Slithering
slurring
sound,
that I can not understand,
reminds me,
how little I know,
how truly little I am.
And that
for lack of better words,
we
are
the
same.
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The reason our parents told us not to worry about the mail.
So
here’s the thing.
You’ve got two options.
Either succumb to the pressure
or roll with the punches.
Take note, being an adult
means a diet of eating shit,
and just when you’re ahead,
another bill arrives,
a parking ticket
a meter reading
a doctor visit that’s killing you.
Just spare us
the headache
and chew
with your
mouth closed.
Because we all have our own plate to eat.
No one is asking for seconds.
Straight to the point.
Soak
your feet
for close to an hour
in hot water
then
peel back
the skin
flaking, like
skin does
dead
after soaking your foot
in hot water
close
to an hour,
then write that way.
The words I’d say to an unborn son.
If you’re not ready to let go,
then don’t.
Hold on as long as you need,
and then some.
These are words I’d say,
to an unborn son.
If it seems repetitive,
that’s good.
If it hurts in a hundred different ways,
it’s supposed to.
If you don’t want to smile,
let them see you frown.
These are the words,
I’d say.
Does it get easier,
at times.
Should you forget,
never.
Is it your fault,
no.
The words I’d say are these.
Life will kick your ass.
Love will break your heart.
Death will drug your senses.
With the strength of a mother’s love,
I would say.
You are your father’s child,
but make no mistake,
you are not your father.
You’re never completely alone.
Allow me my sadness today.
We can talk tomorrow.
As you walk away, we
die a little more – separate machines.
But take care knowing, if
you decide to speak.
We can talk today.
Always.
Those who speak of love.
Beware
of those
who, so often
speak
of love,
remember
not to
get too involved
with
their plight,
chances are
there is someone
responsible
and you
just might be
picking up the pieces,
because Love
too often
is mistaken for
infatuation,
but they
won’t see that,
they can not
see so well through the fire
the mystery
of the heart,
the failure
of the brain,
at face value, yes
they may seem true
but beware
the unhinged
romantic,
they know
what they’re selling
but not so much
what to do after they’ve made the sale,
yak-yakkity yakking
their pattern back
to heartache.
Where the actual music begins.
Living life
like a Bright Eyes song
will only get you so far.
At some point
it’s time
to turn the music off.
That’s where
the actual music begins –
that’s when you sing, your song.
E major
works for me,
what works for you is not my business.
White Noise.
Somewhere among the static
I remain
speaking on your terms.
Individual Sadness.
We each have our own
individual sadness.
Like a fine wine.
I drink it down.
Some tastes better
than others.
I drink hers down.
Then open another bottle.
We much prefer red over white.
Dry over sweet.
Though there have been those who’ve poured
and those who’ve carelessly spilled.
But none like this.
None so direct.
Covered in a deep, warm red
I much prefer her careful aim
as she throws the Cab into my face –
Betty Davis style.
Peer Pressure is an Infinite Thing.
Lots of makeup.
Lots and lots of makeup.
To invent the perfect you.
That stuff clogs your pores you know.
Believe it or not.
I wore makeup too.
But nobody told me
it didn’t match my skin tone.
Nobody but a few.
You can’t break a kid’s spirit like that.
It’s unnatural.
But that’s what we do.
That’s what’s beautiful?
I beg to differ.
That’s not the perfect you.
But it’s under there.
Somewhere.
Working harder every day.
Words Of An Average White Male 