A few more?

Drive-Thru Window Blues

I only wrote this poem
so that you would exist
on paper as the bitch
you were today.


Documentarist

I want to record
your life. I want
to watch you grow.
Do me a favor, and
tell me exactly where
I should begin.
It’s nothing to do with age,
or how well you’ve done
in school. I don’t care if you’re
headed for greatness, or cursed
to wallow in filth. I only need
one story from you. It could
be as long as it needs to be.
So long as I reach climax.
If it means getting close
to you, learning to
wind you up,
watching when you tick, and
predicting when you'll tock,
then maybe the
story will simply begin when
I turn to say hello.



Can you draw me a dream?

Walking through the
mouth of a clown
to see the person I
used to be.
Following companions,
avoiding foes and drawing
for rivals
dreams of grandeur.
Don’t tell them that this
is the past. Don’t ruin
the magic of what’s
to come. Merge your
backyard with a lover’s front
porch and thin the walls
so everyone can see.
Your pottery is too loose.
It fades its color, falls out of shape
and no one is left intrigued.





An audience of two

Let’s be the couple across the hall.
We can try on their favorite scarf,
burn a steak on their grill and have
friends over like Thursdays
were special.
It would be fun to see
you smile while cleaning
that house of its dirt. Do
You think I should
double the laces on
his knotted leather shoes?
Come on,
Honey.
Let’s pretend we’re
somebody else. When
the fighting starts again
we can close the curtains, and
say it was all for show.



Untitled

Let me be your metaphor
when you talk of making love.
Fill your cavity, diddle in finger
pies. Write a song about me,
make Valhalla come.
Grant me the joy of having
you when it’s anything
but pure lust.



Shopping in Target

Brushed shoulders in the aisle.
Won’t waste time on
better words. To say the
least of passing you,
I’m thankful this path is
not yours. If we could’ve passed
any earlier, I wonder if your
shoulders would be as stiff.
Too late to change our minds
this time. Hope we never
pass again.



Is this the evening?

Wasted another day
today. Regretted it
around five. Thought I
might could change again.
Figured I may be wrong.



Can you draw me another dream?

When I traveled through
the sewers, I stopped
to watch the mold. It
spread and fed the life
it could, and used all I
would find. When I made it
to the end and back, I
thought of an old man’s choice.
He used the games and toys I had.
He giggled for those he lost.
Then he spoke, “Get out of here.”
So I rode his wheelchair home.

Foundations of Darkness

Chatty McKathy

Stop moving your hands so
much. Stop those shoulders from
swaying and shrugging. Please stop
ending every sentence with your
head at a tilt, smiling and looking
for our interest. I hate
when you use that voice
of yours that sounds like everyone else.
I hate that you think you’re
impressing us with stories of
he said she did what’s
done of that.
I know you think we’re all
listening, and that our
laughter is genuine enough to
touch. But the truth of us
would shatter you. To know
we don’t give a fuck.



Scripting the Horror

Out of all of our friends,
I’m the one without reason.
Shaun has a talent with words,
Tom can play the guitar,
and Caley sings beautifully along.
Carl’s hands move like the jets
of a printer, and Sandra can sell
artwork like it fed and cleaned
your house. Even Simon decided
to serve the law because he’s
built new muscle since grade school.
My only goal would be to wed
the woman of which I’ve come
to notice is only there to care.
She’s trained, practiced and graduated
in the kindness of simple love. Though
too dumb to choose the
one who will love her back.
So where do I stand, in a plentiful
pool of clean water and happy
children? Maybe someone should take
a piss and stain the water before
they drink. Maybe the fact that I have
no one to put on my level means
lowering the bar for the rest. Maybe
I’ll make them earn the reasons
for which they live their lives, by
killing them off. Starting
with woman I wish to wed.   



Questioning the Horror

Are we only friends
because we live inside of
plot? Would we have come
together had it not been
for the man who threatened
all of our lives? I can wonder why
we get along, and even
why we laugh. But the
real reason I stop to
question life,
revolves only around the
demise and struggles of his.


Fighting the horror

You really want to ask
me, instead of twisting the
blade in further? Do you
think you deserve the answer?
Or is it the right time, you
think, to ask?
Jealousy is easy,
rage is just too simple.
Punishment is guaranteed,
but the scale of which is
not settled stone. What’s
happened to the mystery
of why I’ve done what
I did? What’s happened to
the shadows, and flawless
execution from A to B?
A hero is lost
in a world of anti-trust.
In two more scenes I’ll
grab the upper hand and
go on doing exactly what I
do best. They’ll give me a fucking
sequel and forget
that you even came close.




