star-crossed epitaphs

love
digs graves
all around the world

but
i used to
kiss you like
i was never going to die

Sunfish

sometimes i look like
i'm flying

the most marvelous things
happen when you're afraid

but
what seems to be a wing
is only a tail

what seems to be a miracle
is only a fear

sometimes i look like i'm flying
but it's only because i have a shark
on my ass

Goddamn the Deaths I Die Every Day

i keep coming back

just when ya think
"there
is
no
way
danny
makes it!"
i do

it's not for lack of trying
i'm just bad at suicide

a heart forgets to stop beating
i wake up wounded
out of breath
afraid

the impression of Azrael's palm
against my cheek

death touches me every day
but its scythe never slices my skin

why?

i've taken too much
enough to put down horses
but i keep getting up

i keep coming back

and i am so tired of coming back

The Girl Who Cuddles with Coffins

i tell her

she might have a monster

living under her bed

she smiles

and tells me

to trim my toenails 

i try to convince her

that there is a ghost in the walls

but she insists it's my singing

vampires outside

she says i put too much garlic 

on my pasta

corpses under the floorboards 

she says i fart

too much

there seems to be no shaking 

this girl

but just wait until i tell her

i love her 

Sunday Morning Comic Strip

the front pages

always reserved

for war

and other 

horrors

what if a giggle was worth as much

as a murder

if a smirk

was as popular as bombing 

smooth detectives

awkward engineers

and that one family

witty office-types

wise-cracking animals

black and white

full color

together

it doesn't have to be

this hard

not if we're on the same page

Boys Don't... Quote Cure Songs

i.

when i left
or when you left
or however either one of us tell people
it happened

it
hurt

i wasn't shocked
i kind of expected it
but it still
hurt

and i still think about you
when i play Sisters Of Mercy cds

and i still smell you
anytime Joy Division comes on

and i regret it
and i wish i could do it over
and i wish you were the girl i never let go
and not the first

but
you
were
and i gotta suck it up because
Boys Don't... quote Cure songs


ii.

any ol' way
i just wanted you to know that
kissing you
on the stairs of the Milwaukee Public Library
doing laundry
in that place that used to be next to Comet
dancing
to my first retro-night at Mad Planet
and losing my "virginity"
well
it was special

it wasn't amazing
and that's on me

i was scared
inexperienced
inadequate
insecure

but
it was just like it was supposed to be

it wasn't like the movies
or the poems
or the Depeche Mode record you were playing

it was real

anything else i could say about it would be hyperbole
and it was better than hyperbole

so i won't say it was
just like a dream
because
we were
awake

and i won't say it was
just like paradise because
that shit doesn't exist

and even though you looked like an angel
i won't say it was...

well
boys don't quote Cure songs


iii.

that was a long time ago
and i've written more about women and regrets
than either of the two
alone

i'm not trying to say that you're the last girl i loved
or that i've ever really loved any
just that
i
do remember

and it's hard to
forget

and tonight
as i creeped through your
facebook photos
i'm reminded of a night i creeped your
myspace photos

it's been two social networks
three presidents
four cities
five times in, and back out of recovery
since i let you go

but
i've been looking so long
at these pictures of you
that i almost...
forgot that boys don't quote Cure songs

Sad Tales of the Sea

a shark will burn its mouth

for a fish that swam in volcanoes

Heartless Robots Attacking Planet Earth: Part One ~ The Kiss

she cries when it rains

or
does it rain when she cries?

i stopped being able to tell

under the canopy
of the pharmacy
i should have been the one crying

she should have done it
at another time
another place

bad form
y'know?

she thought she could make it better
with one last deep one

as she pulled her warm cheeks away
from my frigid rock of a face
she was frightened

she finally saw me
for what i am

and she ran away screaming

Nevermind Me, I'm Just Looking for My Breath

it was there
when i woke up
alone

it was there
when i did my stretches
alone

it was there
when i showered
alone
got dressed
alone
checked my pockets to make sure i had my keys
alone

but
as soon as i stepped outside
it blew away
and everybody laughed
as i chased something they couldn't see
down a dirty street

Strong Legs

if you are chopping down these trees

thinking you can build a bridge

that no one will cross

well

that bridge will fail

beneath the weight of it's own emptiness

at least try

to reach out

because if you just keep

your arms at your sides

you might as well be in a grave

the foundation for the bridge to you

is weak

but the same bridge

crossing the other way

has strong legs

Roads

i.

let's say
you're trying to go somewhere

who isn't?

but let's say
you never get there

maybe
that's your fault

you
might
have been going in the other direction

you
might
have been driving the wrong fucking way

you
might
not even know where you're going

but
maybe
you
do!

