Early in the Morning

•November 20, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Feeling alone feels worse with no alternative; the waves whispered misery.

Recumbent

•October 17, 2014 • Leave a Comment

When you remember,

your most favorite event,

your happiest times,

your fevered worries,

your trauma and pines,

what speed is it in?

 

Does it come without warning

in the slightest of moments,

at the peak of joy,

in the heat of pitch,

when no one is watching,

or do you share out loud?

 

I remember.

As a boy, I tried.

As a man, I tried harder.

As a memory, I hope to succeed.

No matter what speed you choose.

It’s pale lengths of furrowed fantasy grasp tight.

Recall;

recumbent.

Social Media Stinks

•October 3, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Stop trying so fucking hard

to create things out of things that made you happy once.

Every time you make false effort,

it smells like rotting fucking fish.

Look to the future for your ground,

relish the world around you,

find your stance and continue all of the great things that are still to come.

Your life is more than the things that you once loved,

the person you were less than a year ago.

It’s just too bad you will never see.

 

Wear a silly hat and smile at a stranger. It’ll feel far better than bullshit remediation.

Ache

•September 11, 2014 • Leave a Comment

As easy it is to forget,

remembering is harder.

For to forget is as natural

as it is to love.

But to be able to remember,

requires an ache.

 

An ache to carry on, to stop…

and to not repeat when doing so

would cause pain.

An ache to hold those near to us

against the light in our thoughts.

An ache to hang those we lost on the highest cloud,

and to look, and to smile.

An ache that burns deep inside,

one that we should welcome,

one that comes with creeping pain that,

at first,

is unwanted, but is necessary to

move on.

An ache that is tangible and ever-moving.

An ache that gives us the sight in the morning,

the reason to get up,

and the power to try again.

An ache that is less a thorn in our foot,

and more a feeling of contentment and contemplation.

An ache that follows us down a long, dark hall,

holding our hand,

whispering softly,

and guiding us away from our sorrow.

An ache is what we need

when we have nothing else.

An ache in our heart is what keeps us

Human.

 

Hold tight to your ache,

whatever it may be,

because once it’s gone,

no truth in this life

will endure to set you free.

Diminutive Dustbin

•August 11, 2014 • Leave a Comment

As it was in the beginning,

as it will always be.

In the end,

the only thing that changes

is me.

 

No matter the smell,

sound, feeling or grasp,

even if the night

were to never last.

 

After glows,

lights,

laughs, and flax,

the you,

that you know now,

will be gone…

as quick as that.

 

So hold tight

to those you love,

and chide

those you hate.

Because when we

close our eyes,

one last time,

all we are is

earthworm bait.

 

teet teet

•July 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Like a mating call:

The peeps and bleeps

of carrying teets,

and smiles and style

of hand and feet,

when once the world

made simply of sheets

held tight to us amidst

smells of heat, and

when our peds caress

the each, my heart and

head stand tense a peace,

for every time we whoop and jeep

no one hears, not even the sheep.

It’s a Great Time to Continue; Extinguish

•July 21, 2014 • Leave a Comment

The old man held tight to his lapels. He had gotten them at an estate auction after a good friend had died. They had belonged to his friend, and whenever he started down the road to anguish, he held onto them and thought about times when he felt different. He thought of the large fish he and his friend used to catch. The smell of the morning, the leaves wet with dew, the coffee brewing on the stove before he would bungle to his car and make the drive and find his friend and hold his hand and whisper in his ear and pretend they were the only ones in the world and look at each other and smile and, and, and… He would remember how his friend’s fishing hat was always cocked to the left, yet his hair was parted to the right, and his eyebrows were flecked with silver and his ear pierced from a day long gone, and how the fishing tackle smelled like dirty water, and how he bled once trying to remove a hook from a fish’s mouth. He would look into the mirror and and study his own features and examine his moles and imagine his ears without hair and think of his cracked lips and think of his cracked lips. He’d think about how he and his friend could have been brothers, even if distantly similar in looks. His imagination took him to great places, where his friend and he were young and young, and young, and traveled the world by bus by train by boat by life. He could list the great cities they visited and provide facts about each: how many people lived there, their GDP, their average rainfall, when the city came into existence; a dancing girl here, a liqueur store there, a late night that turned into a lighted, alcohol-crippled morning where his friend’s eyes would sit squarely on his and they’d dance until the warmth held them prescient and conscious among the morning stalkers, and they’d smirk and think nothing in the world could ever get between them; the time they spent was more than creating a memory based on friendship, how it was a life they were building in secret. Love, between two men, in those days, was nothing anyone would have accepted. They both acknowledged this and simply fished. Every weekend, for forty years.

His heart swelled and dropped out of his chest the day his friend died. He sat alone in his bedroom and cried for what seemed like ten years. He thought of love and removal and television and Bonnie and Clyde, and listened to oldies and ate bologna and cheese and drank diet soda, and as he gripped his lapels early one weekend morning , gently rubbed them between his forefinger, the revolver in his other hand clicked then banged, and his eyes met the ceiling.

 
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