with the sun in my eyes—
in they come and
out they go,
these spirits wrapped
in skin-clothes.
whether drinking coffee
sipping wine, or
devouring slices of pie
they come in droves
regardless of the day.
and I only wonder
about them
for as long as my cup ring
takes to disappear,
by that time they’ve too.
then it’s back to my text
of peace and war
full of satire, humor
and the ambiguity between.
while I’m left thinking—
sex sounds good, but
banana cream pie sounds better.
Drinking’s become a chore
as boring as laundry day.
Except, I love doing laundry—
and the dishes—and the chores.
And all that day to day business
you swore you’d never do
when you were young and too good for it.
But I’m fine with it. In fact,
I enjoy it. Perhaps too much—
but I supposed there’s worse things
than clean underwear and folded socks.
You wake up feeling halfway even almost like you fit in this place, your conscience pleads the fifth.
Your memory like some orphaned son who keeps quiet around everyone.
You walk down sidewalks thinking forward then it’s back to the past, your lifetime’s just a myth.
Did it start when you were young, believing you could fool everyone?
It’s your own cruel addiction holding on to their suspicion, no one is who they say they are.
It’s all you know so it’s just become the way you are, broke down before it even starts.
You play with people’s feelings using them to fill in the cracks, running through your head.
Are you good enough for them, believing that you could fit in?
It’s your lack of intention becoming part of their invention, no one is who they say they are.
It’s all you know so it’s just become the way you are, broke down before it even starts.
it’s beautiful really
how nobody gets what they want
yet everyone gets what they deserve.
everyone’s gotta act so tough
when they know nothing of that’s pure
everyone’s gotta be so right
nobody has time anymore to be unsure.
well, I’ve given the better half of my existance
over explaining myself and inconsistent
I admit—but we play the parts we choose.
and I haven’t an apology left except
that one for myself, left by myself
for all those times I became the pillow,
the pillow to cushion the fall—
see after I gave up wanting to be saved
I realized that all that time, I was the cause
of all those wasted nights.
of all those broken mornings
picking up the pieces of myself
and cutting my hands on those of another.
it’s ugly really
how vulnerability’s questioned, but never heard.
how weakness is hardened, rather than healed.
how it feels happier to be alone
in the company of strangers,
than unrecognizable in the company you keep.
it all becomes so ugly
that it’s beautiful.
and the sun peaks
its curious face, upon
the gentle morning,
while I eat Lox—alone
before my climb
If curiosity killed the cat, then
consideration was the culprit.
plums in bed with Vonnegut
just as I’m content
I’m worried by a friend
who last night had an accident
that left her eye
purple as the plum
I can no longer stomach
while juice trickles down
my anxious chin
and stains what spells:
Mona Lisa
Fingers numb
My breath a cloud like ghost
Mimicking the birds
My hearts an open valley
I look upon at sunrise
there is magic in those moments
first getting to know one another
something is born there
something that pains me to describe
just know mi amor
I hold each and every one of them
like a baby that never grows,
like a rose that never dies—
like magic, we aren’t exactly liars
we just missed the trapdoor
It’s quiet here,
peaceful even.
Underneath
this Beaver Moon,
I am nothing.
Words Of An Average White Male 