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I remember sitting
by the old wood fence
the alley, silent as a whisper—
The birds then sang
like they do now.
And just like a boy
hits puberty, I still don’t know
what’s wrong with me?
I watch the light
claw its way down the alley
and where shadows hide
I look for clues.
In broken bottles.
In rusted metal.
In pavement laced with weeds.
By the old wood fence
with its perfect knots — I scream
to hear my answer.
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.
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.
It’s something unforgiving,
reaching for the sky.
You know you’ll never reach it
but still each day you’ll try.
You bargain with the devil
in mornings softest light,
then hear the serpent hissing, from
the inside of your night.
It feels like not knowing
whether father will be mad,
it feels like how nothing
could stop your mothers tears.
And how when you were young
the only control you had
was the controller in your hand
as if games could numb the fear.
How no matter which star you chose
nothing ever changed,
star light, star bright meant everything
just wishing to be saved.
It’s something that we choose, you see
reaching for the sky
to a place that seems forgiving
on nights we’d rather die.
It’s a place where mothers weeping
could cure the land of pain,
it’s a place that’s unforgiving
which no one can explain.
I see, the dear departed
whose choice goes unannounced,
to try to understand it’s like
magnifying doubt.
It’s something worth forgiving, though
please don’t ask me why,
the ground’s not good enough for us
still reaching for the sky.
Perhaps an understanding then
for those which tempest-tossed—
and lay them down, each childhood friend
whose memory isn’t lost.
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.
It’s 8am when I mix NyQuil and coffee, knowing
getting out of bed can be just the same as staying in.
It’s sort of like how kind words sound profane
when they’ve just bout lost there meaning.
Washing my face, have I reused this puppy dog look
one too many times that all that’s left is ugly?
I’ve made mistakes before, though this, it feels different, or
is it exactly the same one I make every time I lock the door?
It’s like hearing the front gate slam shut
then looking out the window, only to see yourself walking away.
The brain sends signals to the mouth—consider screaming—
but what’s a voice without an ear of reason?
What’s the point of footnotes, when you’re drawing them in chalk?
And even though it doesn’t rain that often, on good days it does.
So brushing yellow teeth, I spit blood into the sink
then cough a couple times before padding down the hall.
Now slouching towards the sunlight, it’s effortless this pain.
These calluses remind me that I’m doing the right thing.
Milling about I feel nothing, so it’s now I know to leave.
That rainbow in the sky, oh how it bends before it bleeds.
By the time I catch myself at the corner
and reattach this shallow darkness to my feet,
it’s a cool, crisp sort of day, where the smog smells sweet.
It’s a cool, crisp sort of silence, watching traffic in the street.
It’s a cool, crisp morning.
And I’ve no reason to complain.
The lights are on,
but the drive’s not there.
I wonder if this happens to everyone?
I’m sure it does, except
I’m not everyone.
And you, you’re part of them but lately
only half as strong.
Does that sound correct?
Or am I just scratching an itch
not meant to be scratched?
Am I bucketing a well
when all that’s left is rain?
I hear you when you say you’re tired.
I’m tired too.
And when you say you’re trying, love
I’m trying too.
I feel you when you’re breaking,
partly because I’m breaking too.
I feel it when your heart is aching,
since mine’s been split in two.
What’s left than but a couple lines?
Enough to prove our sorrow?
For all the many times I’ve died
I’ve always seen tomorrow.
It’s hardest when you say
the words that help you sleep,
so sleep as many days
as it took for me to wake.
Besides, I feel much better since
I know this fight’s a gas,
it’s a wonky handle left we clutch
of a longing meant to last.
As daylight wanes, and night begins
there’s rapture in the air.
With static thought, and moonlit eyes
I see it all too clear.
What’s written in the stars, is written in the sand.
What’s written on the heart, is written now by hand.
My love for you is twilight.
My love for you is snow.
My love for you is many things, my love for you is old.
I’ve kept it in the shadows, of poetry and light.
I’ve kept it in the darkness, to brighten up my night.
Just know my heart is dancing, like fire unto stone.
Just know my heart is breaking, each night I am alone.
As daylight comes, I feel you near—
the darkness goes away.
The perks of you are endless still, your love’s a weathervane.
Head in palm I sit defeated.
It’s not out of necessity
but choice, I think how come?
In a world of opportunity, what’s left of me but this?
Tangled in my heartache, what’s left for me but this?
Fist to chin I sit and wait,
for thought to turn to word, to pen.
Has writing any of this down, ever made me any sense?
Has stewing in this endless grief, ever made me any cents?
It’s times like this I dare not move.
I dare not speak but listen,
to the winds which wrap my innocence
in a shroud of Turin—distant.
What’s left of me but gall?
The daylight helps me see,
somewhere within this shell of me
is darkness and that’s all.
I wish I had the answer, the one you claim to see.
I wish I had your courage, your courage to believe.
This wooden desk is cold.
My heart is growing old.
I’d rhyme a couple lines or two, if younger were my skin.
Settling I feel, my insides wearing thin.
What’s left of me but this?
What’s left for me is everything I fear to touch with reason.
What’s left of me’s so tangled in the ever changing seasons.
With arms crossed round my chest, I sit in awful doubt.
It’s here I know the meaning, of four walls and myself.
It’s here I risk repeating, a fate which is not mine.
It’s here I hope I’m worthy still, of love which I’ve denied.
“It’s a hip place, I guess?
I should have worn hipper clothes.
That’s the trouble when your wife dresses you!”
This is what the English Lit professor says to the guy behind him
who I can tell he imagines is judging him thoroughly for his attire—his words are, “I’m kind of a square.”
I know he’s an English Lit professor because he’s said it loud enough for homeless in NOHO to take note.
“You got your style and I got mine,” says the guy in leather boots, leather jacket, torn jeans, and stringy jet black hair, clearly perturbed.
I don’t want to notice any of this but I do.
Nor do I want to pay attention to the overly dramatic yet cynically pretentious English Lit professor’s attempt to make small talk with the regulars—but I do.
He points out all the quirky nuances that make this place great,
like the hand scribbled signs, one that tells you To Take Phone Calls Outside! And another that states This Is Not Studio City!
He gets a real kick out of those while he fakes making a phone call.
I can’t blame him though, he probably doesn’t get out much.
Eventually the English Lit professor gets his oat milk latte and goes.
The guy in leather does the same, only looks a little more defeated than when he entered.
It’s then this overly polite weirdo-nerd asks me for my seat so he can plug his computer in to charge while he does everything but do work on said computer.
I know this because after I say no, a chair opens up next to me and he does just that.
Except when I tell him no, he turns confused, and I feel like an asshole.
It’s then I realize I’m supposed to ignore my surroundings and get back to my book like everyone else seems to be doing—
page 38’s a doozy.
The boy doesn’t want to tell his father his step-mother raped his recently deceased brother—but he does.
We bring it on ourselves, I guess.
Judgement, I mean.
That’s the problem with cynical, shamelessly self-involved squares—
we can smell our own.
I just consider it observational therapy.
Words Of An Average White Male 