We’re going to make this better,
for whatever that may mean.
Alone — Separate — Together
Better has many names.
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petty thieves
as my head grows tired
wicked thoughts persist
my handkerchief’s been stolen
by Oliver Twist, such grueling times
though we both know,
more gruel for the youngster
the farther he’ll go,
and what petty crimes
the slip of the tongue
but why dear boy, do you continue to run?
I’ve asked you first, now answer
me? It’s for my health, and body you see,
nobody likes a little cunt
nobody cares for the likes of us
so hand it over, my handkerchief? No
my boy, you’re not a thief,
I knew that then, like I know now
your common and good
as good allows,
what I request, you cannot see
it grows within both you and me
those wicked thoughts, hand them over
my head’s now clear, fine and sober
and promise this, all right you first?
no this is not me at my worst,
so why don’t I? well why don’t you?
it’s yours to keep, yes that will do,
you’re right, perhaps I couldn’t see
the horror that in my defeat
is pure of heart, is yours is mine
both petty thieves in our own time
lucky 13
lucky 13
31 but I see
the perfect representation
of what it means to free
that little boy caged
like a curse
relieved
in the back of a hearse
lucky 13, reversed
over time, it’s easy to see
at 31 years old
that boy was me
Garbage
One man’s trash
is another man’s trouble
so pick up your trash man
unless the other man’s a trashman
and at least he gets paid
to deal with your garbage.
For better or worse, he wondered.
He wondered
what was wrong.
The internet
held the ability
to allow a man
to see and wonder.
Though he knew
better than to ask.
The internet too
had the ability
to allow a man
to instantaniously react.
Though he knew
better than to act.
For better or worse
he wondered, alone
in a coffee shop
like he’d done before,
in past lives
he’d lived and loved
long before the internet —
man wondered.
The Wool
Some times
a man
must
pull the wool
over his own eyes,
just to make it through the day.
A momentary peace.
Quietly
seated
at rest
with desire
though
still
desirous,
he knows
better
than to
chase
the wind.
No longer
a girl
not yet
a woman
she will
find
her way,
at rest
by the
phases
of
the moon.
Together
they
are bound
by
foolish
pride
in one another,
backstroking
in tune
to the
ever-changing
tide.
Let’s call this one Gibberish, for dramatic effect.
We are what we make ourselves.
Prophets. Martyrs. Fools.
There is no difference.
If it sells, it sells.
And the more grotesque, the better.
Greater pain equals greater possibilities.
Blood is not just blood, it’s profit.
It has and will always be.
The grand illusion.
Story time before the big sleep.
You see,
faith can be a very clumsy thing.
A very scary thing.
But it doesn’t make a difference either way.
Prophets will stay prophets.
Martyrs will stay martyrs.
And fools remain fools.
How does declaring a child a man make him any less a child?
It doesn’t.
But it sells, so it sells.
Eventually,
you get it.
We were the monsters lurking under the bed.
A working hypothesis.
Burning my hand while removing our bagels from the broiler, I hear a voice.
“BECAUSE THERE’S NO GOD DAMN ROOM!”
And I recognize that voice.
That voice is not my own.
It’s deep and fearful.
Hoarse and irrational.
It is the voice of an angry man.
It is the voice of my father.
Then there is silence.
A long insecure silence.
A fearful silence.
And I recognize that silence.
I have been on the receiving end, and that is a terrible place to be.
Catching myself in the act I quickly apologize.
“I’m sorry.”
Only now it is my voice.
It is mild and tame.
Concerned and rational.
It is the voice of a scared child.
It is the voice of a worried man.
And in my mind I’m thinking, please believe me.
Please for the love of all that is holy.
Believe me. Believe me. Believe me.
Because what I meant to say – while burning my hand and channeling the blame to whomever(the loved) was in firing range – was, “because I’m the idiot who didn’t think twice before touching a hot pan.”
It’s my fault.
Not yours.
And now I’ve got the scar to prove it.
Through outwardly and publicly expressing concern and or contempt for one’s actions, said party, will reject the path of his predecessor in order to lead a gentle existence.
It’s a working hypothesis.
Words Of An Average White Male 