Thanksgiving Daypoem

I planted
my garden
on infertile soil.
This year,
there will be
no harvest.
My withered
crops bear
no fruit.
I turn them
back into the earth
with my
cracked, dry hands.
I sit,
surrounded by
solemnity.
Next year,
I'll eat well
on Thanksgiving day.

This October, it's Wool.

Wake me
from transient dreams
of faraway places
and faces
of infinite familiarity
that remain
unnameable.
We'll feel
the otherness
of words spoken
in the distance,
never more
than faceless.
We'll dance alone
in great halls
until neither
of us can stand
on our own legs.
This October,
I wrap myself
in wool.

Without

Nicotine
can make my heart
beat fast tonight,
as I lie alone,
without you
by my side.
I'm left waiting
for cold Monday morning,
and colder
Monday afternoon.
Smoke curls
from my pipe.
The tobacco burns
with the framework
of my calm
collectedness.
This wool jacket
no longer
keeps me warm.

Wednesday's Sidewalks

I slept in
this morning.
Eleven o'clock.
Bright red
soda can tabs,
empty bottles
on my dresser.
I lose control again.
Vases sit
on floors
and shelves.
Dying flowers
drooping
in the smoke-filled
rooms
of smoke-filled
minds.
Close to
the exit door,
I make a left
turn, and walk
on Wednesday's
sidewalks.

Paper Sidewalks

Can't see Tuesday
from here.
Broken window silhouettes.
Losing time,
finding reasons
to find problems.
Nothing is good enough
but everything
sounds great.
Untied laces,
tripped up
on paper sidewalks.
Outlines of horizons
traced across my walls
tell the story
better than you do.

City Orcahrds

The open window
invited the breeze
into my room.
It scattered my papers
with its invisible caress,
and now I reflect
as the same breeze
blows in these
city orchards
through which I walk,
hands in pockets.
Longing.
Your arms aren't
wrapped around me now.
The leaves sway
above me.
I bleed.
I breathe deeply.

A Loss

They stared,
and were washed
with bewilderment.
This heart
was one that
could not
feel.
Eye contact revealed
countless broken promises.


When they stared
I knew
I would have to
lose something
before I'd find myself
lying next to you.

My inner circle

I left the door open
wide,
allowing you
access to my inner circle,
and now I'm left
guessing,
as you light your
cigarette
with my bright red BIC.
This morning
was wrought with fatigue,
and, two cups
of black coffee later,
the afternoon caresses
my being,
gently.

Swans

There were swans
on the lake.
We thought
about feeding them
even though
the sign said not to.
They probably
weren't hungry
anyways,
and neither am I.
Summer will soon leave us,
waving goodbye with
ice cold winds
that carry
dead brown leaves
across the ground
and my heart.
And, I'll wonder
if the swans
are as cold as I am,
despite my scarf
and coat.

One thousand weed wackers

I breathed the forest
in late august.
It was heavy and sweet.
Today, I hear the buzzing
of a thousand weed wackers
outside of my window
as I eat carrot cake
from last night.
For the first time
in my life,
I truly feel
almost nothing.

Untitled

I remember
being here
years ago.
Flying back and forth.
Never stopped trying
to rotate
more than 180 degrees
on the swingset
and
for the first time
I had one of those moments,
when everything felt beautiful
and I loved it all
all at once.
I came here
to say goodbye.
I came here
to thank you!
When you sleep
think of me
and where I might be.
When I sleep
I'll think of you
and maybe smile
or laugh
or cry.
Promise me that
you'll keep your head
in the clouds.
Mine will still be there.

To who knows when

Look at the sky.
You can see almost
the whole thing.
It's wider than my eyes
but not as wide
as the love I have
somewhere
for something.
I'm looking at you .
You don't know I'm doing it.
You're beautiful
just because you're alive!
Isn't that enough?
I want to watch you
breathing.
I want to watch raindrops
falling.
I want to watch leaves
blowing.
I want to watch planes
flying
and wish I was on one
going somewhere other than here.
Here's to who knows when.