and it's the
road
that's misguided

and it's the
road
that's not right

and it's the
road
that's lost

ii.

a sun-dial doesn't do no good
if you slept all day

the stars only work
if they're not spinning

time only exists
if you give a shit

iii.

for so long i was holding my own breath
for so long i was folding my own flag
for so long
i was so wrong
and so cold
that every moment i longed for death
and every moment i carried a white flag

iv.

there's something to be said about a man
who is always ready to surrender
but
never does

One Thousand Roses

they may not be perfect
hell
they may even be ugly
but
i grew them
and they are roses
nonetheless

a lack of sunlight
means they did not blossom as every rose blossoms
but
there are still petals
there are still thorns
maybe too many thorns
but
they are roses
nonetheless

i would happily give them all away
just so that someone can smell my roses
but there is no one that wants to

and
that's okay
because they are still
roses
nonetheless

i would garden a thousand roses
for two, or three noses
and be fine with that

The Unabomber

in 2007
i was dating Harmony
and working at the call center

during downtime between calls
i used to read
but never anything too dense

usually comic books
Bukowski poems
or library magazines

one night
i ran out of reading material
so i asked a supervisor to print some up

she asked
"like what?"

i said
"uhhh, The Unabomber's Manifesto?"

so that's what i got

it was the first
and last time
i ever read it

now
the guy was nuts
that's no surprise
but what i wasn't prepared for
was how spot-on
and brilliant many of his observations were

we're talking real next level shit
here

that night
after work
Harmony and I went out for some drinks

first
i told her all about the manifesto
and after i told her
i told all of our friends

i hijacked entire conversations that night
talking about the Unabomber

i think Harmony even thought it was kinda cute
she liked that i was unusual

but the next day
the whole world seemed different
everything seemed fake

i felt fake

this wasn't like when i discovered Bukowski and Fante
which were pleasant discoveries
that made me feel less alone
in my contempt for human matters

this was a boat upside down
miles out from shore
and the shore was full of shit
anyways

i felt uncomfortable

we went out for drinks again that night
and again i controlled the dialogue talking about
The Unabomber Manifesto

Harmony hit a breaking point
"you HAVE to stop talking about The Unabomber!"

"yea
but...
we're all automatons...
it's all a live-action program...
we're just playing are parts...
yadayadayada... "
i replied

"okay"
she said
"but you sound fucking crazy!"

"yea
but...
yadayadayada... "

"so
what do you want, Danny?
do you wanna go live out in the woods
alone in a cabin with no indoor plumbing?"

i puffed my chest a bit
and said
"yea, i kinda do!"

Harmony then asked me
"do you think you're going to get any pussy out there?"

and i never mentioned The Unabomber Manifesto again

I've Searched, but I'm No Detective

i can smell a clue
about as well as a rock

and if you're waiting
for me
under a rock
you're gonna be waiting a long time

i've never had a hunch
even if i should have

if the evidence was
right there
i'd step on it

if the perp was
right there
i'd say
"get this jerk outta here!"

i am always trying to figure a few things out
but
i
never
do

faitH

dressed in city streetlight
bodies rest on shadows

two moons keep blinking
two billion stars become halos

shining
through
windows
of cooling devotion

don't let the sun rise too fast

don't let the night go to bed
on an empty stomach

the only difference
between us and a sky
is how close you believe
we are

Current Events

the Kings are winning
and everyone else is not

man's impulses manifest in violent
uncivilized
unhealthy
unloving
ways

fear is the most human trait
and those that feel it the most
are the best

and those that feel it the least
are gods

you don't have a chance

you never had a chance

this
and more
at 10 o'clock
and until the end of us

hell vomits angels
recovery is prayer
god is just the maid

It's Okay Just to Think You're an Artist

beautiful blank canvases get ugly
real quick

so you dip your brush in the water
swish it around
real good

wipe your fingers over the bristles
to make sure it's clean
and set it down

look into that endless white
make up a story about how it's good for you
and keep telling that same story with conviction
for the rest of
all you got

Halloween

she looked
like a Reese's peanut butter cup
and she kept calling me "pumpkin"

it wasn't until after my lips were bleeding
that i realized my mistake

always check your candy

Writer's Block

the small difference between the writer
and the clergyman
is what's on his
page

and sometimes
the writer
knows when nothing is there

That's an Old Email Address

she ran into him in a south side bar

meeting her coworker for a cocktail

he looked like

the dogs of every day

had been taking bites

like

he'd been taking way too many bets

and losing

"what are you doing over here?"

she asked him

he didn't answer with a lie

but just the longest way of

saying "i don't know"

there were lost birds nested on both of his shoulders

but the dirt under his fingernails looked right at home

he was working

he wasn't broke

he wasn't homeless

so she wouldn't have to feel too bad about cutting it short

a tentative coffee date

to be determined in a tentative email

it wasn't until it was too late

that she remembered

she forgot to give him

her new address

People put far too much emphasis on the relationship between strangeness, and artistry. I don't believe that normalcy has ever impaired the creativity in any of my moody personalities.

