I used to live
(and I can say that now)
in a town that I hated
where the police were
perpetually parked in church
parking lots
ready to mete out divine Justice
to those who drive a little too quickly
and the people smoking outside the bars
go silent and glare as you walk by
giving the impression that
you were the topic of conversation
and even though you know it's not the case
you still watch your back
lest you be dragged through
the mud of the community Facebook pages
because this is God's country
and you can be exorcised
for cheap

one of the greatest
mysteries of my
life
revolves around
a dozen roses
and a card that read:

"for crying out loud..."

Cigarettes
and
cat ****.
Those are the smells
that remind me of you.
You had a tendency
to call the women
I cared about in my
life
******. (Capital W)
My mother,
My fiance,
My sisters,
and where does
this leave you?
Sitting as a bombed
out husk of masculinity,
a fluid ever-changing
identity.
I remember you when
you were a goofy nerd.
Now you are a Rebel (Capital R)
waiting patiently for the
antebellum south
to rise again.
I try not to look back in
your direction.

I have risen.
I have moved on.

Tired again
perhaps depressed
or maybe just bummed
but I can't really tell
as I walk through this haze from
one dream
to
the next
and people are
starting to blur
and are as
melodramatic as
ever and
really I
just need a bit
of sleep
so that I can shake off
a bit of the dust that has
accumulate in my
eyes from being
awake all too
much

I wore tie dye
to the funeral
because it was what
your family requested
and a sibling of mine cried
to me later about how
she felt out of place
with all the misfits
in tie dye
and her in her
impossibly chic
getup with all her
friends
as though a funeral
is the place to make
a fashion statement

Sorry about your loss!
#newme
#sensitive

As though she'd been
inconvenienced
by the family's preferences
to remember their daughter
by her favorite patterns
and funerals were really just
events you could save
imaginary tickets from
and frame them in a beautiful collage
next to all your beautiful outfits
and memories of how you and
your friends got dressed up
so nice
and looked out of place
at a funeral
where you didn't give
a **** about the
person who
had
died

I stood
in that parking lot
the one that overlooked
the lake
and remembered the time
that I shared a cigarette with
you.
And you said,
"This is the first
time I have had nicotine
in a while."

Part of me
felt bad
that I had reintroduced
you to the beast
of addiction
but then again
I was addicted
to you
and your words
and your smile
so maybe it wasnt all that bad
and we were young
so whats the worst that could happen?
I quit smoking
because it feels good
to self-destruct
and I know cigarettes
taste better when
pondering the days
that have blown
away like toxic
smoke
and I have too many
of those
and spend too much
time thinking
about the immutable
past that I
myself
would inevitably become ash.

Another plane
homeward bound
and once again
Texas feels a little
colder
without you

She and I
are in two
very different
holding patterns of existence.

Yet the very thought of her
sets electricity coursing
through my brain.

A wildfire
in the backdrop
as I tell her
I love her.

He wasn't much
to look at
all raging
against mediocrity
trying to make sense
of the hurts in the world
by seeing how much
pain he could tolerate
and how many others
could bear
that pain with him

She's the kind of
woman who never
messages first,
wading through
endless attempts at contact
all left as "read"
and yet a line of
baggage holding hopefuls
wait to be used
as toys
for her ego

I tend to stay
away from gods
and goddesses
because if there's anything
I've learned from
ancient texts,
it's that gods and goddesses
tend to leave piles
of bodies strewn
in their wake.

I'm stuck
in a perpetual loop
of longing for something
that I don't know
how to explain
but it comes out when
I listen to all-female
pop rock bands
and I want to be anywhere
but here

It's Wednesday
and I realized
I haven't taken
a breath since
the Sunday
before my birthday
and the only way
I found out was that
people kept asking
"Why are you so blue?
How can we help you
be happy?"
but I am happy
I am so very happy
at least that's what I
was thinking while
my head was spinning
against the earth
due to oxygen
deprivation

