Ella, Billie, and Rose

skies are clear in me

sparkling, scatting with Ella

April in Paris

spilling my coffee

dancing through the kitchen to

Me, Myself, and I

giggles and chee-chee

you're much sweeter, goodness knows

Honeysuckle Rose

lunchtime jibber jabber

I sit in my car

9:42

(hey, 42 is a sign)

(WHY AM I ALWAYS LOOKING FOR SIGNS)

watching the blink of the 

light outside the cafeteria 

flash like morse code

attempting to decrypt

as if this is a message from the

universe for me,

an oracle answer to

questions I'm afraid to think

now my 

SERVICE ENGINE SOON

light has (again) lit up

orange, bold, urgent

(for once)

I don't even care,

there's too much

depth in this night

(for once)

I don't even need to 

force myself to 

stay

no place

the weather is all wrong

to where I can't sit and

smoke on the front steps without

feeling the cold damp right through me

so I sit stagnant, sighing, crumbling

read some Raymond Carver and

share the couch with the man I ended

things with but still can't untangle from

he's curled in the fetal position, taking up

more than half, farting

still wearing a jacket and shoes

I'd rather not share anything anymore

I'd rather have a couch to myself

in a place that's mine

I can't claim anything

I'm stuck with a placelessness and a

headache from all the alcohol I said

I wouldn't drink and I want to throw

my phone into the North River and

maybe myself, too, sometimes

some people are just born...uhhh...dead.

I've come to the conclusion 

that there are those that were just 

born old, just tired dusty shells

resembling humans but

who appear never to have experienced joy

wrapped up in this illusion of

business, politics, finances, religion

money money money

amassing the most material shit

gotta get more, get ahead

gotta be better than, holier

who don't even smile at a good

that's what she said

never get lost in a song or

write their heart's passion and pain

never paint their dreams

i can't even imagine how that happens

where they programmed?

neglected?

are some people just inherently boring? 

i grieve for the gray souls

who can't see past the ride

the rules of this game to notice

all this life, all this beauty

music, art, poetry, humor

LOVE

those who live without

by choice

they're already dead.

things I'm quite sure that are most likely probably universal. maybe. who knows.

we all have old scars or

raw trauma, healing

it's hard to see another's wounds when you're still actively bleeding from your own

this isn't selfishness

this isn't neglect

this is survival

everyone is bleeding

we're all mind reading or

misreading or

inventing inner lives for

those inaccessible 

searching for that last puzzle piece

without knowing the whole picture or

amount of pieces still missing

we all wonder if we're doing this right

we're same enough

that the struggle is universal

but foreign enough that we 

still struggle

yeah,

I might be over generalizing here but

I don't think so

Dealing with shit. Poorly.

everything

everyone

is 

ultimately

unknowable

this is a harrowing little

bean of knowledge

lodged deep and festering

that will never be argued away

it itches

how can anyone tell

what is actual

what's important 

it's easy to just

let things fall

societal norms

the keeping of time

how many sick days left

how many days sober

oil in my car 

credit reports

divorce papers

trivial things filling and filling

this already overflowing cup of

musty-old relentless tedium

drinking helped, I thought

soaking in the mess I had

conjured, a stew of

disappointment 

rejection 

all the chaos of the world.

nope. 

nope, that made it worse. 

sleep has become the only 

reprieve from the dead ends

nevers, the everyday chorus of

     do I matter

my voice is lost in the noise

I just 

close my eyes

shake my etch a sketch life and

start over

dream dance

my numb feet

still asleep

push into the bed

solid on your ground

and dancing

with tip toes to make up

imagined distance, height

it's a heavy thing to

stop and start

carry through the blue

snow quiet world

when my dream left off

so warm

ode to all the terrible artists i still love

almost every artist

i loved growing up

has disappointed me 

those aren't my words

but it's a theme

I've noticed

finding out this writer

that rock star

such and such actor

is

was

human

human

makes mistakes

questionable ethics

were young once

struggled with 

mental illness

substance abuse

hard influences

everyone has had darkness

sorry but

the ones you haven't already

turned your backs on

the ones who've died

seemingly saints

were just better at hiding

their filth

their humanity

no one should have to carry

every fucking mistake

forever. 