She Always Looked Like a Saturday Night to Me

even on a tuesday morning

i used to stand behind her in the bathroom
as she got ready
for work

i was off on tuesdays
so there was no better way to start my day
than smoking a joint while i watched her
put on the day's make-up

she didn't need it
but she knew how to use it

she had
more to offer than  looks
inspite of the times i told her she didn't

when we talked about music
it was always great

her paintings were beautiful
but she had a hard time believing it

a worthy Scrabble opponent

plenty to offer
other than physical features

but she
did
have the looks

and she looked better
getting on a bus
than most girls
do in the club

big bad eyes
tight thin lips
soft milky cheeks
and a body dressed for the dance floor

hot
gorgeous
fine as hell

if it wasn't for
alcoholism and low self-esteem
i would have never had a chance

This Dark Stage

ac/dc's
Back in Black begins

she steps out
in stilettos and fishnets
a towel and a bottle of Windex

she wipes down the pole
and i hate that she has to wipe down
the pole

maybe some of the men enjoy it
because one pole reminds them
of another

i get that

other men might like it
because they're bullies in their hearts
and like to see a woman clean

but i'm a performer
and watching a dancer wipe her own pole
reminds me of all the clubs i played

putting yourself up on stage for someone else
baring it all for someone else
and not being appreciated

it's not about the money
i know this chick's getting paid
sometimes i even got paid

it's the being up there
and feeling like you're on your own

i want to say
"Hey, i'll do that, you're the talent!"
but i know that would be weird
so i just pull out my wad of ones
and keep my mouth shut

A Dead Thing Laughs

each fiber tickles
   helpless black comedy

joke around a neck
   hilarious last breaths

punchline of the noose
   funny little goodbyes

An Ax That Refused Destiny

the blade
has always
been dull

how it was made

never
good at
what it
was meant to do
or maybe it
was meant to do
something different

nothing at all

maybe this one ax
not fashioned to swing

maybe this one ax
cast only to sit
observe
the growth
and destruction
of the world around it

without ever growing too fast
without being destroyed too soon

for this one ax
perhaps
rust was the only fate

Nosferatulip

no matter how damned everything is 

i keep a flower in my coffin 

to remind myself that 

the sun

still offers me something

A Broken Leg in Eagle Grove

i'm stuck here
watching crappy television
and laughing when she laughs

sometimes
because i don't want her
to laugh alone

sometimes
i like dumb jokes

also
because
it reminds me that
she loves me

mostly
because
it reminds me that
i love her

love
no matter how broken
no matter how broken a leg
no matter how broken a heart
is never a bad place to be

My Last Text to Bradley

I hope,
so dearly,
that a couple miserable dudes like us
can find a few more moments of joy out of
this life.

If we suffer,
and survive,
we probably will.

There's no guarantee,
but that is where
"hope"
at its weakest
is also at its strongest.

You just need a little.












https://youtu.be/bfNX_hpHVsI

Spelling Sea

So what if the tide is against me
Hungry is hungry
And one
Round of
KOWABUNGA!-surfers gave me munchies

Vamp of Approval

she prowled
slowly into the club
with her teeth showing
and walked around the dancefloor

long black hair
fell on her shoulders
like dirt onto a coffin

what gets buried
will unbury itself
when it gets hungry

long black eyes
fell on my weak demeanor
like a desperate hunter seeking easy prey

what gets bled to death
comes back to life
when it gets hungry

partly
because i prefer the night

partly
because i want to live forever

mostly
because i am lonely and insecure

i approached her
with my neck exposed
hoping she would want a bite

lies made with sugar
nectar of belief systems
please, pass me the salt

painting herself slave
she holds the chains like brushes
to master an art

Welcome

there's never a moment of my life
that i don't just feel like i'm visiting

whether
that's because i'm a bastard
who grew up not knowing baseball
or someone with undiagnosed mental health issues
who should probably not prescribe his own meds
or a space alien
who got amnesia when his ship crashed
or a poet
who grew up in Fort Dodge

