We love the dead
more than ourselves
if only because
the dead sit still long
enough for our worship
and love to solidify
around them
ratifying them in the
cosmos
as a memory to rally around
because the people down here
on earth
are all moving too quickly
for love to stick
and the best moments
are the still ones
where we can wrap each other
up in the
honeyed cement
of our love
and just breathe
before the next thing comes
along and we have to go
dropping pieces
all along the way

Lily dear
my greenhouse queen
you were the spunkiest
little kitten I knew
and I hope that
maybe you're up
in the greenhouses of
Valhalla
or
heaven
or
paradise
and that you're doing
a good job keeping
the birds and mice away
and they don't have
automatic windows in
heaven
Lily
you don't have to worry
anymore.

With the strength
of the devil
he pulled his heart out
and held it up for all to see
and in his final moments
he saw in their eyes
the realization that they had
done something wrong

I do not
know
what I struggle with
every day
but I do
know that I struggle
otherwise
I wouldn't be
so worn out
from waking up

It only happens
every now and again
where you meet someone who
seems to be almost magical
like when your blinker syncs up
with the song you’re listening to on the radio.
It’s not necessarily fate but you
can't help but wonder
as to whether or not the two
were designed to go together.

Like blinkers and songs
the two weren’t made for each other
but happen to function independently
and just sound good when running in parallel
which is more than can be said
for a lot of the people I know
who are searching
endlessly
for the perfect accompanying beat
to their words while
ignoring
the symphonies within.

the thing about mistakes
is that nothing
feels
better than
when you're making
them
blissfully unaware
of unforeseen
consequences

The statistical impossibility of our births is something that hurts even more when your parents aren't fit for the role as such and you grow up in this haze of if and when. Of "If I catch you, when I catch you", and you learn to run faster than any Olympian but you're too afraid of going to practice because you know your parents will be there and you are a prize, something to be marveled at, and you are breakable and replaceable and you know the second you do wrong, like when you lost the spelling bee on the word Massachusetts, they will be there for you. You will always remember that there are two T's at the end because there's no way to escape the brand on your soul of making a mistake in their eyes. Parents will always be there for you.

But so will vultures when you die.
But so will death, waiting for you to make a mistake.

From the parking lot
by the park
you walk a little bit down
the road and there's an opening
in the woods and hidden there
is a teepee.

It's more of a bunch of sticks
arranged to look like a teepee
than an actual teepee
but it still offers a little shelter
from the weight of the world
when you're hanging out in
there with a bunch of your
misfit friends
and talking about the future
as the cacophony of all the
animals and bugs in the trees
wells up like the 1812 Overture
at sundown,
the fading orange light
challenged by the glow of your faces.

I haven't been there
in years,
but have directed many
of my younger acquaintances there
to offer a little bit of solace
that can't be expressed
in any way other than experience.

I can't tell you
much
about love and poets
and how well that'll
work out
but they'll sure as ****
write about
it.

I tend to suffer
from bouts of
paranoia
that only seem to
get worse as
my days get better
as though my
subconscious needs
something
anything
of which
I should be
afraid
to maintain
equilibrium

I'm writing
poetry
instead of
writing notes
for Econ
because I
derive higher
marginal utility
from poetry
than from
notes about
consumer surpluses.

See?
I've been paying attention.
Look at how I can apply
Economics
to my life.

It's easier to talk
in obscurity and metaphor
than it is to be honest
with ourselves
because it sounds more
pleasant to be tossed around
at sea
than to be sitting quietly
at the bottom of
a well in a rainstorm

One of these poems
could probably be a suicide note
and we're just not
aware
of it yet.