Hard times

We saw him
take a wrong turn somewhere,
driving
through heartbreaking,
loveless, summer.
He never turned back.
Audrey Horn is dead,
and I've realized
all too fast
that Isaac Brock
was right about
the good times;
they're killing me
too.

We're asking so many questions.
These are hard times.
For me,
these are hard times.

I wonder,
sometimes,
if you're there
waiting for me,
or is it just a silhouette,
a phantom,
that I see? standing
on that pedistal
as the world collapses away in all directions
and falls
into infinite blackness.
Either I have hopes
for something too great,
or the promises are empty.

We're asking so many questions.
These are hard times.
For me,
these are hard times.

A letter to my self

Self,
wherever you are now,
come back to me.
I remember times
when few words left my lips,
yet they resounded
with more meaning
than I could, today,
fit into the longest book.
I remember times
when I'd feel
the purest joy
simply because
I knew I was.
I remember times
when my sentience
was more vast than all the seas
and all the sky above them.
Self,
come back to me,
because I can no longer feel the world.

Moldy Orange

The gnats draw lines
when they fly.
they hang in my vision
between the forest and me.
Can you wish on a well
that wasn't meant for wishing?

There was a moldy orange
in the fruit bowl this morning.
Finding it felt pretty much
the same as the rest
of my life.
Empty bottles
Are scattered through my bedroom.
Reminders of starry skies
washed away by dawn.
Nights lost
to all but memory.

A brilliant man
who lives across the street
visited my home this evening.
He drank three glasses of wine,
and smoked a cigarette while
all of us ate pretzels from a red bowl.
It's the third of July,
and for some reason,
there were more fireworks displays tonight
than I've ever seen
on the fourth itself.

Merchant ship

I tried,
perhaps a bit too hard,
to avoid seeing
the reflections of tears
I knew were painted
across the mirror
in front of me.
If only I were
a merchant ship
sailing on your seas,
as salty as my cheeks,
moving from port
to port.
The ocean winds
would fill my sails
and dry my face.

Blue Porsche

Sitting, sweating.
Sweltering summer.
Out back with a dog
that looks like a llama.
Train cars fly by.
Blue boxes.
Uniformity.
A Porsche pulls up
and waits for them to pass.

Rounding the corner

Listening
to the sounds
of reality.
I will soon
round the corner,
but the "Squeak"
"Squeak" of the
airconditioner will
remain still, hanging
thick like smoke
in this tight
alleyway.
I'm thinking
of a poem
that tells itself
far from here
to those who gaze
upon it.
The cynicism
of the ages
is captured in
my smile as I
stare at those
who surround me.
It is comical
yet bittersweet;
I escape it
in my fantasies.

The wind was blowing

Watching a half-smoked cigarette
blow across the table
in a good friend's backyard.
I thought maybe I should
just hold it so it doesn't
fall on the ground,
But instead I'll allow it
to be free spirited because
that's all it has, really.
Someone will finish smoking
it very soon, I'm sure.

Two cigarettes

Yesterday
a great friend of mine
smoked two
cigarettes.
When he finished
the second,
he started to
cough and
when he breathed,
he wheezed like
nothing I've ever
heard. He
sounded like
someone who was
dying, and
fighting hard
against it.
He hacked
and
hacked,
sounding so sickly.
I wonder
what his lungs
look like.

Across the ocean

Europe is still
on the other side
of the ocean,
so I shut my
bedroom door
and draw the
curtains, and
just listen to the
wind blow outside
so I can pretend
that I'm somewhere
more beautiful
than here.
I've been paging
through memories
and they're keeping
me awake,
though some of
them do have
a certain warmth.
It's nice to let
my spirit drift
through alpine
mountains that
exist only in my
mind.
They're beautiful
at this time of year.
(It's summertime
inside of me)
I'd like to go
back to that
little village
in Switzerland
down in the
valley with the
waterfall.
I'd like to sit
on the roof of
the hotel
and take in
the European night.

