getting out of bed

However you get up and out of bed

or off the sidewalk

however you dig yourself

out of the grave is commendable.

And if you choose nothing

that too is just as valid

as choosing something.

I see far too many people

driving themselves mad

with work and love

and money and power

and fitness and greed and guilt

trying to fit into some sort of

idea they’re bred to believe

will fix them when really it won’t.

They don’t need to be fixed

or loved or loathed or accepted.

They just need to listen.

Listen to the air.

Listen to the ice crack when hot water hits.

Listen to the sea spray.

But I know nothing really.

All I know is what I see and what I see

is beautiful and diseased and delicate

like a rose petal or a dandelion flower

plucked from the earth by a child

in the outfield of a baseball diamond

wanting nothing more than to drift away

with the seeds he’s blown to anywhere else.

However getting out of bed

or the sidewalk or gutter is the first step

and the rest well, the rest is just —

up to you I guess.

Advertisements

VHS

A boy, four walls, a television set

what else more can one expect

a restless head, and evenings spent

on worthless puzzles, and VHS

tapes I watched, rewound and played

late past midnight, mornings, days

in a vault of body, mind

all to merely pass the time,

how good it felt, at that first glance

to fade into title sequence

and what a time it was to be

by oneself in harmony

caricatures care not to judge,

or fight, or fuss, nor try to budge

a troubled boy in troubled times

when credits roll, press rewind

rewind…

rewind..

rewind.

If, but there is no if

I, but there is no I

Could, but there is no could

Go, but there is no go

Back, but there is no back

I think

I would

press

Eject

petty thieves

as my head grows tired

wicked thoughts persist

my handkerchief’s been stolen

by Oliver Twist, such grueling times

though we both know,

more gruel for the youngster

the farther he’ll go,

and what petty crimes

the slip of the tongue

but why dear boy, do you continue to run?

I’ve asked you first, now answer

me? It’s for my health, and body you see,

nobody likes a little cunt

nobody cares for the likes of us

so hand it over, my handkerchief? No

my boy, you’re not a thief,

I knew that then, like I know now

your common and good

as good allows,

what I request, you cannot see

it grows within both you and me

those wicked thoughts, hand them over

my head’s now clear, fine and sober

and promise this, all right you first?

no this is not me at my worst,

so why don’t I? well why don’t you?

it’s yours to keep, yes that will do,

you’re right, perhaps I couldn’t see

the horror that in my defeat

is pure of heart, is yours is mine

both petty thieves in our own time

lucky 13

lucky 13

31 but I see

the perfect representation

of what it means to free

that little boy caged

like a curse

relieved

in the back of a hearse

lucky 13, reversed

over time, it’s easy to see

at 31 years old

that boy was me

a boy can’t cry wolf

I knew I didn’t dream it,

as nausea fills the morning.

Sleeping well as a ranch hand,

counting sheep all afternoon.

I guess a boy can’t cry wolf

anymore, even when he’s dying?

 

 

 

A momentary peace.

Quietly
seated
at rest
with desire
though
still
desirous,
he knows
better
than to
chase
the wind.

No longer
a girl
not yet
a woman
she will
find
her way,
at rest
by the
phases
of
the moon.

Together
they
are bound
by
foolish
pride
in one another,
backstroking
in tune
to the
ever-changing
tide.

I’m still dealing with your ghost.

Please stop reading if you’ve heard this before.

It’s been 15 years since.

And I’m still holding onto a ghost.

15 god damn years.

And I’m still crying in a coffee shop.

I wasn’t even 15.

And you sure as hell weren’t a Boy Scout,

so who tied the noose?

I want to know what type of knot you used.

It’s been 15 years.

And I want answers.

Answers that I’ll never receive.

I want an apology.

You son-of-a-bitch.

How embarrassed you must have been.

I wasn’t even 15.

And they don’t even know the half of it.

And here I am again.

Wasting my energy on this endless sadness.

Because you couldn’t hack it.

Towards the end they say you were over medicated.

Well it’s been 15 years.

And it’s probably the reason I don’t even like to take aspirin.

It’s just that over 15 years it’s been hard to explain.

Like when you come right out and say it.

He.  Committed.  Suicide.

Kids used to awkwardly laugh at first and then realize I wasn’t lying.

And suddenly everyone’s sorry.

Suddenly I have to act sad.

Or act like it’s fine.

Nobody wants to see you break down in front of them.

Nobody wants to know your whole life story.

15 god damn years and I’m blubbering like a baby.

Screaming at the top of my lungs – drunk.

So if you’ve heard this before please stop reading.

Because I’m sure I’ve said it.

I’m as sure as I was 15 years ago.

Lost.

Because you don’t get custody after biting someone on the face.

And I don’t get answers.

I don’t get an apology.

Even after 15 years.

I’m still dealing with your ghost.