ability
But what comes out is just a jumble of words
A couple of images
And not a through line of sense in it at all.

Maybe I should read more.
That’s what I always tell myself
Read more books with meaning
Instead of just the stuff that interests me.
Read more poetry that has words too big to follow
And morals so far buried
I need heavy machinery to dig it up.
Why can’t I write like that?
Why can’t I make words dance across the page
And up and around the minds of those that read it?

All you’ll ever be is someone who’s life has no meaning
Who can’t justify her place in this world
Because she chose the wrong thing to focus on.
There is no gift there
There is no talent
Whoever saw it there once was lying to you.

There’s too many ideas in your head
Too many grand feelings with emotions that can’t be put into words
And not enough concrete to solidify it
There’s no point in continuing.
They’ll just laugh, you know. They’ll read what you have to say and tune out their ears.
The writing is garbage
It’s terrible
It’s uninspired
It lacks the je ne sais quoi
The kind of thing that needs to be had and not taught
The kind of thing that you thought you had, once, but now don’t think so at all.

Nobody else thinks so either
So what are you going to do about it?
You’ve wasted too many hours of your life,
Written too many thousands of words of nonsense
Of pointless nothingness.
You’re past the tipping point.

Keep on writing, I guess,
That’s all you seem to keep doing.
Some people say that once you write enough garbage
Once you dig through enough dirt
You can find gold underneath.
I sure hope that’s what happens,
Because if not then I don’t know what to say to you
I don’t know where you’re gonna go.



Try to write yourself back home.