It’s either on the wagon
or off the wagon.
There’s really no in between.
Conscious breathing is still hard.
There’s no easy way to fall asleep.
And either way,
tomorrow isn’t looking any brighter.
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A cow is a cow is a cow.
I get stomach aches all the time now.
Why now, brown cow?
Reading the Bollard
Ads filled with typo’s
Who writes these things anyhow?
Not I
Not now.
You know, brown cow.
Even I, get stomach aches all the time now.
Not so fiction.
Not
every
person
is meant
to
stay
in your life
forever,
but
that doesn’t mean
you can’t tell
their
story,
it doesn’t mean
they’re
not
a part of yours,
so be a dear
and change a name or two,
just don’t
spoil
the end —
they’ll know if you do.
In your passing: for Alvaro
Listening to Rob Zombie.
You dug his artistry.
I bob my head compulsively.
Go figure.
And in this moment, I’m reminded.
Of your grace.
Some people have it,
you had it.
Though I never told you, it was clear
you had no intention of being graceful.
It’s just something we’re born with.
No matter the number of tattoo
that cover our skin.
No matter the loony stories
we tell ourselves to get by.
It’s sort of an unspoken connection.
And when you smiled you meant it.
When you frowned, it was for just reason.
In retrospect, our time knowing one another
was shorter than most.
And after College, we only spoke via
likes and shares.
But nonetheless, your spirit breathes on.
Like the orchestral breakdown in, The Man Who Laughs.
You did and still do inspire me.
I see this now.
So in my thanks, I know you’d just laugh
and say,
“Ah Dave! I love you, you crazy bastard!”
The King’s Sad Song.
The failed King sat on his throne.
His Queen had already fled.
Watching his people die, he couldn’t shake the thought
of who would bring him his dinner tonight.
The chef’s were gone, the jester dead.
As for his Queen, well he could find another Queen.
And no matter how much blood was shed,
his people showed no sign of stopping.
It was nearly a 50/50 split – men, women, and children.
He couldn’t help but wear his grin proudly.
It was until he saw his son beheaded that his grin began to fade.
It wasn’t so much the action of it all but rather the one who’d done it.
Down there, past all the bloody corpses, stood his Queen.
What she was shouting he could not quite make out but it went something like this.
I’d rather slay my own kin than have them carry on your name.
Why had his son been down there with the poor and wild rabble-rousers?
He then took note, that he was alone in his castle. How puzzling he thought.
But this did not bother him too long, for he’d only needed what his people could give him.
A King has no need for the physical person, surely he knew this.
Then at the strike of noon, the King began to sing.
Through the screams and fury and onslaught of ravaged flesh, he sang.
It went something like this.
My God what have you done,
my Lord could you believe,
that there is no helpful soul
to serve me steak and peas.
Staring at the Blank White Ceiling.
In a perfume spoiled bedroom.
On a rain soaked summer’s Sunday.
Under a bleach white canopy.
Lay a girl ensconced.
Holding close, her Care Bear, she pondered.
When would be the right time to tell the truth?
Or.
Was the truth even worth telling?
Staring at the blank white ceiling.
It had felt right at the time.
Almost natural.
As a result of her seeming neglect.
Though now looking back – his eyes,
his lips, salty from pork-chops –
the way he abruptly reached for her crotch,
now all seemed wrong.
How could he (i.e. not the crotch grabber) do this to her?
Her mind shifting gears now.
Forgetting the one night loss of self,
and remembering why she’d felt so alone.
It wasn’t her fault.
She wasn’t the one who left.
She was the one making the real sacrifice.
Yet why it all felt so wrong she couldn’t quite pin point.
Her makeup had always been done.
His needs, to her knowledge, were always met.
And she always made sure to tell him, she loved him, didn’t she?
Yet now lying in bed, she couldn’t fight back the tears.
Damn him and his selfishness.
How could she be so stupid to believe his lies.
She kept telling herself that they were lies, lies, lies.
But knew deep down they weren’t, they couldn’t have been.
After confessing the truth, over the white cordless telephone, her chest felt lighter.
A warm wave of relief quickly rushed through her veins.
A relief that she knew would not last.
How could anything last in a world so concerned with change?
It was nearly 10 o’clock, which meant reruns of her favorite television sitcom would be on soon.
Wiping her face with a rice pad, and brushing her teeth, she knew she did the right thing.
Telling the truth gave her validation, a confidence that could not be smeared.
She was tired of being the so called doormat.
She lay, transfixed, to the images and sounds emitting from the pleasure box on her nightstand.
It was the one where Eric and Donna share their first kiss.
It reminded her of many kisses that had been kissed.
And left her befuddled all the same.
Not liking this feeling she turned off the television.
Awake in the dark she could feel her heartbeat, beat-beat, beat-beat.
This was and was not her fault – she’d never eat a pork-chop again.
What really hurt, though, was that things would never be the same.
Yet in the back of her mind.
Tucked away in the dream she had that night.
There was this feeling.
A truth, that she was alright with that.
Words Of An Average White Male 