The rift at my feet
almost made me forgot
how beautiful it was
to watch the band play on.

easy on the transmission
she says and
i feel
skin on my hand
i breathe a little

think of your happy place
she says and
i see
waves
and palm trees

where are you
she says and
i say
the beach

you hate the beach
she says and
i nod
in agreement

i wake to
the rhythm of the birds.
its a day ill live
and forget.
it starts with
grey rain but i have
nothing to do
other than drink
with friends
so what does it matter.

i do not walk alone.
i am not drunk
i can still see the work.
there is real forgetting
going on, and i am sleeping
there. i have made
my peace with battles.
just let me drink
with friends.

i end in bed,
shaking to old wounds.
a creature from the
water, i cant swim
so i cant be hurt. it saves
lives and i need saving.
only a match that
perfect could end
so poorly.

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.

The sun casts two shadows of me down on the pavement
And I could do without either.
Oh what to do when your own novelty wears off,
But leave the clown for the birds.
Some swords have two edges but what does that matter if they're already in your stomach.
I don't believe in God yet,
But I do believe in karma.
So **** the part of me that loves the world
And I promise there'll be hell to pay.

two men
outside a starbucks
chainsmoking through
a saturday lunch

the sun is up
melting the snow at my feet
i wait for a bus that never comes

wishful thinking
keeps me drinking
the cherry wine that costs less than
the wallet i now keep in my front pocket
ever since it was stolen,

fool me once.

i palm my eyes
and rub my craning neck.
sore from keeping watch.
blessed to be cursed i feel at times
as its so hard to write with no perspective.
and if i keep these words in they might **** me some day.

what an honor to be king for a night.
all ive ever yearned,
to see his sword pierce my belly
at rest, at peace.

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.

tell your friends you love them today.

i helped a lady
take her groceries to her house today.
it was the same lady
i watched cross the street
it was the same lady
i didnt hear walk into the corner store behind me.
it was the same lady
i let the door fall onto.
i couldnt hear her.

she ended up ahead of me on the sidewalk.
grocery bags on the pavement.
phone on her ear.
i walked by her.
she apologized
said she was trying to get help.
we walked together.
she told me 'help' was on the patio
drinking a beer.
she asked where i lived
and i said a street over.
she said she hoped she'd see me around.
and i said maybe not, im going home for the summer.

she asked if i was getting out of the rat race
im too young for the rat race.

she thanked me a lot
and said
'some good karma will come your way
im a firm believer in that'

me too
i said.

i walked home and thought
i should write a poem about
that conversation.
about giving a second chance
about being a kind person.
about karma.

usually when something like this happens
i write the minute i get home

but i didnt.

i realized, i dont think i can write
about happy things
because when they happen
they always ferment until
they're not what they were.

it was a quick high
a genuine moment.
if karma is real
and that woman is right
either im the devil himself
or theres a big check
with my name on it.

before i started writing
i googled seasonal depression symptoms

apparently not talking to anyone between the months of february and may every year is still a horse with no name.

how do you **** a love
you made yourself.

i leave this town in a week
and i feel as broken
and confused
as the **** i tried to leave

all i want to do is jump in the river
to see if i can really swim
and figure it out from there.

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.

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

not good

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.

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.

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.

a tin sky
my love
dances
around
a garden

my eyes
roll
into
my skull

a january's chill made her breath spring out like steam from a kettle.
she faltered through the crag
with only the ring of a church bell
and the caw of a raven to sway her mind from the numbing cold
that swallowed her ears, and cemented her eyes
in a fairy tale that could only pick the grey from the rainbow.
a band aid over a calloused hand, placed some lavender on my castle walls.
i would have brought roses, she said.
but i waited too long.
a lone dilatory tear hit stone and to her surprise the earth did not crumble.

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.

Small town life is simple.
The downtown has no neon.
The streets are long and open.
Begging for the smell of thrashed rubber
And cigarette smoke.

Your mechanic knows your blood type
Your doctor knows your license plate.
Secrecy sounds more like something from a Bond film
Than a genuine principle.

A playground lies across from a cemetery
As though to say no one ever really dies,
Or that it was fun while it lasted.