Here's to all the single moms
that ride the bus everyday,
to their minimum wage jobs
with sad lives not worth living
who sacrifice themselves for
the sake of their children.

And here's to the kids who can't fit in,
who always get their ass beat
trying to find a way out
or just a place to belong.

Here's to the murderous cat
playing with a ball of string.

And here's to the man who lives on the street
with nothing in the world
but his dignity.

Here's to all of those poets,
artists, punkers, thinkers and lovers
who give it all away for free.

And here's to everyone
who has ever been told
they will never survive this way
and lived to extend a
middle finger.

Here's to everyone
so consumed by life,
they want
to die.

I would not want
to live in this world
without you.

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I have brushed my teeth bloody
and I spit infection from my sinuses
into the sink, because
sleep didn't heal me and
no remedy is offered for things
so incurable and stubborn and

the bathroom mirror reflects
an image of a young man worn
senseless by years of struggle
and mistake and I am reminded
of why there is always a noose
and bucket, a bridge high enough
to soar from, a gun loaded in
the drawer with one final bullet
just in case

my swollen eyes forced to close
from the weight of a heavy
life viewed in one continuous loop
so many times, so contagious, I am sick
with the sight of it and I beg god
for a sleep that lasts forever
because I am tired and
I am empty and

I am beginning to understand
why people murder their lovers
and burn their houses
to the ground and why the cockroach
will never die

I spend approximately
one hour each day
driving my car
to and from
my job

and for one hour
each day
I am truly alone

with all those remaining
hours that frame a day
laid to waste for the desire
of others

and the others are always
fighting for and devouring
the scraps of the day
I am unable to claim
as my own

all those hours not mine
simple sand poured through glass
given away for free
to no one and everyone
but me

I suffocate from this and
I feel claustrophobic and
I need that precious hour
to breath, to think, to get back
to that thing that makes
me whole and makes
us all feel human

but if time could be
bought and sold
bottled and stolen
I would still go on
wanting

because that goddamn drive
will never be long
enough

 

I knew this guy once
who would shoot bottle rockets
out of his car window
and he would drive
on the wrong side of
the road

he would work all day
and drink all night
screaming at his reflection
in the bathroom mirror

he gave his heart

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This was written almost 2 years ago.  This is for my grandmother.  Because I can't forget her. 

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There will come a day

when I shake Death's cold hand

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I remove another beer
from the refrigerator
as a cold, flickering
light bulb
reminds me
I have done this
all too often
and I am
burning
it out.

The mouth is
cracked,
and the contents
poured
over retained memories
and unborn thoughts,
removing the pulse
from all things
real and abstract.

I have reverently observed
this sacred ritual
on so many nights
that have abandoned
so many
relentless days
and it is here
that peace is found
and solitude embraced.

I am unmoved,
unused,
and free.

And as life outside
struggles
to simply maintain
after all the

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I had a fish once
who played
dead
until the day he
died.

He would float
upside down
at the top
of his bowl,
motionless,
fooling everyone
into believing
his breathing had
stopped.

My friends would visit
and witness this spectacle.

They would inform me
of my fish’s passing
and I would fill them in
on his well rehearsed joke.

He could do this
in such a convincing manner,
that there were even times
I almost believed it
myself.

There have been instances
in my own life
where I
could have been
or
should have been
dead,
but I was only playing
with a fragile toughness.
An inside joke
no one was allowed
in on.

I wasn’t as clever
as my fish though.
He could die
and come back
to life
on a daily
basis.

My fish had talent
and he was sure
to be remembered
and revered
on the day
of his death.

And then one day
my fish did
indeed die
and I didn’t believe it.

I found him
floating upside down
in his bowl,
motionless,
and his breathing
had stopped.

He had fooled me
one last time
and for once
the joke
wasn’t
funny.

 

I am a husband and father, an employee of marriage.

I am the man who will tell you "god probably ain't real."

I am part of that mystery.

I am that weird kid that sat next to you in English class.

I am not the only one.

I am digging a hole to bury the past.

I am looking ahead with anticipation and fear.

I am more than nothing, but less than all.

I am, more than ever, aware.

I am spilling my blood over the blank pages of my mind.

I am not always happy, but sometimes I smile.

I am drinking away my sorrow.

I am a dreamer that needs some sleep.

I am still naïve enough to hope.

I am the success of my many failures.

I am a late bloomer with deep roots.

I am the profanity of my anger.

I am an optimist saturated with pessimism.

I am already who I will always be.

And I am stuck with me for the rest of my life.

And I am fine with this.

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