the flow

things i notice

sitting on the deck step

in november

(without my phone):

the sun lights up the grass

moving in the small wind

sparking, glittering

there's a silvery spider web draped 

across the bottom of the handrail

illuminated, swinging and

will eventually be broken

once I cross, forgetting it's there

black bobtail cat soaking in the light

IS THAT A BEE

no, sigh

my red and black buddy, boxelder

harmless

my own

I was out here so many

nights so many

years

broadcasting. 

broadcasting and broadcasting. 

to myself but we're all

connected, right

collective, right

so why am I still talking to

myself unless of course this is

nothing, or 

imagined nothing which would be

something hey

mental illness mental satellites and 

all the same sounds songs words

filling up life space

making us less just people but

full on souls for lack of better title

forgive my imagination, I keep

seeking out this 

comforting disquiet where

everything has to mean the

biggest thing, it's all real

coincidence makes sense only when I'm

alone, maybe I'm my own

true love. 

swing

we're living and dying all at once

experiencing every moment for the

first and last time, I don't know whether to 

celebrate or mourn, so I do a bit of both

each day, maybe the imbalanced are the

only ones who've got it right

understand the precarious 

balance of reality

tree

telepathy doesn't work

I know

neither does prayer but

never stops them from trying

I'll send this out to the collective, it's 

bound to be picked up by

receptive fellow crazies

I'll think of a word, a tree

send my thought back while I wait on this

island painting the shadows and

shapes from my dreams and I will never

have to go back to normalcy again

underwater and still burning

legs pulled up, tucked

my best imitation of these kittens

that are sharing my sofa & eating my hair

listening to what's mine over the radio

the sisters can't know what's hiding

underwater, nor can I because written

words turn the obvious into mystery

silence turns into wounds, 

all convenient places to hide.

absence doesn't make us fonder

it gives the warmth time to forget

douses with waters deep over flames, 

I can't keep burning so bright. 

I'm pouring these embers, residual and

lingering into words and kittens and piano

keys in hopes that it eventually finds its

way back home and lights the house on fire.

Elephant

April 21, 2019

We sat there

With such a thickness in the room

Each time

My mouth would open

Then shut

Constipated

Like a dumb fish

There are words

That we can't undo

No rewind or do over

Truths that hurt to say

Hurt not to.

It's Ending

(written 6/23/19)

Everything we do
No matter how bright the sun
Is laced with mourning

Bittersweet laughter
Blends into silence
Which is more lonely
When shared

I can't feel anything right

I experience everything alone
Half of us is always asleep
Or somewhere awake and dreaming

I don't know how to say this out loud
To you
So I'm saying it here
I'd rather be lonely alone.

a little help

nothing lands anymore

permanence was always the enemy

nah, not permanence.  

I meant stagnation.

full stop.

but some certainty

just a clue

would help,

you know?

still

I want the

lovely illusions

dancing in my head

finding life

while the world

continued to crumble

around me.

I miss

the beginnings

where I was

beautiful and

happy and

didn't wonder

things I couldn't

voice.

I need

it

back. 

tuned out

I'm so tired

of not being enough

of being too much

no connection

no communication

I'm still here

still the same me

still tuned to the same station

that I've spent most of my life

tuned into alone

sending out cryptic messages

like a shortwave numbers station

waiting for someone

to decode me

but all anyone ever hears

eventually

it's just nonsense.

unsent

these neverending conversations

in my head are driving me insane

I wrote it out

chopped into digestible fragments

wrung my head into sad little words

which can't show this whole universe

whirling round but contained inside

sitting by maddeningly quiet

at ten, when there's no one to tell

for four more hours

when I'll decide it's too much

hold onto my beautiful dreams

and sleep. 