Emergency Contact

Dead at 3:08.
They told me what
had happened, and how
quickly they pronounced.
Drunk and dumb and fucked.
Sent speeding to kingdom come.
I wept for you, drove to
you. Tore my heart in two
for you, and forgot my favorite watch.
I hate what you have done tonight.
I hate you for running away.
It was not another argument,
like Sunday or Tuesday or
that horrible holiday brunch. This
was the night I’d break up
with you, and take from you
your funds. This was the
night I’d murder you by taking
away our love.
I’ll show up alone
and weep for you, like an episode
on repeat. But when I get here
they say that someone
pronounced too early.
This sorry doctor with caffeine
for fuel smiles to tell me
you’re alive. You sorry
fuck who’s beating enough to die.
So here I am, a new premiere.
I’m here to murder you at last.
I’ll have the papers by next week
and watch you sign a name I'll
soon forget. Because you
died, I lived again.
Another heartless bitch,
waiting for divorce.




Foundations of Darkness

Little Johnny woke up late
and scared his parents
with a scream. He said he’d
seen a monster tonight. Outside,
just past the window’s frame.
Daddy explained, “It isn’t here.”
He saw nothing but his crooked shadow.
The monster had been himself tonight,
projected darkness from his little
night light. “The enlarged, scary teeth,”
he said,
“are a reflection of your own.”
“Good night little Johnny and forget
your worries tonight. If he comes
back to bite you Johnny,
remember,
his teeth are only your own.”

He forgot about his troubles,
told his father goodnight
and went to bed alone. But
when he looked up, and saw
that the monster had returned,
he didn’t scream for Daddy
or Mom, or even his older sis.
He remembered what his father said
and started pulling on razor sharp teeth.
He pulled them out, hard as he could.
He pulled them one by one.

In love with the Way you Spell

Did I Think of You?

Would it help if I used your name
for next time that I write
okay?
Or even your eyes, the color
of skin, and a hint at how you smell.
If I use these words, and letters that
follow, would it help
to see how close we are
to others like her as well?
Or him, and us, and them and
their latest kid’s bud?
Would it help the tone, or
theme, morale? Would it
make a bloody difference
if I cursed out loud?
If you think it’s you, then
maybe it is. If “you” thinks it’s
him, then of course it is. But
reality will prove
that our fiction is real,
beyond nothing I say. Is it not
surreal? Fiction is clarity
under a dirty, fogged lens.
Paranoia is therapy for a
lonely lover’s friend.
We’re in this together,
The reader and I, and
anyone who thinks
this pronoun should be “I.”
I’ll wave to you in words,
smile in lies, and frown
between a comma and “U”.
I once saw a face
among the words I spit
out. It was not your scent,
had eyes of more wear, and
colored dark hair. She didn’t last
long, only enough to pro-nounce.
But if I could, I would
introduce you two. As
the man to a woman,
seed in the womb,
egg for a basket and
mirror by a lamp to
light the reader of
a fiction’s lost words.      



Do I still Think of You?

It spread as far as the grass
and bled in to the soil.
Sitting between
cracked cartons of broken
eggs, receipts for time well
missed. Oil and muck, and shitty
bad luck. If I have from you
a story or two, then our
luck will turn a buck. At least
we got to fuck.



Have I always thought of you?

Shortened hours from a rate
of four below.
Cut me.
Deep enough,
time to bleed everything
out. A path organic
toward the heart.
Didn’t have to,
wanted to.
Thought about everything else
I could do.
Came back again.
One more question,
I ask,
“Where are you going?”
Brand names, road trips.
Kevlar in neverminds.
Answer again, light as a
dove’s last fart.
“Right here.” Okay, then
why are we apart?


A thought of you, for who?

Examples, or
something to hold on to.
A lyric, or line to a
joke we both remember.
I want the detail; colors
of the walls around our smiles.
I want a point of view, an opinion
of how it all went down.
I need to see your memories, I need
to hear your thoughts. I need to see
if the words you write are
translated straight from mine.
I need the hint of a clue into you.
I’m a pro among nouns, you’re
an ass among holes. You, her,
him and them. The poem written
before the end. If you rhymed,
it would matter, if you lied
I wouldn’t care. Just give me
one thing to know I’m even there.



Waiting to think of you

You can usually find one
by tiled walls or linoleum.
If you ask the man at the door,
He can point you across the
hall. Follow the rest,
try on new clothes, check for traffic
and pick through tight teeth.
A calm before the ripple, a
shine among the steel.
I couldn’t tell you how many there are,
Or how many I’ve seen today.
But I’ll tell you one thing to
those who read.
In this mirror there’s another
of me. Who laughs, stabs,
jabs, kicks, grips, hugs, kisses and
embraces in you.




Did I think too much?

Its not important,
how I feel.
It doesn’t matter
at all if its real.
Once it’s done, written
in stone.
It can’t be turned. It
now stands alone.
The words were mine, and
came from you,
but you’ll never know who’s
who is who.
It may help to picture
puppets in hand.
different characters talking
in their own puppet land.
But you can’t have a puppet
without a left arm
and you can’t expect a fireman
to pull the alarm.
So why keep reading? Your
interest peaked.
Because sitting here bored means
emotions are leaked.