It's not about
fiery passion
challenging the sun
but rather about
the moments
during movies where
she gently elbows
me in the side and
points
with a smirk
to tell me that the
man on the screen
being particular about
his food reminds
her of me

quiet nudges
have moved mountains
more than fire ever
could
in our journey together

You've got a big heart
and you'll find someone
with a heart just as
big as yours
and who cares to the same
degree
that you do.
I'm one of those
who loves way too much
and it worked out for me alright
(after countless heartbreaks)
but the point here is that
someone out there will be
totally accepting of you
and will love talking to you
and will hang onto your every word
as poetry
and they will see the beautiful love
you have to offer
and I know it ***** right now
and it seems like you're spinning your wheels
in the mud
but I believe in you.

I believe that the beauty
I see in you will
envelop you and
and that big heart of yours
and you will find a home
in which that heart shall
just be.

I get stressed out
from little things
like
looking through the contacts
in my phone.

I see all the names there
all the numbers,
tokens of friendships
no longer existing
and I can't help but let
my mind wander.

What if we'd kept our promises?
What if we actually stayed in
touch?
What if I could just reach out
to any of them and try to
talk,
just talk,
and pretend that it hasn't
been years since we sat in
poorly lit rooms
together
and talked about wanting
to bring the world together
in peace.

Instead we all grew apart and
I am left with a pocketful
of strangers.

Sitting here at
10:09 on a Monday
sipping peppermint
tea
and all I can think of
is how much longer
my poems would
be if I wrote them
in a drunken rage
and I say longer
and not better
because drunk words
are sober thoughts
and all I write
is what I'm thinking
at the moment
and call it
Poetry

here's to those who still
get drunk
and hang out on elementary
school playground sets
and tell each other
secrets overheard only
by the stars
because feeling a bit tipsy
is easier than
feeling nothing at all

The sun was
a bit too bright
today
probably because
so many people were
seizing the day with
unbridled optimism and
taking the life that they
so rightfully deserve
and it made it rather difficult
for me to remain in a bad mood
until I was blinded by the sun
while trying to drive on the freeway
from here to there
with no clue as to which
was which

Every day brings a new adventure!
or so the sign had told me
hanging so delicately
on some sort of kombucha based
drink
as though I could augment my life
and invite adventure in just by
drinking a drink
but that's how advertising works
I suppose
and we must be above the ads
because we are all independent and
free
unless...
that too is an ad
and the revolution has been bought and sold
and we are all just loosely strung along
quirks
that are indicative of our specific
ideals of humanity

here's looking at you
white dude with flannel and dreadlocks
and Rastafarian colored shoes

here's looking at you kid with pompadour
haircut, pastel shorts, and a MAGA hat hanging
off his backpack

are we all truly going our own ways
or are we just advertisements for
something better than
being unknown
and undefined?

what will happen
to our electronic
umbilical cords
when the power
finally goes out?

You asked me the other day
the level to which I would be affected
if you were to die suddenly
and I keep thinking about that
and I keep imagining you gone
and a piece of me dies every day
imagining the loss of you
even though you're just a phone call
away and we just talked about
beans this morning
and everything is fine and beautiful
and our hearts ache peacefully
across the country from one another

In the garden of
worthless hellos
the yellowed smiles
all show their
appreciation to each other
and to the passing sky
unaware
that they move
and the sky
hasn't gone
anywhere

I once knew a woman
who did jigsaw puzzles
and it was interesting
how
when she would finish them
she would glue all the
pieces together
as a sort of testament to
having conquered chaos
and made order out of
scraps
and I think perhaps
she was on to something
as I see how desperately
people long for
the stability of Facebook
photo albums
and friend lists
stuck in perfect
suspense
and free from the world
and all you have to do
is look at your glued
puzzle collection and say
"I have conquered this day"

After we had
spontaneously kissed
on a cool autumn
evening
I brought it up
shortly thereafter by saying
"so..."
because I couldn't think
of anything else to say
and she said
"We are more mature than that."
except I wasn't
and neither was she
but at least the ensuing
fallout
was pretty to
look at

Look around, kid,
and breathe deep
because everything
that has ever happened
has led to this moment right
now
and I know it's all sorta scary
and that you feel small
in the narrative
but understand
that everything that will
ever happen
will be eventually
tied back to you
someday
so get out there
and start creating
the kind of future
the kind of narrative
where you are so much more