The night came
screaming
across the sky
faster than
the sun was
dying
to meet the horizon
like I was dying
to meet
the ideas in your mind
and all the curvature
of your soul
and all the bits
and pieces of
space dust orbiting
those eyes that
can't quite focus on
anything other than
the horizon where
dreams and hopes
await the sunrise
to bring nourishment
and the eventual bloom
of reality
with creeping roots
dancing down our
brain stems
and into the
bottoms of our
hearts
where the truly good
in this world lies

When we split
it was three days
before my grandmother
died
and the blow was so great that
I couldn't stomach listening
to Andrew Bird
lest I hear the conversation
again
where you talked about how his
music
was for the "higher echelon of people"
and even though I thought this was
absurd
I didn't say anything because
I was so
determined
to make that failing relationship work
because if I couldn't fix the fact
that I heard a piece of my grandmother
dying each and every night
during the month of November
the very least I could do
would be to make the relationship
last so as not to suffer
too much loss all at once.

While waiting for
my tires to be changed
an old lady struck up
conversation with me
and we talked like old friends
and she told me about how
she grew up near a cannery
where you could buy unlabeled
cans for two dollars a case
so dinner was always a surprise
and we talked about how to
heal the world and she gave
me a book of Catholic prayers
and when we parted ways
we agreed that we would like
to cross paths again but
didn't exchange information
because sometimes the absolute
best experiences are spontaneous
but altogether life-changing

The last time I saw
him
he was sitting on
a park bench all
denim-clad and
cowboy boots
reading a worn out
copy of
True Grit
trying to find
his way home
to an idea of
the old west

The boy had a heart of gold
which was fine
until the price of gold went up.
Now a commodity,
the boy was
coveted,
traded,
owned,
by collectors who cared only for
the purity of a golden heart
and little for the humanity
surrounding it.
With a little gray matter
and a little bit of paint,
the boy disguised his heart
with a layer of silver.

Which was fine,
Until the price of silver went up.

He drew a graph
on the roll of paper
attached to the wall
that served as a grocery
list
and I didn't need a graph to
tell me to buy milk
and I asked him why
and one of his friends said
from the other room
"he does recreational calculus"
and in that moment I
seethed with rage
and I didn't know enough
calculus to figure out if the
graph was accurate
but being *******
and indignant
is easier than
differential equations.

I saw the sky falling
but it didn't make a sound
seeing as you weren't around
to hear it

I'd write a poem
about you
but I haven't fallen
in love with you
nor do I regret meeting
you.
The gray area in which
you reside is poetry
in and of itself
and I would prefer
to keep it that way,
friend.

He spent all his
time
digging holes in his soul,
deep wells where others could
throw in their coins
and wish for better
things and while
it never made him
happy it did make
him awful rich
and he found that
the key to happiness
was shaped an awful lot
like a 40 foot yacht
and a supermodel wife

I once caught
Patriotism (capital p)
and it was like the
spirit of ol' Ronnie Reagan
had possessed me
and I wanted to fling
myself through the
rows
and rows
of houses that hold
the standards of modern suburbia
and coopt the values of the
chrisitan (lowercase c) flavor
of ethics
and I found myself surrounded
by emptiness
and the flag flying outside
had become a stranger to me
as I had become a stranger to my
country
and I looked to the horizon
trying to find a savior
and I couldn't see
past the sun

Most days
I exist solely
as a rebellion
against the countless
dead
whose numbers I will
eventually join

That which doesn't
**** you
only gives you
one hell of a life
story to tell.

I watched a video
where a pastor was
talking about why they
were building a second sanctuary
in the mega-complex-compound
that was his church and he said
"We've thought carefully and prayerfully
about this..."
and I tuned out because I got
caught up in the time I couldn't
come home because someone had a
dream that they had to ****** me
and how
"That was God's way of telling
me that I can't let you come home"
which made me feel really
special that God was sending dreams
about me to people
and so I asked Him real prayerfully
while He was at it
to send a Magic Mike-esque dream
about me
to this girl I had a crush on
and in the dream
I would have the body of Hulk Hogan
in his pre reality show years.

She and I never ended up together.