maybe all those things

but i always feel like i'm visiting

it's only when i try to get away
that i kinda feel welcome

Romanticizing the Knife

this time
i'm only gonna
hold it by the handle

i have enough scars on my hands
that i should know better

but the blade
is so goddamn pretty

Love Song for a Party Starter

i'm so glad that you came back to me

i was so scared
that you would forget about me

i was waiting here
all of this time

i kept hoping
out of the corners of my eyes
wistful, convivial glances

as if there will always be a party where
i'm not looking

Muy Poquito

i know more English
than i do Spanish

i am
at least
The
dark
master
of Post-Buk American
poems

but
what little i know
i speak with the hope
to learn

Portability

Escaped from the zoo
 i walked the streets
   thinking suddenly
"I" was free

but i was never free

"I" was only carrying
my cell around

a backpack of restrictions

a traveling jail

a portable prison

fashion statement

alone
and
gold
don't go together

never dress up
for a date with the tap water

i only feel lost
when i try to follow maps
i go where i go

teeth marks on the mic
battles of conversation
tank division tongue

God is Bad

there is no god in my poems
unless i am writing metaphor
or simile

and even then
they're never the good guys

trust me
you don't want me to
believe

Slow-motion

it is not only a film technique

every
   drunk
is an executive producer

every
   pothead
is an avant-garde director

every
   didn't-make-it singer
is the lead actress

but a lifestyle
is
   a
     hard
        typecast

how fast when pain drives

i only meant it at first

foot vs. the gas

Still Can Still - (written by pixelatedbrain and dannyprice)

Long as you
 can still
function as a human,
I say
do what you want

As long as you
 can still
function doing what you
want
i say
keep pretending to be human.

it melts everywhere
madness of snows, and vodkas
romance blooms in cold

Alcohol

sometimes 

when the whale devours the shrimp

the shrimp feels like he's part of something 

who is not a robot?

i don't fear
the computer
writing a better
poem

i expect it and i even kind of like it

maybe some computers of the future
will be weird
 too

 at least a few

 and if i am trying to do anything
 it is just a beat those future poet computers to a few lines

The Fish

as life keeps going
Old Man and the Sea
keeps seeming more like a memory
and not just a book i read

The Hey Never Gabba

hey
i liked tom petty

i liked bowie
lou reed
prince

they were all great
for different times
and drugs

but
drunk or sober
whenever musicians die
i always just miss The Ramones

d$ On Writing About Writing

The writer
who writes about writing
writes about nothing

   unless
I suppose
writing is the only thing
they have to live for

in which case
I guess they're writing about everything

Rock N' Roll

depression and anxiety are
so
last month

it's October
time for skeleton-print socks
and Glenn Danzig albums

trick, or treating through graveyards
for the candies of insanity

monster-mashing in the morgue
trying to find a dance partner
that can follow a lead

and obligatory repeat plays
of an overrated
9 minutes+
goth drum circle
about a man that played Dracula

'tis the season to be careless
fearless

be the monster
instead of afraid of it

and come November
when they're running you out of town
with torches
just
remember . . .

they're more afraid of you than you are
of them

Don't Turn Into a Vampire, Yet . . .

i want you to see this
it is when light surrounds the dark

the Eclipse line-up

the sun plays drums
and the moon swipes the voc-mic

tHe SuN PlAYS DrUMS?

well
not very good

Topical Poem

i hate
writing anything that dates
itself
to a
current event

i'm happy to read them
but i have never considered
myself to be a topical writer

Trump is a piece of shit
but i don't want to waste a metaphor
to tell you that

Black Lives Matter
but that's a strong enough phrase on its own
without me craftily adding poetics to it

but
alas
i have to write about a current event

and i've already spent more time
writing about writing about it
than about it

i don't like writing about writing
either

so i am breaking two routines
here

the shooting in Las Vegas
is gut-punching
heart-punching
soul-punching

it's a foul example
of a foul truth

we love
we write
we hold doors open for the elderly

we do nice shit
a lot of nice shit
all day
most days

and i can't stop thinking about the last time
the shooter in Las Vegas held the door open
for an older person

the feeling in his heart
holding that door
a small thing that we all do
just to feel like we're part of it together

and juxtaposing that idea
to him busting out that hotel window
and feeling like he wasn't part of it anymore

it sickens me
and it saddens me

my heart breaks for the destroyed

my heart breaks for the destroyed
first

but
just like Columbine
or the postals
i grieve for the destroyer
too

i'm not saying i should
i'm not saying you should
i'm not saying anybody should

i'm just saying that i do

5 Card Life

we are always
 a blackjack species
  no matter how often
   we see in chess pieces

in the bones of Poe
my fingernails turned to black
digging for a verse

used in a haiku
she felt abstract, but exotic
eighteenth syllable

If My Kiss Tastes Like a Tree

splinters of wood
when handling beams
would sliver into the fingertips

i always felt them
but only a few hurt enough to pull out

the rest
i left
in there

my
fingers
my
flesh
grew around them
and now they're so deep
i don't notice
or if i do
barely

