Creative bursts,
like drunkard
bar stool
thoughts,
I can actually do something…
That by morning
are swept away,
like confetti
on New Year’s Day.
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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!”
When Powerful Voices Become Saints.
Powerful voices
don’t scream
they
listen,
they
aren’t forceful
they
think,
they
don’t condemn
they
heal,
they
know it’s not their duty,
they
do not seek control,
they
are powerful
in their
absence of hate,
they
are powerful
in their
acceptance of love,
they
are not
black or white
but every color in between,
they
never seem to get the press
the screamers get –
not until they’re dead do they become saints.
A brief look at mortality in the form of a side stitch.
An
intense
stabbing
pain,
reminding
me
how
lucky
I am
to
be
so lucky,
and
how
very
little
I’ve
done
with
this luck,
reminding
me
to
breathe
and
encouraged
by
the pain,
that
will
one day
subside
to be
someone’s
lucky
day.
a not too special little thought that’s as comforting as a freshly plucked sliver
I sit here and write.
If you read it, good.
If you don’t, fine.
If you like it, better.
If you don’t, that’s alright.
Either way I’ll sit here tomorrow and write.
Listening to Old Country Songs on Women’s Day
You don’t even have to read between the lines.
With all their talk about cold, cold hearts,
bouncing between heartache and chord progression
like a broken record, it’s apparent
why these yodeling old cowboys are obsolete.
Did they ever really sound that good in their time?
At least the melodies sound good, silly boys
if I could remove your voice, I would,
and in its place insert the songs of a woman,
who’s light shines brighter than your sorrow.
Mercedes-Benz – now that’s a song with heart.
Saying Goodbye.
It’s been like beating a dead horse.
From day one, it just wasn’t there.
But we often emote like light through a diamond.
We listen to fortune tellers.
And cosplay for our own reasons.
But bloody knuckles aren’t more than bloody knuckles.
I’ll admit, saying goodbye was never my strong suit.
So for the sake of getting shit done.
The horse, long since buried.
I’ll say hello one more time.
Hello!
And now I’m saying goodbye.
The Futile Attempt to Explain a Temporary State of Being.
Somewhere between
breathing in and breathing out
comes this wave
of melancholy,
like salt to a snail
the only defense
is to crumple
back into a shell,
drained is all sense
is all sympathy
buried beneath
the weight,
sinking
deeper, deeper
into
this chair,
like a prisoner
wrongfully accused
without the funds
to buy a voice,
but time
is a cruel saint
without regard
for its hands,
that never miss a beat
or waver indefinitely
like this melancholia
that rests a while,
waiting for
another breath
to break up
the sea again.
A Fond Ambivalence for Social Media.
It’s
a
fine art,
the
art
of following.
Choosing
that
precise moment
to
stop
is too, a work of art.
Like
a
thief in the night.
It
is
frankly, what separates
the
Doomed
from the Damned.
Like
a
self-congratulatory hand-job.
Sad
in
a way,
contagious
in
another.
An eye
for
an eye
with
no discernible
end.
Dance with the Devil at Noon.
Mother used to say,
“don’t talk to strangers now!”
And father used to say,
“don’t be a follower you hear me!”
What a different world
we live in today.
Mother I’m sorry says the boy.
Father I’m sorry, he crosses his heart.
But to make it in this
Brave New World
I must dance with the devil at noon.
Words Of An Average White Male 