(666) ALL-GONE

there are no marathon nights to fill the divde that lies between us like a moat.

there are barely enough sips of whiskey to keep us from going down each other’s throat

regardless of what was spoke.

there are only a few minutes left to fight a savage tiger or a darkly driven goat.

there are beasts foraging on the corner for blankets, steaks, salads and coke

it’s a zoo and we’re all so broke…


2wenty 7eventeen

Bring in the new year with its brutal, sheer fear,
wring out the old year, beat what’s brought us here.
Bury our weary as we parade our cheer,
“Move along, folks, nothin’ to see here.”

Twenty Seventeen doesn’t mean our hands are clean,
in between the lanes and lines, swerving, we careen
into a class divide as colors collide, tweeted and streamed.
Televised destiny, technology unexpectedly
deciding what things mean. Meme.

Ring in the new year! All is wonderful far and near!
We have most of our limbs and beauty we find dear.
Whether we’re alone in a town or among those in your home,
new years appear to be clear only when we shut our mouths to hear.


Broke But Not Broken

This right leg was broken. Tragically and frighteningly broken. Suddenly stricken and laid up for months.

The churning burn in this belly roiled imprisoned to the sound of moans, retches and grunts.

Bone wrapped metal, screwed tightly down like a wild patient, naked in restraints.

No magic in healing, but a rigid regime to never again be a slave to pain.

Wordy Birdy

The beauty of relationships is that without them we’re just beasts, foraging for some lost purpose, aimless and alone. We must always be reaching out, pulling close, drifting away, or never letting go, the time we share with those who fuel us is invaluable. Every man, woman and child I’ve ever known, loved or loathed has shaped me into the mad, passionate, strange creature I am today. Methinks my thanks is owed to all those whose paths I’ve soiled, graced, endured, or have been enlightened by.

Still. Distilled and ill, waking abrupt like a plane into a hill.

Still. Searching for answers in a poem, picture or pill,

no solace in the silence of this day as it fills

this one wild moment where it’s love or be killed.

5 Twenty Something 2015

This is a work purely of science fiction.

Finally now and sincerely, soooooooooover it.

If you want to feel something that makes you fully real then you need to have someone either truly love you or completely destroy you. There is very little that lies between being adored and being betrayed. It’s just empty space filled with commuter traffic, banality and television.

Just when I thought I was doing the right thing, the noble thing, the difficult thing, just when I considered myself an advanced creature in thinking that I could somehow salvage this inevitable separation, my ankles were grabbed by both my girlfriend and my best friend and I was quietly but violently dragged to the depth of a lonely hell I hardly expected life could conjure.

The constant reminder that she dove into his disgusting dirt musk is slathered across his forlorn face like a wet paper bag, downtrodden and used up. Sharing close quarters with such a sad awkward child whose decision to take advantage of a struggling relationship is like having to stare at your rapist as he’s tying your shoes. Listening to your molester mouth-breathe over your shoulder, malodorous and unkempt.

At first I repeated in my head conversations with both of them until I was dizzy and nauseated. Lobbing questions and shaking my head in disbelief, just wanting a morsel of an explanation, a sliver of closure to define my demise in a way that was tangible so I could then begin my recovery. Healing is nearly impossible without a reason “why” and the unknown only delivers despair and creates an uncertainty about everyone around you. Not one word was ever offered to even merely regard their decision as one that could cause me to leap off a building.

(23 shouldn’t have baggage. 33 shouldn’t have laid a hand on a woman that was a bad decision for innumerable reasons. 40  however, knew that eventual torture was going to be part of the deal with 23. The only surprise was the sheer degree of the apocalyptic havoc that would be wreaked upon him when he learned that they were already together during the breakup. Harsh. Fuh-king harsh.)

“If I had known how you felt about her I wouldn’t have done anything,” he mutters. My god. How can someone be so impossibly oblivious about relationships that their rationale is based on the idea that their ignorance of someone’s feelings justifies being a complete and selfish c___? No one is that impossibly oblivious about relationships.