Poem

Let's go
back to Lichtenstein.
I want to be
surrounded by
Alpine mountains
and evergreen
forests. I want
to gaze across
vast lakes.
I want to be
nestled in
the valley
with blue skies
above.
I don't want
to be here
in pennsylvania
anymore.

On a personal crisis

I can't
write a
damn thing.
I don't know
what's happened.
I had been
prolific until
recently. Not
a single poem
has turned out
nicely. It's
driving me crazy.
What do we
call an eternally
cynical poet
that can no
longer write a
poem?

On living

Like pebbles
at the pond
we are all
tossed into it;
this eternal becoming.
And we've named
it too:
living.
Stumbling down
the path
and stopping often
to gaze upon
some fleeting
beauty before,
again, we stumble.
The sun rises and sets
and still
we carry on.
Sometimes
one meets
a second self,
and together
they stumble,
until one
falls behind,
and both feel
a deep loss,
each seeing
the reflection
of the other
for a time after.
And thus,
we are plagued
with equal amounts
of loss and
gain, longing
and hope, which
together form
an anxiety so
strong, one could
bear no more
of it.
The memory
of the origin
of the path
fades, and
is replaced
by memories
of moments
full of bliss
or full of despair.
We think equally
of the path
already traveled
and what may lie
on the path
ahead, yet,
at any given
point in time,
we remain on the
ground where
we currently walk.
The steady rythm,
footsep after footstep,
ends when
the last breah
is exhaled;
the last bit
of strength is
lost;
the final thought
leaves the brain,
and each of us
collapse to the
ground, defeated.
And, though one
may fight against
it, we all will,
invariably,
fall.

Six quick observations

The strange
dull roar of
civilization
rages in the
distance.

A deer is
standing in the
tall pines.

I sit upon
the steady
earth.

The sun is
burning,
hotter than
anything.

Gray clouds
loom over the
forest in the
distance.

I pause
and rest my
mind.

On a bookstore clerk

How beautiful,
she was,
the girl behind
the counter
at the bookstore!
I paid with a
twenty dollar
bill, and I
watched her
count the change,
blonde hair
hanging around
her neck.
I went
outside, deeply
sighed, and
walked away
smiling.

Playing with fire

I'm playing
with fire
and I'm going
to get burnt,
I told myself.
Let it burn me,
I thought,
it'll give me
something to pass
the time.
I'll laugh at
myself when
I'm wrapped
in bandages
and cannot
move.

Lamb goulash

Imagine yourself
eating lamb goulash
in the black forest
and everything is
(or at least
appears to be)
alright in your
life for a moment
and you take a bite
of your salad,
but it doesn't
taste anywhere near
as good as it
looked, so you
just go on eating
the goulash and smile
because you know (or
at least think you
know) that everything
is just alright.

Poem

Tip-toeing,
creeking wooden boards
underfoot.
Try not to wake
the keeper
with the keys
to the house,
and also,
with the keys
to the closet
in the house.
You tripped
down the steps,
be glad he's
a heavy sleeper.
Open the front door
and RUN!
RUN!
RUN! RUN!
RUN!
I promise
the forest will fly
past you on
either side in a
blur of green
and brown which
have been darkened
by the night.
Hard ground
underfoot,
the stars are falling
out of the sky!
and if you've got
any luck at all,
you'll catch one
(because there are
trillions of stars,
but only billions
of us)
Jump from the old
rope bridge
into the white waters
falling from the rock ledges.
Land in the pool of
blackness and
let yourself sink
and keep sinking
all the way to the
bottom of the pool,
and hold that star
in your hands
(if you caught one)
and reach toward the surface
of the water and
love the way
things are in that
moment (I mean
everywhere, not just
at the bottom of
the pool)
and let go
of your heart
and say goodbye
to the good things
and the beautiful things
and the things
for which one weeps
and be glad.