it's no longer as if i formed around them
but with them

i am the splinter
and the splinter is me

that is how each of her kisses
was

so now
when you kiss me
and ask if i've been gnawing on a branch
i don't understand

i'm so used to it
it seems natural

memories in dust

love is just a thing she sweeps

jilted broom bristles 

victory pattern
puzzle inside of  myself
making pieces fit

the night i was a vampire

i drank her early

i drank her late

the neck of a girl whose hair was curly

blood from the soft milked skin of her nape

a night that survives

a night that never dies

the only night

that it felt right

to tell a few lies

to the blush of her thighs

A Life of Trades

i said,
"I will trade you my Nolan Ryan tuxedo-card
for your Reggie Jackson last-year"

the dumbass made the trade

i said,
"I will trade you this mint knockoff Strat,
for that beat-up Fender Precision"

the dumbass made the trade

The Gods said,
"WE will trade you an addiction that creates the illusion you are getting something
out of your miserable existence
for your miserable existence"

i said,
"DEAL!"

Mars Is Not Even Blinking

if your brother is a Trump supporter
looks more white than you
has more girlfriends
in a night

Mars does not bat
an eye

if your mother is a recovering meth addict
who has to constantly be reminded
you write poetry

Mars does not bat
an eye

she asks
"Where is the next exit?"
driving you back to Des Moines
at night

you wanna tell her the one that leads
back to Milwaukee

as if getting away from them
changes
anything

nothing
you
do
matters

if
you stay sober
for 19 months and 29 days

if
you give up
like you always wanted to
and knew you would

Mars doesn't care

Mars doesn't give a fuck

Mars does not bat
an eye

cry
in a coffee
cry
in a beer

keep crying
all the while
Mars is not even blinking

Everyone Thinks You're Ugly

they've never looked as deeply as i
into the centers of your alluring
and final eyes

they've never watched you
dance slowly and dark like the end credits

they say you're a poor dresser
but i love all-black

your voice is the song that plays after the band has left
and the stage is empty

your body is the abyss
and your touch is only cold at first

they say your breath is rotten
but i just started smoking again
and i miss those still warm kisses
a burning cigarette set softly against a dirty ashtray

they say your breasts are tombstones
and your cunt is a grave
but
i am tired
and i think you are beautiful

Almost a Ghost Town

when we lived there the streets were paved with parties
confetti always stuck to the bottom of our shoes
and the streetlights glimmered like disco balls

traffic was part of the music
car horns honking in perfect tempo
and every engine seemed to be in perfect key

but nobody we knew drove
we danced to get everywhere
or took the bus
and we danced
on the bus

it was one hell of a town
at one hell of a time

it's funny
because according to the census
the population has grown by almost five thousand

i read an article saying how
there are more restaurants than ever before

more people
more places
but
i can't shake the feeling
that nothing's going on

maybe
it's not the town that became a ghost

Ghost with a Dying Rose

a ghost with one rose
whose petals in throes
to death, tilts
smell of wilts
dying scents haunt a nose

thorns of attrition
bloomed with ambition
once lush red
soon instead
suits love's apparition

the seeds that dreamed most
of a stem, could boast
but dirts die
flowers dry
dying rose haunts a ghost

A Liar in the Light

"there is light
too
my
friend"
he condescended

he was a liar

not about the light
i know there is light
too

i have seen it
been brought to tears and knees
before it

i have wept "hallelujah"
and sang "oh, happy day!"

as a boy i called it god
as a man i call it love
but i know it is there

that was not the issue

what made him a liar
is to dare
in my moment of darkness
which i shared as if it were my
only bridge to reach the light
to call me "friend"

and the sad thing about it
is not that he was lying to me

i knew he was not my friend
and he knew that i knew

it was in his desperation
to avoid identifying with my brutality
and perpuate his pious illusion of self

as if denying the dark place in my heart
meant there was none in his own

Suicidal Ideation Is the Splice of Life

"An unexamined life is not worth living."
                                                            -Socrates
"Suicide's an alternative."
                                  -Mike Muir 



humanity is the unwiped
diarrheic asshole of existence
and my nose is way too sensitive

i try to hold my breath
but only for so long before
i am blue in the cheeks
and a big whiff comes
rushing up each nostril

it's not too bad
when i'm alone in this apartment

a towel stuffed under the door
the windows all sealed tightly
and scented candles burning
away

sometimes i think i would be okay
if i never had to leave this apartment

but even my own odor
starts to get to me
until it's pungent
unbearable

rank smells turn into rank ideas
and then i start to think
how nice it would be
not to

[ her love is like 9/11 ]

her love is like 9/11
in the Trade Center of my heart
she hijacked me that one morning
and now it's all falling apart
i should have known it from
the moment we first kissed
she never was my babe
but just a terrorist