It’s 1:22 am
and I’m sitting on the
patio furniture
of the restaurant above
which I live
and I can see a bar
down the road with
a regal sounding name
and we’re nearing
bar time
when all dreams end
and a lady comes out
stumbling
and loudly yelling to her friend
points at me
“What’s he doing?”
“What are you doing?”
and I wave and say
“Come over here!
I’ll write you a poem!”
and she hesitates
for a split second
and decides that
a buzzed ride home
would be less dangerous
than a conversation with
a stranger in the middle
of the night and a free
poem
but all poetry is free
and maybe she knew this
and I had fooled myself
by assuming my
words
would enrich her night.

She had a heart like
one of those two-way
mirrors
and those around her
debated endlessly
about whether or not
you could see in
or if it was her heart looking out
and when the mirror
eventually cracked
under the constant
poking and prodding
those around her
were suddenly
a lot less
interested

We watched him fall
from the sky
and thought about
how lucky he was
to be able to follow
his dreams.

I had listened to
the song
on repeat
eight times
already
sitting in the
bowling alley
lot
moving only
to restart the
song
as I desperately
tried to get the
gentle carefree
snow outside
to fall in time
with the pieces of my
shredded heart
but gravity had different
plans and where the
snow stopped on the ground
I fell through
until I reached warmth
from the core,
Earth's heart
and mine beat in
synchronicity
for one beautiful
eternity
and at that point

I shut off the music
and drove home

O, death
wait for us
for some of us
don't quite have
our shoes tied
yet
and
there are leftovers in
the fridge
that I'm sure the cat will
get into
and you know
how the vet
said poor kitty needs to
watch her weight
o, Death
wait for us
because the theater kids
are doing the Charleston
in a flash mob
in the library during
parent teacher conferences
and it's kind of hard to hear,
o death
and O, death,
wait for your turn
you really should have called
i'm just so busy these days
with school
and work
and the kids
and really it's kind of late
and I should be getting to
bed
but let's schedule something
for a week or so from now
because I just don't have time
for you today

O, death
o, death
o, death
my love
do not cry
i hear you've been
awful busy these days
and you just can't catch
a break from the tedium
so let me help you
and I will walk myself
over, o death
and together we shall wander
the horizon
behind the sunset

Maybe I'm just
getting tired
and overworked
and overwhelmed
and this is wearing
my faith
in humanity
and an intermittently-existent
God
thin and frail
and like the Autumn
leaves
I'm just another strong
breeze away from
floating off into
the gray sky

It's midnight again
and the guy with
the truck
out back is
revving his engine
3
no, 4
times tonight to
get going
and I am once again
here without adventure
with wine to tell me
secrets
remembering the time
someone told me they loved me
and how disastrous that
all turned out to be
but hey
at least i can make
perfect over easy
eggs
at midnight
when the occasion
calls for it

God is no longer
an obligation
but rather a feeling,
an inclination to invoke
when things really start to
go wrong
and you can be born again
because you have now
Subscribed to God (patent pending)
for only $8.99 a month

Which brings
us to the
issue
of Deuteronomic
thinking
and nothing is
all one way
or another
all ruled by
the things
we must do to
get by

I can't know
if God notices
us

I don't know
if I'd want
Him to

I was there when my grandmother
died.
I was urged to say something as she went
but couldn't as I had already
said everything
I needed to say
during our front porch conversations
where she would tell me that kids
shouldn't have to be sad like we were
and answered my questions about life.

The idea of sending people off with peaceful
words doesn't make sense to me.
The peaceful words,
the staggering revelations,
the infinite bounty of love
should be said during life,
not on the brink of life everlasting.

Whispering wonders to the
dead and dying
is about as useful as painting
a broken window.
It looks pretty, but what does it really do?

