I was in love with the odds of failure
so I did all I could to succeed, and did.
And didn’t.
All in the same go, all in the same stop.
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Holiday On Ice.
Now all we have’s the memory.
I’ll keep the one to forget
if you keep the one to remember.
The one never to forget,
the ones kept best from afar,
and the occasional Holiday on ice.
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.
Tongues
I’ve tasted many tongues,
but saved the slammed doors
and holes in sheet rock for
the one’s I’d somehow outgrown,
knowing them sincere like
an afternoon alone or
tastebuds in the morning sun—
after enough drinks to make me social,
after enough drinks to make me honest,
after enough drinks to make me pure—
unwilling to apologize for the bad taste
tongue tied like a little kid hoping
to be lost in the shuffle and left alone,
where features seize to be and
voices make no sound where
nobody feels and nobody hurts.
Nowhere
We’re all just kind of nowhere, aren’t we?
When we convince ourselves we’re not,
that we’re somewhere worth being?
Then like flypaper pulled apart
time disconnects from space
and we’re left stuck
sticking to the things we swore we’d part.
And just like that
we’re nowhere again,
left waiting to forget how good it felt
to be somewhere.
The Other
For every peace I’ve lost
I picked up another
And another, then another
Till I could hardly tell
The difference between
Myself, them—or the other.
Tomorrow’s Shadow
So now all we get is tomorrow.
While yesterday’s dreams unravel.
Ticking like a clock are we
ever able to grasp the moment?
Present in ourselves,
though hardly in another.
Tomorrow’s but a shadow
hurrying to catch up.
cool shit
Life ain’t always about
doing the things you want to do,
more likely than not it’s
doing the things you have to do.
And maybe some cool shit along the way.
No reason, No pain
I don’t mean to sound defeated
It just always hurt to try
Knowing there’s no meaning
In waiting out the night,
So I take my lashes willing
Under this starry sky
Knowing there’s no reason
Or pain to justify
Bad Brain
The only pleasure that I get now
is from forgetting I exist.
Words Of An Average White Male 