S. with love

We were locked
in an intangible
embrace.
Tied together
by veins,
two hearts
beating
a single steady
rythm.
A loose holding
of hands
accompanied our
presence as we
traveled the world,
but you've let go
and my arm hangs
at my side
with outstretched
fingers that grip
nothing.
I long for the
European afternoons
that never seemed
to end or grow old,
and were marked
by a oneness
we wished
would last forever.
Locked together
that night
under a
gentle swiss sky,
we glimpsed stars
that are now quickly
fading into
the blackness.
We've been
torn apart,
and blood that once
flowed through us both
is pouring from the
wounds you've
left on me.

A man named Adam

I knew a man
named Adam
who drank
good beer
and wished he
could travel
the world,
and I liked
him for that.

On Germany

I felt
suspended
on the days
I was gone,
like a
baloon
or plane
in the air.
5000 miles
from home
felt much nicer
than home.
I left a
piece of myself
there and
I long to
return.

Poem

I've never
felt joy,
but in a few
fleeting
moments,
and once
for nine
full days,
but now
I'm left longing
for you.

Poem

I was sitting
in my living room
and I had to
fight back
tears because
I was thinking
of you and I
just kept
thinking of you
and when I
wake up in
the morning,
I'm sure I'll
think of you.
My heart beats
slowly and
I breath
shallow breaths.
I have been
poisoned.
I am the mouse
running through
the maze.
Everywhere I
turn I see
cold walls.
Where is my
escape?

In the garden.

In the garden
surrounded by
the shattered
ruins of my
sanity, I sit
and silently weep.
This had been
my favorite place.
You are the years
of weathering
on the architecture
of my mind.

In the garden,
a breeze is
blowing and
I begin to
rebuild my
palace.

Poem

Antelope eyes staring
at the sun.
Broken wings not flying
but resting in their
crooked stature.
Thirst quenched with
the blood of tomorrow,
while yesterday drowns
in a sea of sorrow.
Twisted black limbs
of the tallest tree
are broken now.

The golden age

The golden age of despair
is here,
and I'm standing
under the sun.
Nothing seems to
keep from falling
apart, and
beauty has decided
to spend its time
elsewhere.
I'm standing
under the sun,
alone, because
you left me
by myself.
My grip
on sanity
is loosening
quickly.

Europe poem #8

Overcome by
fatigue,
and a rush
of emotion,
I lie here
alone, barely awake.
I'm thinking
of you.
I could never
thank you enough
for what
you've given me.
It means
everything.

Europe poem #3

When I leave
and we all get back,
things will be
the same.
I'll sit by myself
and think
I'll miss your hand
in mine.
I'll miss you
in my arms.
I'll be alone.

Europe poem #2

Tuesday afternoons
and Swiss Franks.
The skies are blue
and the clouds
are fluffy.
The sun crawls
toward the horizon.
I don't really
ever want to
go home.

Europe poem #1

The highs and lows
of life.
Standing here in
Lichtenstein,
satisfied,
dissatisfied.
My mind is everywhere.
Nothing is clear to me.
I wish i was drunk.

April 6th, 2011

It's April 6th,
2011,
and tomorrow
there will be AM
showers
wish a high temperature
of 52.
It's been raining
all week.
It's been
a long week,
and it's still
not close
to being over.
It's cold outside,
and even colder
inside of
me.

Sick

Don't look anywhere
that there may be
something
that you don't
want to see.
I feel BAD.
My eyes have
seen forbidden shores,
my ears have
heard the crashing
of waves.
There is a sickness
in me,
and i want to
forget everything
so I can
FEEL
once again.
Sweaty palms
touch a chest
full of memories
that should never have
been opened, but
I've done so
unknowingly.
Haunted by
what should have been
but never was;
something I wanted
so badly,
but never truly had.
I woke up
this morning,
and my entire day
was ruined
before it even
BEGAN.
The echo of
words that
I only wish
I'd said
resonate loudly
and akwardly,
never getting any
quieter,
and I am
SICK.

The girl from the summer.

I dreamt about
the girl from the summer
last night.
I held her in my arms
and she kissed me.
I miss her.
Life's pestilence
stabs me,
antagonizing nostalgia
becomes longing,
longing for that
which i could never
have had.