A camel bit my face once
after I had fed it a whole bag
of carrots
and I really appreciated
his honesty in that moment.

ha ha
joke's on you
it wasn't the
liver
this whole time
it was your gallbladder
filling with sludge

anyway
that'll be $23,000

All I remember is that we were at the farmer’s market. You see, the easiest way to figure out a time period is to note which vegetables were in season at the time, but unfortunately, I was too busy looking at my love to take note of the produce lined up neatly in rows on the stands; though there was a sample of pickled asparagus that threatened to change my life for the better. The love of my life was blessed with an extra bone in her foot and the tendons, of course, immediately wrapped around this extra bone and caused a great deal of pain for her, and as such she had to wear a BOOT. I walked, and she clomped along the street through the farmers market and because her physical detriment was noticeable in the air, we were surrounded by a group within minutes. “Can I pray over your foot please?” their leader had said. Although, I heard it spelled PREY, given my general distrust of people who go to farmer’s markets to spread religion. Before I realized what was happening, the followers of this woman had formed a circle around my fiancé and blocked me out as the woman gave a full performance invoking Jesus to heal the extra bones in this world and there was clapping and there was staring from other farmer’s market patrons who couldn’t be bothered to swoop in and save us. It’s years later and the extra bone is still in her foot.

It's too early
for this
there's a kid
whose subwoofers
that keep shaking
the trunk of his '04
Honda Civic
providing a tribal
staccato
a background
trance
to keep me
motivated
as I use a
screwdriver
to pop the latch on my
door for the
third time
this week
because I accidentally
ripped the
door handle off
and
I realize that I
forgot
my coffee on the counter at
home
and I forgot to tell
my cats that I love
them
before I left
and this is
all being obscured
by the threat of
sleep in this parking
lot
because I can never
seem to get to bed
early enough

I am
and
I am not
leaving the
impression
of a flickering flame
of a candle
never ignored
but always forgotten
as a the light
in the cave
on a deadman's switch
always threatening
but never burning out
as we piled
on to feel warmth

We were in a coffee shop
in a town perpetually out
of my budget range
when one of my
writer friends
asks me if I've ever
written a sonnet
and I responded with
something beautiful and
meaningless along the lines of:

"I like the freedom
of putting words
to the rhythm of
everyday observations
instead of trying to make
life fit into a specific
model of rhythm and
rhyme"

but the fact of the matter
is that I don't know
how
to write sonnets
or how that rhyming structure
works
since I spend all my time
learning about plants
and hanging out with my cats
instead of seriously learning
how to do
poetry

Deep breaths
in and out
and we recite the mantra
that one has sangria
on a Wednesday
to reward ourselves
for just how normal
everything is
and that we definitely
haven't been
dreaming about leaving
everyone behind
and running off into
the Italian countryside
to find a nice picturesque spot
to cease existing

A **** is nothing but a plant
in the wrong place

go find a flower bed
that works for you

bloom.

I imagine a scenario
in my head where
my father stood in the doorway
before he left and pondered
his decision to leave

this of course
never happened
and he just unceremoniously took off
one day
(yawn. Am I right?)

but hey,
it's just another day
where we tell ourselves
the stories that make sense
or at least sound a bit less
boring in eyes of the audience
for whom we're constantly
performing

We do things
in hopes of the
perpetual tangibility
of happiness
trying to seize
as many days
as we can before
the winter comes
and leaves us with
picturesque backdrops
in front of which
our hearts freeze and break
because we rubbed them too hard
in trying to keep each other
warm

I write poetry
for strangers
instead of my friends
because I can't see
my fears and dreams
reflected off the eyes
of strangers they way I can
in the mirrors
that are my loved ones
and looking
at other people is far
easier than looking
at myself
trying to find
the spots that gleam
in the sunlight

I watched him
through my window.

A man,
scraping the stick figure decal
of his wife
off the rear window of his minivan.

