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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Another type of love—
I was a handful and
she had very small hands,
handing me love I
couldn’t handle and
it was no secret
we knew eachother’s secrets
quietly speaking through tears
and farewell in exchange
for another type of love—
one we both could afford.
The Magnificent Magician
Don’t call me by my name—
Call me The Magnificent
Magician Of First Impressions,
where all the world’s a stage
and every player has his part,
where women played by men
no nothing of the difference,
where fragile lines seem effortless
written by the long hand of night,
where smoke is thick and endless
in the mirrors of wasted time.
Call me the Magnificent
Magician Of False Positives,
where anything seems possible
until commitment to the narrative,
where hope is built on trust
and not the other way around,
where kindness is a give and
not taken as an afterthought,
where love is solitaire
and not a solitary place to die—
Call me The Magnificent
Magician if you must,
where pain relies on burden
a burden I can trust,
and ABRACADABRA heals
this feeling of disgust.
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.
Southbound towards Tijuana
The way it was and
the way I saw it well
neither really aligned,
which is why I guess
perhaps, I suppose
I’ve made it this far driving
Southbound towards Tijuana
watching my dreams fade
in the rear view mirror
knowing now the utopia I sought
was never bound to be orthodox
or American, or not but
foreign enough to appear genuine,
parked by the halogen glow
of another lone motel, stale air
and stained sheets of a
dystopian relevance
that makes this all seem o.k.
Wrench in the works
It’s funny really
how I’d been thinking
the exact same thing.
And how everything’s different.
And how nothing’s changed.
And how things are fine enough
without throwing a wrench in the works.
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.
Enough.
We go to those we trust
Because even if they hurt us
The least we know’s they care
And knowing that much
Sometimes is enough.
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.
Words Of An Average White Male 