Little squirrels
selectively seeking
acorns, oak trees
perfection, little hunters
in the daylight, scrounging
to find, hold, and bury
any nourishment
granted, before those hawks
circling overhead
make their selection.
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option C
Surely, this, isn’t, healthy
but the alternative just seems
so entirely soul crushing
that if this, is, so, unhealthy
than there surely must be
an option C: since A & B
are now, defunct.
reading in the dark.
I can turn it on
I can turn it off
a flick of a switch
or one more thought?
For better or worse
no light is wasted
if someone, somewhere
is reading in the dark.
something to think about,
You’re not as cool
as you think you are,
you’re also
not as grotesque.
Just something to
think about, just
something to accept.
between the lines
If nothing else sticks
take solace in that,
life happens—and—you die,
between the lines
there’s simply time.
For what?
Bah! You tell me!
Besides,
I’ve got to get my watch fixed.
It came scarlet red
It happened one night
then again,
and another.
It spread like a plague,
unbiased wildfire.
It couldn’t be contained
or shocked from the brain
It came scarlet red, burnt bright
in a pyre, it’s beauty, arcane
giving hope to the choir.
when Whitman sings
I often hide the cover of the book
I’m reading,
commuting on the subway
or relaxing over coffee,
like anyone would care
either way, because yeah!
What if they did? They don’t.
But what if? And how does one explain
his book of choice, when more than not
the books I read give me no choice! Aha!
They’d label me pretentious, surely they should
but what if they didn’t?
Would I really have time for a friend,
when Whitman sings and celebrates self
Oh! You better believe I butt in.
Writing.
Most of the time, it’s like
banging your head against a brick wall,
trying to knock some nugget of sense loose,
but other times it’s easier
like morphine, numb to the world — regardless —
while telling it exactly how you feel.
Shh…
knowledge
can be the most powerful form
of despair
Shh…
(said the ventriloquist)
dummies don’t make a sound
a drop of rain
The steps you take are big
where mine are small,
the steps I take are soft
while yours make imprints.
For now it seems that I am lazy
as you wipe sweat off your brow,
try to understand my empathy
for oak trees rooted to the ground,
and take heed in the soil, though I may
not make a sound, a drop of rain
breathing life, the only way I know how.
Words Of An Average White Male 