When i pass you
in the halls,
I hang my head
and stare at the ground.
My heart is empty,
but yours is full.
My limp arms
hang at my sides,
eternally embracing
the nothing
that never seems
to leave me alone.

Fuck you!
A fire rages in my mind.
My sanity now aflame,
and the last embers
are turning to ashes.
Longing, thick like smoke
and ever present,
clouds my mind.

We are all dumber
than the child;
returning to
the hot stove
each
and every time
we burn our hands.

Poem

There are alot of cars
on the streets.
You see them
everywhere you go.
red
blue
black
green ones.
Luxury cars,
practical vehicles,
SUV's,
any type of car
you could imagine
or want.
Why haven't I
been hit by one
yet?

Poem

The busses come
and the busses go.
I've fallen ill.
A river is flowing
and has flowed.
I've eaten a meal
better than most others,
bringing light to a fraction
of the evening,
but when she failed
to tell me truth,
it was dark once again.
I broke the window,
shattered glass,
clarity lost.
A draft blows through my mind.
I want to scream into the ear
that does not listen.
I want to be stabbed
in the streets of Berlin
and bleed to death
in your arms.

Poem

Don't open your eyes.
Don't look at the dying world.
Cry out in fear.
Live a life of distaste
for a dying society.
Blood spills onto the ground
as the king hangs
from the gallows
in front of an angry crowd.
You still haven't learned
how to live.

Blood poem #3

Blood dripped through the ceiling
and pooled on the floor.
It had been raining
for days on end.
The poor quality
of our building's
construction
let it in,
all thick and red.
There was no escape from it.
People seemed to try
anyways, though.
Sometimes you
wouldn't really see
one of the puddles,
and you'd step
right in it and
stain your sock.

Blood poem #1

I woke up today
and the sun was bleeding
into the sky.
Burning red clouds
were everywhere.
The thick red sap
poured out onto
all of us.
Some wept for sadness,
some fled in fear.
I stood in the streets
and cried tears
of joy.

Stream of consciousness

diagnosed with a chronic disease.
mass hysteria allowed
by the snow on the ground
keeping it colder than
it was in the summer.
dessicated carcass of the flying
locust falling from the sky
inflating and deflating
upon hitting the ground.
reaching down.
picking up a piece of the sky that's fallen down.
I hold it tightly in my pocket
as ants crawl out of the everything.
my eyes bleed to the sound
of a tremor disturbing the earth.
tomorrow is falling apart
in my hands before it even starts.
a chocolate lab that howls
whenever the moon turns black
or dark brown.
the king is losing his crown.

Stream of consciousness

Come swim
in my stream of consciousness.
Don't worry,
the water's warm.
The skies in winter
are the most beautiful.
When I die,
I want to collapse
in a crowd of people
and be forgotten
immediately afterwards,
remembered,
perhaps,
as the man who died
but no one ever
really knew why,
or wondered why,
for that matter.
That'd be the best way
to go.

On my boss.

He said "Thank you."
and shook my hand,
telling me of
the fantastic work
he knew he could
rely on me
to do.
It was funny,
though,
because the whole time,
I was thinking
about how much
I hated the bastard.

On a dreary day.

There are always clouds.
I have seen them many times,
dark gray and very sad.
They hang up above
and never go away.
The weatherman said there would be clouds.
He always does.
Today will be a long day,
I heard it's going to rain.

Poem

My thoughts are blood
that stains a canvas
as it flows from the
painter's hand.
His vision is stained a
deep red, and the most
beautiful portrait has
become the saddest
landscape.

Tomorrow's Empty Promises

The monotony of the days
swirls around me
like an ill wind.
I feel sick as
it brushes against my skin.
There is no escape
but i still try (for i long to be free).
No beauty to be
seen,
but i still search.
Endlessly looking,
endlessly waiting,
endlessly wanting.
Tomorrow's
empty
promises
are all i have
left.