i think about it sometimes
messaging you and saying
“wanna take off
where we left off?”
i would play charles bukowski
and you would be marla singer
and i would attack you
the moment that you walked
through the door
your coat hanging recklessly
on a chair somewhere
thumping footsteps up the stairs
the bedroom door slams
and there we would be
young and stupid in an instant

afterwards i’d crack a window
so you could smoke
i can’t stand cigarette smoke
but i’d stand it anyways
and you would be coy
using your arms and legs
to cover yourself
and i would just lay there
and stare up at the ceiling
and the stucco images
that don’t really seem to form
just random images
there for the sake of being there
and in one moment
sunglare piercing
i’d see your eyes grow wide
as mine grew small in their reflection
universes expanding
and i’d be in love
incredible original love
then boom it would be gone
and i’d realize
that i don’t want to play
charles bukowski
and i would offer you breakfast
i don’t think i could
offer you breakfast



About these ads


any creature
that has had a fruit
in a tree
that it cannot reach
and will never be able
to reach
understands that circumstance
can sometimes
have the upper hand
over passion

sometimes you have to go hungry
to remember what it feels like
to be truly full

sometimes your soul is evicted
tiny little mover men
meandering up and down the staircases
in you chest
packing your lovely shit in boxes
and pulling up the carpets

sometimes it’s the big one
crashing down like loud loud reality
sometimes you have to sleep
outside of yourself
but remember you can see the stars

you say they are eternal
i say you are a liar
you say i am a nihilist
i say i pulled the death card
you say i’m just in transition
i say way too much
but i do understand
those words never really were
my fruit to begin with
and you still dance
in the giant ballroom
down the hall of my heart as
tiny little mover men
meander up and down the stairs
carrying boxes in and out




i’ve had this dresser for over half my life
wooden six drawers little knobs on the drawers
rectangular it is so very rectangular
and i love the thing really i do
it’s hard not to love something that’s been so loyal
and in my room i’m lying on my floor for some dumb reason
and i say to the dresser “i don’t know why i love you, dresser,
you’re just a vessel full of all the things i’ve gathered,”
and the dresser says “just like you, asshole,”

that was the last time my dresser and i ever spoke
but i’m not going to get rid of it, obviously




i’ve had
lots of conversations with women
in my life
i am not the type who is afraid
to look em dead in the eyes
and call them on their bullshit
but the thing is
i am the type who is afraid
of getting twisted up
in the bed of a woman
who i don’t really love

so often times
where other men would pull
them in
i tend to have to draw the line
i know too damn well
what it is that i want
and a conversation is one thing
but waking up naked
beside a woman who you don’t know
and it doesn’t matter
you could ask one like this a million questions
you’ll never know her
but waking up naked
beside a woman you don’t know
is another thing entirely

i have seen conversations run dry
i have seen myself flourish
giving a woman i don’t love attention
and watching her love the attention
and her probably giving me attention too
but there’s always that weird aftertaste
like not enough water too many beers
there’s that weird aftertaste

you both know you’ll never make love
or maybe just i know that
or maybe i really don’t know that
but my point is
that’s the kind of ideal candidate
for some men
the woman who just wants to be loved
in that moment
not for a lifetime
the woman who just wants to pour alcohol
into a black hole with you
the woman who just wants to hit the lights
and be anonymous monsters
there’s a time and a place for everything
but i get stuck in the story
i get lost in those eyes i mentioned
that i’m not afraid to stare down
and it scares me not knowing
the next time i’m gonna
run into a woman
who stares back harder
and sees past the conversation
and into the awkward physicality
the words not spoken
the odd pacing of a romantic poet
in a world that says
we need to listen more to women
because the conversation is the foreplay
and i hear that sex
isn’t as good without foreplay
but i wouldn’t know
i’ve never tried it that way




they are fighting in the front seat
about nothing
absolutely nothing
arguing about where to eat
or how to drive
or what weather patterns are predictable
in the jungles of tanzania
and which ones are less than determinable
you missed the turn back there
stop smacking your gum so loud
can we not listen to this song again

and i am tucked in the backseat
hard hard candy in my mouth
and all i can think
is why the fuck
isn’t there chocolate?!