I apologize for this poem in advance

I'm sorry

I'm sorry

I'm sorry

I've been a broken fucking record

my entire life

this is all my fault

what did I do wrong

I'm so sure

it's me

it's always me

I apologized to a man

in the grocery store

the other day

he was standing in the aisle

while I was turning my cart

around a corner

he said

DON'T APOLOGIZE

TELL ME TO GET OUT OF THE DAMN WAY

which made me smile

because

yeah

dude was in my damn way. 

firefly

I just saw a firefly

in the daylight

like a fish

out of water

its light useless

in the face of the sun

but still flying

still alive

waiting for the dark

to shine

anybody listening?

the weight of this world

the volume of thoughts

must be felt outside

the confines of my head

can you not hear

how loud 

my dreams are

I've been singing 

the same song

for centuries

surely you've noticed 

by now

how I broadcast 

every emotion

on a secret station

no one can find

how I scream

desperate poems

in my sleep

how I leave it all

unsaid

because it's being said

constantly

on repeat

through my eyes/breath/pores

how can no one hear me

New music

Discovering a song

Which leads to an album

Which leads to more

Feels much like

Discovering a kindred spirit

And falling in love

Without first wondering how

To get your foot in their door

To find their beautiful secrets

All you have to do

Is press play. 

fuck this fucking poem

Capturing a feeling

In words

When the emotion is just

Irrational rage

Is just

Stupid. 

I want to choke

Every letter I write

drinking to write

I've finished my drink and 

Debating another, bored

With Raymond Carver

But there's so much liquor

In his words,

In so many poets' really

I feel as if to quit drinking

Is to quit writing, feeling, breathing

I'm only a small part of an equation

Maybe just the mechanics

Guess the magic likely comes from

Thom Yorke's falsetto

This near empty bottle

Late September almost-cold

Crickets

Smell of cinnamon

Undeniably internal impulses

Are also at play.

I really think another drink

Will squeeze out a truth

As it tends to always

Find me, tap me, and leave me dry

Also

Nothing matters anymore

If it ever did

Might as well. 

only sometimes, though

Sometimes

Lying in bed

There's the sensation

Of sinking down hard

Heavy into the springs

While all at once

On the verge of

Levitating above. 

Odd moments where

Everything I hold feels

Too much for my fragile limbs

A fleeting weakness in my mind

That turns my arms to brittle toothpicks

And all else into dense weights. 

Sometimes I look around

And can only hear what I'm thinking

Question the authenticity of experiences

The reliability of my senses

Reality, normality, sanity.

Sometimes I'm a little crazy.

boring normal soup

I'm rolling through feelings

While searching out songs by theme

To say things too awkward to voice

But universal enough

For these songs to exist

To sing the things I feel so hard

And I'm just lost in these

Societal norms 

Just kill me

I'm done 

a bit lost

I don't know

Anymore how to be

I tried kindness

And the rain

Washed it gone

And now

Tragically placed approvals

Are tiny betrayals

Acquaintances

Becoming stranger

The middle is no longer

Comfortable or true

The edges are violent

Hiding is cowardly

There feels like

Nowhere safe to stand

And being in this dark place

Isn't allowed

When others are in darker

Distancing (like always)

It's hard to breath

And I don't even have

This fucking virus.

Everything is split in half

With each side

Screaming, tearing, pulling

Just seeking out the facts

That fit what they already believe.

Painting the "other side"

As the enemy

When we're all dying here

Together. 

Like always.

I'm just numb on the sofa

Filling with beer.

Touching my face. 

Questioning everything

Avoiding reality

Either panicked and paranoid or

Too deadened by it all

To really care.

Like always. 

This Morning's Dream

We worked in the dark

Half dancing, gathering twigs

By campfire

Under watchful frown

From a leathery old man

While our shadows played

Together in the trees.

Back in the cabin

You removed your leg

Made dinner

Pushed hair from your eyes

While I messed with the prosthesis

Propped by the screen door. 

The old man told us stories

From the war

Then shot a bullet into the ceiling

As punctuation.