We’re connected you know
By some universal thread
Like a bad dream
You can’t escape, or a
Good one
You’d do anything to fall back into
And with some microscopic
Interdimensional pair of shears
Cut
Cut
Cut
yourself free
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Smile
What a bore it is
To see yourself
Reflected in the eye
Of another’s
Lonesome smile
Where you can see
The charade
Designed like a maze
Where nobody gets out
And everyone’s stuck—
Feeling most unwell
It
With it I feel
Something
Without it
I feel Something
It is I as I is it
And can be many things
A pebble in the shoe
A headache after dark
A dismal brackish thing
That I wonder if it feels
Something without me?
It’s probably for the best
To leave it alone.
Footnote
Her love
Like a phantom
Continues to be
A Footnote
On this broken
Chandelier
Of a story
For the underground
daydream eyes
For every bad breath morning
For every kitty litter night
The only thing I’d change
was the fabric softener,
which still lingers
like her kiss
in my daydream eyes
Where the message is pure
as fresh cut grass
The smell of sage and
Himalayan Shilajit
Due Date
For the extra couple hours sleep
I’ll take the 50 dollar ticket thanks.
And pay it with a smile, smugly
the day after it’s due—
Rib Cage
Don’t think you’re working hard enough?
Then wait till you can see your rib cage
Wait till instead of loathing
You begin to welcome sleep
Wait till your veal turns to porterhouse
Till your pennies turn to dollars
Wait till going home is lonelier than not
Till you don’t feel whole until you’re broken
Broken from the inside out so that no one can see
No one but
You
In the morning
In the mirror
In the gray light
Admiring your rib cage
Knowing you’ve worked hard for this
Hard enough to die—
But not quite
My Dear, Rumination
After a while
you’ll come to realize
that it’s these
needle thin problems, these
paper thin thoughts, these
failed salutations, and
strangers fiction bought
that keep us alive
and somewhere we ought
not dare go alone,
what a gift to feel lost—
my dear, rumination
what a privilege I’ve been granted
these feelings I have fought.
This Boys Life
If it sounds like suicide
It’s probably suicide
If it doesn’t, then
It’s probably suicide
You see. I’ve got to toy with it
I’ve got to play with it
Let it tangle me in knots until
I’ve grown tired of its tricks, until
I’ve acquired a finer taste
For those brief honest moments
Just before sleep, letting him go
Pillow breathing in peace, with it all
And how it had to end, in order for
This boys life—to begin…
Rebuttals
It flows naturally, doesn’t it?
As natural as an oil spill
are rebuttals fueled
by lack of sense
and dead fish handshakes.
Words Of An Average White Male 