It’s all a bit depressing,
like singing in the rain.
The over-sentimental
mere dreamers all the same.
It’s all a bit depressing,
like Pollack splattered paint.
Squandering potential,
my spirit slowly wanes.
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Ambivalent because,
the world is full of stock responses.
Drunken rants and sober prophets.
The type of things people say to do
that even in their cool sincerity
would never do themselves.
Are capable people incapable of good advice?
Or are jokes just easier to offer?
Is saying you don’t know so hard to admit?
Or are we so prone to speak that it doesn’t matter?
With nonchalance and anxious laughter
everyone knows everything you don’t.
With due respect and eyes that wander
everyone’s got the answer for things they can’t control.
In a world of stock responses—
I hear the words that don’t come out
and do my best to listen.
I take them with a grain of salt
and read between the lines.
I see their good intentions get
distorted by this feeling,
that no one has the answers, and some things never change—
I’ve just left the conversation
long before its end.
Restless Peace
At restless peace I am
with the wind and sidewalk rustlings.
I hear no evil
but listen, careful
to the teacher in my head—
Ahem, it says, you see my boy
with an air of confidence,
before the mind had time to grow
to stretch it’s arms and wiggle toes
from abc’s to no means no
it was already in survival mode.
So from that time it tried to be
chameleon, I mean everything
to everyone without a doubt
as quiet as a field mouse,
the pressure grew and grew.
So that it’s not a man I see
or reckless boy in front of me
it’s simple with perspective, he’s
finally catching on.
What’s done is done is done.
The rhyme is just for fun.
If you can’t learn the lesson now,
there’s one last question that I’ll ask—
At restless peace, I listen
then watch the flowers grow,
focus on the question
and answer best I can.
The Progress No One Sees
There wasn’t much pain anymore, just this numb curiosity that glazed his eyes with bitter knowing, as he understood that no matter how many questions received there answer, there would always be one, that only he could accept.
There wasn’t much pain anymore, not really. That’s not to say there wasn’t any sadness. In fact, sadness was still there, much like a dear friend, waiting and willing to drop everything in order to be with him, listen to him, and strengthen him, in times of need.
There wasn’t much pain anymore, just this constant urge to flee, and no matter how good the situation was, it came on like tinnitus, this constant ringing in his ear that seemed to say—think of all the things you could be doing…but you’re not…because you’re here.
There wasn’t much pain anymore, just time. Time enough to do anything and everything he needed to get done, if only he could grasp a sense of urgency, before being halted by this ability to fade within himself—hours on end—and not do anything at all.
There wasn’t much pain anymore, not really, just this introspection. It came on like a migraine, but left him feeling light. And over time this bitter knowing, well, it didn’t go away, but lessened with each breath. It was a private understanding—one he’d keep forever—in the tender of his heart.
The Primrose Path
We’ve walked before, the primrose path
and what good hath it brought?
It’s crimson skin, and pit of death
the yew forgives us not!
Quite tempting is the flower, bud
who’s poison’s not enough,
it’s beautiful and deadly
how, our lives rely on luck.
See nature isn’t partial,
it doesn’t give a fuck.
We’ve walked before, the primrose path
to learn what can’t be taught.
It was a morning like other mornings.
It was a morning like other mornings
where if I had a garden, I’d tend to it—
each flower, delicate as the next
sleeping in a nursery.
Watering each bulb, silent
as a field mouse, I’d bow my head
in knowing—
It was a morning like other mornings.
And I was the sun.
Spring in Echo Park
The sun which warms your brow
rests sleeping on my shoulder.
Two Worlds Within A World
Your world’s in careful order
while mine’s in disarray,
I’ve tried to read between the lines
but there’s just empty space.
When dumb luck gets regarded
for gentle hands of fate,
I sit for hours wondering
whose world has been misplaced?
This fault line, it grows deeper
the longer that I think,
what good are silver lining’s with
prospects neither believe?
Is what I forge through fiction
just white lies for dispute?
I try to keep my distance
to organize what’s true.
Seems when I find the meaning
these worlds they split apart,
now mine’s in careful order
like yours was from the start.
As for that space between?
There’s no room left for me.
There’s nothing to be found
I’ve lived there long enough.
I’m happier with words that mean
exactly what they mean.
I’m happier to be a part
than live in disarray.
If it’s time that pulls the strings
than it’s I who’d rather be,
two worlds within a world
alone—
three worlds to form a whole.
Answers(but who’s to say)
My heart’s in heavy motion—
like a pendulum I sway,
back and forth, regardless of
the shadows of the day.
Would it hurt you to feel better?
Is it sadness or just sad?
I play this broken record till
it doesn’t sound that bad.
When questions sound like answers
it’s there I feel at home, but
impressions get mistaken for
first readings of a poem.
It’s how I’ve formed the theory
that everyone’s alone,
perhaps then not a pendulum—
I’m an ever sinking stone.
Love That Book
You recommend a book to me.
I read it till my eyes grow tired.
It’s not a long book by any means,
but a book this good doesn’t have to be—
To make my eyes feel warm like fire.
Words Of An Average White Male 