Death
or
Divorce?

Which is worse?
I suppose that depends on
one's view of
Life
and
Life Everlasting.

He liked to use
clip-on promises
because it was so much
easier
than learning to tie knots
and facing down the
fear
that you could strangle yourself
if you weren't careful

Pitch dark rumbling
as the plane crawled
into the night sky
away from you once again

and out the window I saw
blinking
another plane perhaps
taking other lives along
their given paths

and I looked again
and saw only the stars
against the blackened infinity
and in those stars
I saw only you

"You look like a California Boy"
the Albanian man said
"What does that mean, a California Boy?"
I asked
"I don't know."
he said,
"But I said it so you figure out
what it means and tell me."
All I knew is that I was still wearing
a sweater that I had put on in the morning
when it was still only fifty degrees out
and that I was starting to bake a little
in the strange, eighty-degree October
sunlight

I'm tired of
drink-coaster
poetry
words that are
forever inspiring
that can hang on
your fridge
and make you feel
good and deep
and so very
inspired
to carry on with the
day as planned
bolstered with the
strength of
a thought
or a prayer
and it's so
easily digestible
through and through
and I want teeth
I want gristle
I want poetry that
rips me out of my sleep
words that haunt me
like they're in on something
I've never known
but we settle for that which
brings us comfort
we settle for the airy quotes
that we co-opt into our
daily mantras that everything
will eventually be okay

When in all reality
every poem
every string of thoughts
will have to end

unremembered and
pure

someone once
told me
"zach, the eyes
are the windows
to the soul and
if you look hard enough
you can see what people are
truly like"
of course
this was all fueled by
drug and drink
and perhaps my
friend was just feeling
philosophical
and perhaps
I ignore that adage
because I was always
afraid to look into
your eyes
because I didn't want
to end up being
disappointed
that your soul
was nothing like I had
imagined

The hardest part
about living through
trauma
is when someone wants to
claim you
and use your suffering as
a badge of honor in that
they helped you get to a better
place and time in your life
but all you can hear is how
they introduce you to others
and leave all of your trauma
attached to your identity
instead of in the past where
it would die
and you know,
maybe this has a negative effect sometimes
like,
say,
for example,
a third grade boy introducing himself
to his teacher and immediately
explaining the sad tale of abuse and
people gone astray
because up to that point all he had
known was how to be injured,
how to be a trophy
for mother dearest
after all,
there can be no heroes
without victims
and some heroes find it better
to just keep a victim around to
be brought out and dance
to the same sad song
of the evil that men do.

I wonder if in
the far flung
future they'll
look at our poetry
here with the same
regard we had for
cave paintings in
the Chauvet Cave
looking on with
fascination
as we fling words
at the walls of our own caves
trying to make sense
of our individual stories
through art

We have all this
technology in the world
and yet we still haven't found
a way to dampen the pain
of putting my best half
on a plane
bound for the other side
of the country

through circumstance once
I ended up at a punk concert
where I saw a middle-aged
man dressed as a greaser
complete with a leather jacket
and spikes
and I felt under dressed for the occasion
and uncomfortable in my skin
until he punched some kid
with a mohawk in the face
and was asked to leave

Is it truly
that much of a
sin
to want to be allowed
to make one's
own mistakes?
Every scar
every burden on our souls
is another spark of flame
in which we are forged
and as iron as burn forward
beaten
but whole.

He just wanted
to fly
so that he could
escape this place
and see everything
from on high.

Last time I saw him
he was clutching
a pair of wings,
one paper mache
the other still bleeding
and I prayed that
he had just found one
and hadn't gone hunting
angels.

Dance! Quickly!
Across the
nihilistic
field day
that is Wednesday morning
where the world has gone mad
and we still can almost
keep our heads up
amid the headlines
and fake-real-fake news cycles
and see humanity moving forward while
the world is coming to an end
and we'll all hold hands before
the cosmos
and say
"Well, it wasn't MY fault."