i am too aware of my own image to be who i am.


i dont know who i am


i shaved my beard off the other day.
ive never made a bigger mistake.
i look like a child.
i am a child.
i never want to look like a child.

my neck looks bigger
my face appears to be melting.
i guess thats what
was under all the wool.

i dont have the ***** to live like bukowski
and if i did
i wouldnt be bukowski anyway.

ill be honest in saying
i dont know anything
and the things i have learned
came at the expense
of something i thought i knew.
theres a knife in my stomach
two right hands around the grip
two lefts pointing blame at one another

" hey well, hope never dies!"



"yeah i know that's kinda been my problem recently"

True pretentiousness,
is to write something inanely personal
and call it nothing.

the dread i feel
from valiant effort
to a broken railroad.
an endless love
sent down the stream.
it sails.
i watch from the peer
but pretend not to see.

i feel schumann in
the mirror.
we let the same notes
push us off the cliff.

i can't wait until i have a room with a view.
to clear my head.
and watch the day come
over the trees.
sip a coffee with two hands,
tell my wife
how nice she looks,
when the sun shines through the window.

i am just now coming to terms with
the fact that i may be scary

time bomb, pocket bomb.
if there can be a universe in a fingernail

mine is long, protruding, sharp.
piercing through the styrofoam of a stressball.

please do not keep me in that dark thing.

i could make you orange slices or
a little figurine, of a moose.

i am twenty and driving through the dark.
not really driving, im shotgun
making up for lost time.
driving through the dark, too cold to crack the windows.
the music blaring, we sing along so loud.
i am twenty, singing loud to the radio,
making up for lost time.

i watch the other cars drive past us
going the opposite direction.
why aren't they going the same way we are?
chasing the dead trees on the black night highway.

i hope they are making up for lost time too.
i hope they are going to drink in a field
or kiss a crush at a house party.
something they should have done awhile ago.

sometimes i cant tell if this is good for me.
poetry, the broken mans art form.
i give up on all people
at least once a month
and i think im doing it again.

//

i dont like heights,
but i always thought
maybe id like being an astronaut
i could use a break.
read a book,
enjoy the view,
walk through nothing.
maybe then
id have a reason
to feel so alone
instead of drowning
in a sea of people
i cant feel when they touch me.

She packs a parachute on every flight.
She keeps my number in her phone.

Just in case.

She knows theyre both there.
She prays she'll never need to use them.

dont talk about it
today
if you wont talk about it
tomorrow.

the day might change but we never do.
stuck in the mud
stuck in the mud
stuck in the mud

There is nothing more concrete than rock bottom.
I've made a home there.
Shaved off enough sand
To fashion a bed and some pillows.
I can't tell if it's Stockholm syndrome
Or I just couldn't care enough anymore
To try and swim out.

Why bother leaving
When you've made your bed.

I wonder if she remembers
The show I put on
The table where she sat
The desert she didn't care for
All the love songs I sang
And sent her way.

The waitress told me
That girl definitely likes you.
I asked how she could tell.

You can tell by the way she stares
By the way she listens.
No girl spends her Saturday night
Watching some teenager play out his Empty dreams
For no reason.

Oh how strong a bridge may seem
Without even gazing below you
To make sure there's more than nothing
Keeping you afloat.

if i end up as a teacher
have i failed?
i pray nobody believes
in themselves like i do.

if he really knows how to do it
why
is he teaching me how to do it

am i an *******
because sometimes
i feel like the smartest person
in the room?

not about physics
or math
or anything really
but i just
know.

i cant explain it,
just that i know.
i dont expect
anyone
to understand.

i dont think im better
than anybody
im not.
just that im the only
me
i know
and i cant fathom
how that couldnt
mean anything.

a guidance counsellor
told me once
she was
surprised
i was doing so well
and i told her

you dont know anything about me


//

winona road
runs long and narrow.
a dame red bakery
fills the left side of the street
with smells of cinnamon and sugar things.
the floorboards creak
and the chairs wobble,
but the swoon of a welcome bell
still warm a familiar smile.

it has to be together
before it can fall apart.

The light of god in an old shoe.

An angel in a pool of milk.

A man with glass eyes sleeps on a tractor tire.
Longing for the creed in a burning bush,
and clutching a sandwich bag filled with lemonade
that he can never seem to throw far enough away.

i have an affinity for cool **** and will spend the rest of my life trying
to explain how it feels to float.

and when i say cool **** i mean things that will make you swing the spotlight.

i finally have a night worth remembering and while im drunk in the uber, the driver hits two potholes.

they sync up to the kick-drums on the radio and i write that down so i never forget it.

but i never forget the things i write down, not because they're always there but because i gave them the time they deserved.

these kids have guns
in their heads
in their hearts
in their homes
in their hands.

these kids have guns
they die on the field.

these kids have guns
twenty one to be exact
rifling souls into the air
whipping through the wind
like crows in a grey sky.

seventeen dead
for twenty one guns.

seventeen dead
and for the ones who arent
a ubiquitous scar.
twenty one guns,

keep a spark
for the ones who made it.

seventeen dead
for twenty one guns.

when i really love something
it is an all consuming journey.
i cant see very far past
the things i love
when they look me in the eye.

when i really love something
its all i can do.
my heart lives on one track
in one gear, in one speed.
like a bullet straight ahead.
ripping through my free time
through the things i should be saving.

when i really love something
i promise to never leave that thing,
because i cant promise i can be
without that thing.
im scared to see what this
may look like with out that thing.

but when i really love something
it always finds its own way to **** me
and then i take a year to recover
before i lay back down
on the sidewalk like usual.

when i really love something
it will eventually tell me
that i am a liar
and that i broke a promise i made
before the weather got bad.

and when i really love something
i find myself explaining
that i never lied to it
just that the truth keeps changing.

when i really love something
i let it go
to see if it will come back
and when it doesn't
i am surprised.

love is all i know
in all its forms.
puzzled faces ask how could i know
at so young.

i've given away every part of me.
as everyone says it's noble
to give so much.
but I've seen no open arms
no one knows how to treat something they've never seen.

a whole world built on blissful ignorance.
where following all the rules doesn't actually make you happy.

i could power this ******* city
with the time i've wasted
pouring my soul into someone else
to make sure they're full.

Black walls in a clear room.
The contents of a snow globe litter the carpet.
Plastic snow and a single reindeer
Unsheathed.
With nothing but shards of glass
And a rams horn
Left to chip the paint.

i am iris murdoch
i am hussein of jordan.

i sleep in the shoes i have to fill.
lighting up a pipe dream,
leave some smoke behind.

blaze the trail.

An envelope with my name on it
Sits on my doorstep
Like a present from god.
Or the government.

Either way, my name rests painfully still
On a snow white slip.
Reminding me I am still alive.

not good