Farmers Market.
Sunday afternoon,
it’s quiet here
with families and their friends,
faceless in a crowd—
no one to disappoint
with no one to let down—
feeling everything at once
I whistle with myself.
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Cooper Canyon
this stream
knows everything i don’t
it flows — i listen
glad.
i considered conversation
but knew that she’d be trouble
so i settled for another round
and another till she disappeared—
then back to my vacancy, i went
glad.
if by chance,
i’ll never have the answer for
the reason i can’t stay
the plan i had’s discarded for
i know no other way
so if by chance, remember me?
in all the many ways
it’s time to feel nothing when
there’s nothing left to say
delicate bonds
some bonds
no matter how hard we try
just aren’t meant to be broken.
people i mean—
aren’t puzzles
we aren’t toys
our hearts are not
two curved red lines
that connect to form a V—
people are fragile.
we are delicate,
far more delicate than we could ever perceive.
but we are not porcelain,
we are not china dolls.
we are flesh, blood, and tears.
we are love, lust, and glory.
we are fear, faith, and scandal.
we weren’t, nor ever were
made or meant to be broken.
but even though we bend
some bonds
no matter how hard we try
just aren’t meant to be broken.
purity
i never intended
to live so many lives
or to be so many people
shifting from desire
to return to myself—
filling my cup with
the strangest confetti
the universe allowed—
only to end upside down
intoxicated by the unavoidable
purity
to exist without existing
this god damn ghost of me
if i could live with someone’s hope
forever till we part
i’d at least be able to see
beyond the ashes on my fingertips
and the cough tucked under-sleeve,
perhaps then maybe i could sleep?
longer than it takes to wake and find
who i’m not, or who i’d rather be—
cause it’s such a drag to smile
then to give a laughing nod,
that even when i do it’s like
my mind just says enough—
so when sitting becomes quiet
with my shadow and the curb
i hear within the darkest corner
that hope i don’t deserve.
and if i know you well enough
i know you’ll disagree,
still hopelessly devoted to
this god damn ghost of me.
and it’s hardly ever good enough
in retrospect you’ll see
that hope distilled in all of us
is that in which i bleed—
Laundry Day
Drinking’s become a chore
as boring as laundry day.
Except, I love doing laundry—
and the dishes—and the chores.
And all that day to day business
you swore you’d never do
when you were young and too good for it.
But I’m fine with it. In fact,
I enjoy it. Perhaps too much—
but I supposed there’s worse things
than clean underwear and folded socks.
Halfway Even (a recording)
You wake up feeling halfway even almost like you fit in this place, your conscience pleads the fifth.
Your memory like some orphaned son who keeps quiet around everyone.
You walk down sidewalks thinking forward then it’s back to the past, your lifetime’s just a myth.
Did it start when you were young, believing you could fool everyone?
It’s your own cruel addiction holding on to their suspicion, no one is who they say they are.
It’s all you know so it’s just become the way you are, broke down before it even starts.
You play with people’s feelings using them to fill in the cracks, running through your head.
Are you good enough for them, believing that you could fit in?
It’s your lack of intention becoming part of their invention, no one is who they say they are.
It’s all you know so it’s just become the way you are, broke down before it even starts.
ugly/beautiful
it’s beautiful really
how nobody gets what they want
yet everyone gets what they deserve.
everyone’s gotta act so tough
when they know nothing of that’s pure
everyone’s gotta be so right
nobody has time anymore to be unsure.
well, I’ve given the better half of my existance
over explaining myself and inconsistent
I admit—but we play the parts we choose.
and I haven’t an apology left except
that one for myself, left by myself
for all those times I became the pillow,
the pillow to cushion the fall—
see after I gave up wanting to be saved
I realized that all that time, I was the cause
of all those wasted nights.
of all those broken mornings
picking up the pieces of myself
and cutting my hands on those of another.
it’s ugly really
how vulnerability’s questioned, but never heard.
how weakness is hardened, rather than healed.
how it feels happier to be alone
in the company of strangers,
than unrecognizable in the company you keep.
it all becomes so ugly
that it’s beautiful.
Words Of An Average White Male 