The Crap I Write

I finish the crap I write

over coffee I can’t afford

in the mornings on

my days off from work

and I call it poetry.

Before the ice waters down

my Ethiopian cure

I can usually turn 3 or 4

workable pieces I find alright.

Nothing’s ever perfect and

I don’t strive for perfection anymore.

I just do as I do and that seems

good enough for now, besides

nobody reads poetry anymore unless

you’re dead or one of those Slam poets,

but that’s a pack I’d never run with—

the dead are fine but the Slam, no thank you—

since I’m no actor I haven’t the stomach.

I just know how I feel and put it down

whether or not it kills—HA!

If anybody actually cared what I had to say

I’d still be broke. I’d still be here,

no longer curious but still sincere,

breaking 8 balls and biting glass for reasons

only I can understand.

Walking home I no longer debate, I just

spit laughing blood and repeat,

waiting to be called back and told what to do.

Our eyes told stories

I’ll always remember that day

And keep it as a reminder—

That day in which you looked my way

And I didn’t have a clue who you were

And you didn’t have a clue who I was

That day in which our eyes told stories—

As to what is most important.

So if and when we lose our way, I know

Together we’ll find ourselves again—

Where eyes can say what words cannot express—

And stories, we, can only tell together.

a solemn afternoon

hunched over coffee

it’s 6pm and Sunday

a solemn afternoon

there really isn’t more to do

but watch passerby

smile hand in hand

planning one another’s future

in the corners of their eye

sleeping in the afternoon

sleeping in

the afternoon

dreamless

I wake

nursing a wound

which as, I

breathe

it breathes too

a porous

little mouth

reminding

me, to rise

against

the death

of sleep,

do all

I can

to speak —

and dream —

and try

once more

to heal.

a boy can’t cry wolf

I knew I didn’t dream it,

as nausea fills the morning.

Sleeping well as a ranch hand,

counting sheep all afternoon.

I guess a boy can’t cry wolf

anymore, even when he’s dying?

 

 

 

old friend

I look at you

like an old friend

someone I haven’t talked to in a while

and with enough time together

you find it odd

how good it feels

to speak again, and again

in the morning and at night

I’m the lull of mid afternoon

taking pieces of my certainty that aren’t yours to have

leading me to remember, why

we stopped speaking

in the first place.

Though you know I’ll listen when you call.

I couldn’t be that cruel.