-for Harmony 

The Noose of Nostalgia

it is not just missing
the good times

slamdancing in a circle pit
with your best buds at a rock show

blacklit basement parties
doing lines of coke off cd cases

loquacious drunkards
gorgeous people
attainable pussy

last calls
and after-bars
with cheap pot
and cheaper beer

you'd be a goddamn fool
not to miss all that

but it's when
you genuinely reminisce
the fucking misery of it all

vomiting up a stomach full of vodka
at 11:30 in the morning
on the way to the next
watering hole

listening to the Agents of Oblivion record
on repeat by candle light
with a green plastic
bottle of scotch

writing incoherent
and unintelligible poems
as if they were grand suicide missions

turning blackouts into halos
and making romances out of horrors

as if pissing yourself
and burning frozen pizzas
were noble claims to glory

the memory of the knot
against the back of your neck
tickles

now
that
is addiction

Vomka

i usually didn't puke

oh
i would wretch every morning
i would want to puke
but nothing ever
came up

it was in between leaving Texas
and coming back to Iowa

it was in between The Uptowner
and Nessun Dorma
in Milwaukee

in the alley
between jobs
between towns
between heaven & hell

i opened Uptowner that day
two-fisting double vodka club sodas
gave the redhead behind the bar ten bucks
to play some Ottis Redding

Ottis is good music to die to

but
i didn't die
i just felt like i might

so i went outside
down the alley
and let it out

there was nothing to it
no food
no color
just a suicide's amount worth of vodka

i imagined i looked like a gargoyle fountain

the homeless guy walking by
didn't even ask me for change

too bad
too
because i would have given him some

stopped vomiting for a minute
to hand him a couple bucks
just so i could hear him say
thanks

just so i could hear someone say something nice
to me

just to not hate myself
fo one second

but
he didn't ask
so i just kept puking
and kept hating myself

Love

we all trip over our own comfort
and wherever we land is the lie
we build a home on

whatever love is
we only do it when we have to

for ourselves

whatever love isn't
gets a bad rap

if someone tells you to be what you're not
it is natural to hate them

if they feed you a line of bullshit
you're right to be disgusted

in a world where everyone is trying
to dance
and kiss
and fuck
themselves into being happy
the most beautiful thing you can be
is alone

A Candle I Could Not Keep

the darker the room
the more i needed her

she was scented
with tobacco
and cedar

she smelled so good
i wanted to burn her
every night

but for my cold love
her patience was a wick
and there was only so much

and i wept
over the melted wax
where she used to be

Hubris is the preferred fruit of a moron. He thinks his confidence makes him special, never knowing it only reveals his lack of imagination.

Drawing Blinds Instead of Blood

every song is a window
and for twenty years
i would break the glass

really get in there
y'know?

sometimes i'd cut my hands
or elbows climbing through
but the blood
made it real

pain made it real

i
miss
that

my nose is pressed up to the glass
tonight
and
it looks beautiful

i can hear the blood in my veins
screaming

it wants to be
let out

it pools in my fist
except where the knuckles are white

the blood is ready to dance
the blood is
always
ready to dance

but i don't want a mess
to clean up in the morning
so i turn the music off
for another night

and those first few seconds of quiet
are boring
and brutal
and sad

but i try to remind myself
the blood and i don't have
the moves we used to

Gender Shoe Size Conversion

if it fits
wear it
but don't force it on someone else's foot
for whom it is too big

maybe
women are emotional

maybe
women are crazy

but
as he stood outside her house
with a can of gasoline and a book of matches
he realized he'd lost his right to make those
assertions

Steal This Poem

"aren't you worried about putting all your writing online, that someone might steal it?"

i laugh for a few minutes

then i let them know
there are only two reasons
you would ever steal a poem

to get paid
or
to get laid

if you steal my poem to get paid
my heart sings a deep
and pitiful song
for you

if you steal my poem to get laid
and it works
then
please
let me know which poem it was

The Howling

i had most of the adults fooled

the family was easiest

they were none too bright

what little smarts i had

i must have got from my father

and he was never in the picture

i can only guess

the monster

came from him

too 

next were the teachers

the math and science teachs

just thought i was a punk

bad apple

the english teachs actually thought

there was something interesting about me

they'd tell me to do shit like

join the drama club

or hangout with

the band kids

they just thought i needed the right

friends

there was only one adult

i couldn't fool

Mr. Bristol

gym coach

jarhead

meathead 

with a brain the shape of a crew cut

but that son-of-a-bitch had a nose for me

he was on to me

he was on to me from the start

for years

he said it with just a look

i'd get it the worst in gym class

but if i ever passed him in the halls 

he'd mean-mug the hell outta me

it was so much that

he followed me from middle school 

to high school 

everyone said that

it was because he got a raise

i knew it was so he could keep an eye on me

and finally the day came

where he stopped policing me

silently

i have very little memory

of what happens when the monster comes

but one morning i awoke with the faint recollection of Ms. Guthrie screaming

through her kitchen window 

and black and white furs

where my claws were

at the end of gym class

Bristol told me to stay back

i stood by the door so i could run

just in case he tried to beat the shit outta me

after everyone else cleared the locker room 

i could feel him looking at me

i could feel the hate

"ya know Ms. Guthrie, Price?"