I just had to stop and breathe in here for a minute. It’s been a long day and I haven’t had any time to think for myself so I had to step out of the room and into this post to take a second of me time. How are you guys doing? Are you enjoying this post? Does anyone have a fucking light?  I want to live in a world where there are more lighters than cigarettes. Do you know what I mean? So anyways. What’s new with you? I heard it’s November where you are too. Wish I could see where you are. It’s so different from where I am. Don’t get me wrong, I love where I am. Wow. I love where I am.


here we are again, beating heart
from the silence rose an opus
and from the opus rivers of blood
flow eternally to the tips of fingers
to the skin of lovers
outreached to the angry sky

this poem will not solve love
love cannot be solved
only this can be said of love:
it is what it cannot be what
it wants to be when it isn’t
it acid burns in the stomach
it rises from the seas like
the krakken and it crashes down
on sirens and sailers alike

here we are again, november
i have pulled the death card once again
upside down inside out
lost in the heart of america

they say the great wave will take us all
they say that love is fleeting
they never shut up and listen
he asks me “where are the crickets?”
and i imagine they’ve packed their shit
evicted from my skull
and i am left with this awkward silence
and november is my april
my cruelest month my favorite album
i’ve played it so much it skips and skips
and here we are again, november
will you love me the way i want to love you
or will we draw a big black x on the calendar

here we are again, november
in the year of our lord 2014
blessed be the saints in my head
and the demons on my finger tips




stupefaction/ the act of being stupified/ the art of allowing your power to be turned off/ the dance of dissolving into the group/ disconnection from society/ disenchantment/ disengagement/ love lost/ heart gone/ your breaths go shallow/ your eyes roll back in your head/ you wake up in a national chain hotel with nothing but your socks on/ you go over and open the blinds/ you stare out at a brick wall/ stupefaction/ the process of throwing away one of life’s greatest gifts/ the evolution from man to straw man/ from man to tin man/ from lion to coward/ to give your spare change to a thief/ to toss your winning lottery ticket in the garbage/ to truly decide to not exist and to not take the opportunity to exist/ to not speak up in public/ to not sing during sex/ to not make love/ to not make anything/ to take your leftover ideas and wash them down the kitchen sink and turn the garbage disposal on/ to leave your mind out in the sun too long like a dried out sponge/ to dismember your own limbs/ to smash the metaphorical lightbulb over your head with your sledgehammer hands/ stupefaction/ to look into the void of a human life and turn away/ to binge watch commercials for 100 years/ to dust your ceiling/ to confuse mindlessness with mindfulness/ to confuse a handshake with a shit show/ to remain unchanged/ to save up your pennies in your piggy bank/ then to smash said piggy bank/ to buy one’s self another piggy bank/ to cheat on time with an incredibly manipulative prostitute who is actually time in disguise/ stupefaction/ complete inaction/ and improper inaction/ to sit in the shower/ until the water goes cold/ then turns off/ then your lungs stop pumping/ then your heart stops churning/ then your life stops lifing/ the words stop wording/ and regret/ regret is the uneaten peach/ so dare eat the peach/ choose/ anything/ but stupefaction/ period.




i was on the light rail one day
didn’t know where i was headed
just one of those days where the sun
wasn’t gonna come into the house
so rather than waiting for the
floodwaters of introversion to rise
i rode my bike over to the train
and hopped on towards denver
away from the television and the bed
and there across from me on the train
was a young boy, maybe 9 years old
in a business suit, reading the paper
he read from it with the focus of a monk
turning the pages in established ritual

excuse me i said to him
he looked at his watch then up at me
“it’s 9:47″
no no no i said
i was just going to ask
aren’t you a little too young to be
on the light rail alone
“too young?” he inquired
with a stern gaze
yes, i said
you must be no older than 10
you’re just a boy
“i am not a boy,” he said,
“i am a man from the future,”

he’d stolen my tongue
i wanted to say
and i’d wanted to say
but i ended up not saying
because he was telling the truth
and in that moment
the glare of the sun
piercing the train windows
i felt as if
i was just a boy from the past




welcome back,
thanks for remembering
that doing this
is an inseparable part
of your character

you just needed a break

no, i get that

except that you’re a liar

you’re being lazy

and you need
to get
your shit together


this is an endless war
there is no armistice
there is no eye of the storm
there is maybe
a time to prepare
and a time to rest
but time is a shitty date
and he will abandoned you
through the bathroom window
at a fancy restaurant
leaving you with the check
and no ride home

but seriously
welcome back
it’s nice to have you here

it was a very long summer
but the winter is starting
to look pretty badass