All I've ever done
is recount the
permanent blessing
bestowed by a homeless
woman
outside the seven-eleven
with my slurpee communion
and a bag of snacks
that were all junk food
because sugary
treats taste best
alongside chaos
and I haven't
had good luck
since
she called upon
God
to bless and keep
me after I gave her
a dollar

You should keep your head
up high.
If not in the clouds
at least above your shoulders
and out of the sand.
So that I can hear you
and the beautiful things you say
without it all sounding like
gibberishmumbles.
You should keep your head
up high
if only so that when someone
lops it off,
the ride down will be like
the physical manifestation
of the rollercoaster
of your life and emotions

It's not that I'm a
pessimist
or that I've been hurt
so much
that I've decided that
glorification of suffering
would be more validating
than seeking comfort in others
I don't think the world is
a fundamentally broken place
nor do I think that people
are broken too
People are what I need them
to be at times and
the world is all part of a greater
narrative
and the truth is just
whatever is useful
at that moment
and right now
it all is veering
towards being
meaningless

A friend of mine
died some years back
while trying to do a U-turn
and I found out secondhand
through gossip
"Did you hear that she died?"
"Why is everyone saying RIP
about her on Facebook, what happened?"
and I will never forget the smirk
that you had when you told me.
Was it the juicy gossip that had you excited?
Was it the exposure to death?
All you had to say to me in the aftermath
was
"Oh I heard there were drugs in her system"
as you mimed out the action
of smoking a joint
as though being high
and wanting to dull your senses
for pleasure
meant that the accident
was somehow deserved
as punishment from above
and I'm not sure about heaven
but I know Hell was living with you.

I couldn't even cry at her funeral
because you were there.
I cried for her when another friend
died three weeks later.

Someone should
call a doctor
as it seems
I have the
human condition.

The lady at the store
was complaining of
global warning
and how the snow
the snow outside
yes look there
that snow shouldn't
belong
now should it
and I had only
stepped inside
to warm my face
because my soul
couldn't reach my extremities
but that global warming
that climate change
she said it can't be real
and she love love loves the cold
and I took note and
thanked her for her time
and went off into the cold
because at least the wind
has no shame about trying
to tear your face off
if you disagree

I once knew a woman
who said she had a dream about
water and that it had helped
her predict 9/11
and I still don't know
how to make heads or tails
of that
other than it's just something
that is.

I write poetry
as journal entries
since I am all out
of secrets to keep
after the birds
I talked to
flew off with
the very notion
of trust
and here I struggle
against the idea
of identity

I remember
laying there
with you
on a quilted blanket
under the stars
with a storm
creeping in the distance.
I remember
staying silent
when I should have told you
I loved you
and letting the
rain and reckless
thunder
cut our evening short.

I'm more tired
than not
these days
and the man on
the television
tells me that
this means I am
successful
because to be busy
is to not be idle
and being idle
is a sin
so I am exhausted
all the time now
and I hope that everyone
will be proud
of the bags under my
eyes in which I carry
everyone else's
problems and solutions
because to be busy
is to not be idle
and being idle is
a sin

We made love
in our tiny
bathroom today
and the cat
banged on the door
wanting to come in
so she could drink out
of the sink
which to her was
a lot more urgent
than whatever we
had going on
at the time

I keep coming back here
because I crave the rush
of putting words down
and pretending they are
totally original all the
while holding casual
disdain for how this
digital medium rewards
punchline after punchline
and punishes exploration
and long winded
discussions about existence
because even art needs to
fit into our busy schedules

I was in a 50's style
ice cream joint
waiting on some Blue Moon
and I was staring at the checkered
floor
feeling nauseous from the pattern
and a couple came in behind me
who were more vivid than
any people I could ever make up

the wife said
"Dale, I got my own wallet, Dale."
and they ordered malts and I wondered
how many malts one could drink in a lifetime
and that my Blue Moon was taking a long time
but the lady turned to me and said
"i love your sweater so much it makes me sick"
and I said
"Thanks"
and she says
"If I were your size, I would knock you down
and try to steal it from you"
and we all laughed
in the beautiful
chrome ensconced ice-cream joint
before I took my Blue Moon
and wandered out back onto the street
of an old railroad town
with nothing else
to offer
other than reality

Instead of wasting
your time looking
for princes
and princesses
endlessly stalking the
shadows of castles
you should focus
your effort on being
a *******
dragon.

Breathe fire from
your soul, kid.