"yea"

"she told me this morning 

that last night she saw something 

in her backyard

and whatever it was

it ripped her cat to pieces"

i just stood there

staring down at the artwork

on my Guns N' Roses t-shirt

"i'm on to you, Price"

i was scared

this was it

i was caught

Bristol was either gonna turn me in

expose me for what i was

or take matters into his own hands 

and murder me himself

"get out of my locker room"

he said

i kept waiting for the other shoe to drop

at first i waited for weeks

with his deadly stares in class

and the halls

wondering what the hell was taking him

so long

then months

then years

i was convinced he was waiting

until i stopped expecting it

or maybe 

he was scared of me

and was just working up the right plan

but

he never did

Bristol never exposed me

and he never took it upon himself

to put me down

but today 

they put him down 

under six feet of dirt 

in the Grace United Cemetery

Bristol knew what i was

Bristol knew that i would always be

what i am

what Bristol didn't know

was that i like what i am

i love what i am

and tonight

when the monster takes over

i'm heading over to Grace United Cemetery

where i will piss on his grave

and howl at the moon

We're Just Too Different

She's a white wine kinda girl,
and I'm a 19-months-sober,
wondering-what-the-hell-is-the-point,
wishing-I-could-just-fucking-disappear,
regularly-contemplating-suicide kinda guy.

It would never work.

A Tree Again

strong branches look forward
waiting to be the beams bridges are made of

strong branches build new homes
for new families
with new ideas

it is the twigs
weak
flimsy
and pathetic
wishing times never changed

not good for anything but kindling
it's no wonder they believe a fire
when it says it can make them
a tree again

This Is Not About the Eclipse

there is something between
me
and the
light

[this is not about the eclipse]

something keeping the world gray
at 12:37 p.m. with a break in the clouds

the flowers must eat it all
before i have the chance
to taste it

photosynthesis doesn't work on me
the plants are alive
but my heart
is not

there must be something between
me
and the
light

[this is not about the eclipse]

it's like there is something i can never see

i should
though i won't
or i'm afraid to

it's like being blind
but different

like being insane
but different

like being in hell
but different

they taught me young
not to stare directly at the sun
but sometimes even looking at the moon
hurts my eyes

[this is not about the eclipse]

All My Hoops and Dreams

i remember it was a home game
and my mom and stepdad
were in the stands

when the basketball lifted off my fingers
it felt good

i had a shot
and
i was taking it

all that needed to happen
was for the ball to go
through the hoop

or at least
hit the rim

it didn't

there was a woman
at my first job in Milwaukee
who was studying to be a librarian

she loved Catcher in the Rye
Old Man and the Sea
ate mostly vegetarian
watched The Simpson's
and had an ass the would bust a window

i was 21
but i sobered up for a few weeks
to ask her out

all that needed to happen
was for her to say
yes

or at least
maybe

she didn't

Austin was going to be good for me

i lived there briefly when i was 25
but at 32 i had honed my songwriting
and time was ripe
for return

Red Eyed Fly Mike
gave me some good gigs

Frontier Bar Mike
gave me some good gigs

flyers
facebook invites
and Friday nights
in The Live Music Capitol of the World

all that needed to happen
was for a few people to show up
in the audience

or at least
the band members

they didn't

sitting at a fast food burrito joint
on a Saturday night in Des Moines
i am thinking about all the shots i took

i am trying to be content

with a chest full of heartburn
and a head full of
"didn't"s

i want to appreciate myself
for trying

no one showed up for the gigs
but
i took the shot

the girl said no
but
i took the shot

i didn't make the shot
but
i took the shot

God Has a Shotgun in His Mouth

in his image

it is said we were created

in our image

he should be ashamed of himself 

given the way

all of human history has turned out

given how not a minute passes

that we don't try to destroy each other

sometimes from the outside, in

sometimes from the inside, out

nobody feels good

and nobody wants anyone else to feel good 

if it was me

and this world
was my greatest creation 

i'd certainly have my teeth on a barrel

The Martini Mirage

he lost count of the days
he's been walking
through this
desert

savvy enough
to stay in the shade when the sun is up
to know which cactus yields the most water

he gets through the days
with an unshakable resolve
to survive

but the nights . . .