“I really, really like her. It’s not fate. It just happened.”

Yeah. Just happened.

The risk of losing one of his most loyal and unconditional friends apparently was nothing compared to the quick reward of a moment with a furious beauty. A concept that is absolutely not lost on me so I completely understand it but it surely doesn’t make it ok.

She isn’t innocent by any measure. She is absolutely culpable to the point of ridicule but to insult a young girl is classless and petty. She isn’t stupid in any respect, her inexperience however, is not an area to be taken lightly. Her passion is unmatched, her love for those who treat her right is solid and her unbelievable wit and cunning humor is only out shined by her physical elegance and long lines of soft skin that seem as if they could wrap around the world and make it beg to die.

She is though, believe it or not, vulnerable. Open to suggestion (despite her brash belief that her savvy outweighs her gullibility), she is prey to those whose dark and brooding self-loathing is their defining characteristic. However, those qualities will eventually wear out to become quite exasperating and sadly unbearable. And then once her ability to absorb and nurture such absurd, tragic and self-aggrandizing traits wanes, she’ll be finished. It will be up to her how she ends it but be assured, it will be her to return to what she loves: Herself when she’s with a man who makes her royal without dragging her down. Her decisions are hers alone and the desire to freely be herself will dictate the future of all those around her.

So here I am, left alone to my twisted devices, digesting karma and reasoning like a man salvaging his discarded honor. Realizing that chivalry is defined by how you carry yourself and how treat a woman and everything else is just fodder.

When you soil or steal a woman from a good friend your insecurity reveals its face like a shadowy murderer hiding in plain sight or a casual sexual assault by someone you trusted.

He had to paw his friend’s woman because he was unable to find one for himself. His lack of dignity and character now dictates every step for the rest of his life because no matter what he will do or try to erase his indiscretion he will be forever plagued by the pain he delivered to someone who would have always had his back. The same back that will one day billow in the wind as it clamors for support. It will buckle and break beneath whatever situation arises because there’s no strength of integrity to give it any purpose, merit or respect.

Life always has a way of righting its wrongs and shaking malevolence off its back with either a devastating earthquake or an unseen sock in the jaw.

Fasten that seatbelt, motherf____r.

5 twentysomething 2015

To Be Continued…why, no one knows.

Her kindness was met with cold distance and as he wrestled with his need to travel abroad he chose to sever her hands that reached to him unconditionally. The confusion that met him at each corner and moment was his distorted fuel that fed the strength to let her go, his theory of moving freely overseas outweighed the present relationship that had dissolved into a bizarre friendship. One where intimacy was all but gone, her fragile patience was propped up by one weak leg which she hated, living through his unclear vision and perpetual indecisiveness was the heaviest load she had ever carried for someone else. Inadvertently she had been living for him, not accounting for her own needs and it harbored in her seething belly, rank with frustration that devoured her soul.

The artist feared for his life. His youth, now waning, reminded him that his affection for this young woman had grown immeasurably out of his control and his unhappiness stemmed from his inability to recognize what he truly wanted. They sought counseling, petitioned each other’s friends for input but in the end it was his devastating decision to leave her.

He would lay beside her but be far removed, he would feel her breathing but not swallow it the way he used to. The passion dissolved into perfunctory performance and his sexuality became a cold alien, though his love for her was becoming more and more a mystery, he knew in his heart there was no one else for him. If only he knew how to address such circumstances, if only he had garnered enough knowledge from his past to communicate with her, to let her in, he may have saved her from countless hours of frustration and confusion.

His listless spirit was fed by his mother’s history and his strange familiarity with her foreign land. His fear of leading the young woman on if he went and sought refuge in France, his fear of feeling obligated to the United States once he left its borders, fears on top of fears built like walls closing him off from the outside world. Nights he couldn’t leave the house, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t leave, his fear was insurmountable and his pride was shrunk to the point of terrible frustration.

He still lies in the bed, alongside his damned situation, unable, unwilling to make a change.

June 8 2013