stars look like grains of salt
around the rim of a margarita

the blackness behind them
looks like Guinness

he tries to lick his lips
but there is sand on his tongue
sand in his shoes
sand in his pants
and
he thinks
maybe even sand in his brain

it is a cold night in the desert
he can't think straight
and son-of-a-bitch
if the moon doesn't look like an olive

Laughing Up a Storm

it would be too easy
to just assume he was crazy
sitting on the grass in a dirty white t-shirt
smoking cigarettes through a dirty white beard

i am not qualified to make that diagnosis
not qualified to evaluate someone's mental faculty

nor i'm not qualified to forcast the weather
but it certainly looks like rain

i'm sure The National Weather Service
knows better than i do

and maybe the man in the grass
knows better than i do

maybe everybody
knows better than i do

there is a joke in the wind
and i just don't get it

some hilarious breeze

97 Fires for Hank

tough motherfucker full of drinks
and fights, and piss, and cum

when one day seems like a lot
i wish i was Bukowski

a man without a thousand friends
a man without a thousand lovers
a man without an ounce of respect for
a boss
or a president
or a father
or a policeman

with love
true love for the bartenders
and the lowlifes
and the loose women

the scumbags got their stories
too

when i am staring down the letters
looking for the rabid dog who wants to be
a sweet pup
i am thinking of Bukowski

when i pass by the bars
or the liquor isle
i am thinking of Bukowski

when i fall in love with a woman
i am thinking of Bukowski

when one day seems like a lot
the fact that i never finished Pulp
is just enough

the shit under my fingernail
is just enough

a fly's busted wing
and a mosquito's broken twat
are just enough

and when one day seems like too much
i read Cause And Effect
and then i read it again
and again
and again

until i know i've read it
just enough

Cuts Like a Sheet of Mead Notebook Paper

there's a trail of blood

leading from your dead body

back to my simile

summon the courts

because i am ready to stand trial

when the judge asks me

why i did what i did

i will look to a jury

vacant of poets

and i will tell them

but they won't get it

"who the fuck gives a shit about poetry

anyway?"

but i will try

to make them understand 

that

you

and anyone else calling themself a poet

who uses "cuts like a knife"

deserves to die

I Keep Dreaming of a Dying Dog

it's the same dog
even if it is a different breed
in each dream

sometimes within the dream
i'll pet the short back of a dachshund
leave the room for just a moment
and come back to a collie

but it's the same dog
i know it

and we both know he's dying
and we both know there's nothing to do
but let death

my only memories of him
are from last nights dream
but those are enough
to weep when i wake
for the friend
i never had

No Fucking Poem!

i am not going to write a poem
tonight

even if i did
i would still be a 37 year old waiter
tomorrow

i would still be a failed musician
tomorrow

i would still be a little worried
about next month's rent
tomorrow

a poem will only fool me into thinking
i am interesting

a poem will only foster the false narrative
that there is purpose
in my suffering

so
i'm not gonna do it

i'm gonna bicycle home
the long way
listening to something really unpretentious
like Motley Crue
or Twisted Sister

no fucking Leonard Cohen
no fucking Nina Simone
no fucking Lana Del Rey

and when i get home
i'm gonna watch something dumb
like Family Guy

no fucking documentaries
or Oscar contenders

distract the brain cells i'm not killing
eat cookies
and drink 2
or 3
Diet Dr. Peppers

and if somewhere in the night
i have a good idea for a simile
i'll just step on it
like a bug

and if there's a knock at my apartment door
and i open it to find a brilliant metaphor standing there
i will grab my dullest knife from the kitchen
and cut its throat

whatever i do
i will not be creative
even a haiku

with the utmost certainty
i can make this guarantee
that for a second
or for a minute
or any amount of time
i will not write poetry
of any meter
form
or rhyme

For a Hostage

there was no way
you could have ever met my demands

deep down
i think i made them impossible on purpose

deep down
i think i cared more about
being right
than
being loved

deep down
i was a weak
fragile
insecure
little man

counting on some fleeting symptoms
of Stockholm Syndrome
to keep you

dents
the shape of my fist
in your refrigerator door

a pile of wax and glass
from candles smashed
against a wall

threat after threat
to keep you afraid of leaving
because i was always afraid you were going to

terrified of being alone
incapable of trust
made me
a
shitty
person

i see now
you never left me

you escaped me

Restoration

old photos look new in his old hands
some wrinkles can be ironed out
others you can't do a damn thing about

his eyes fall into each picture
pulling his heart along for the tumble

the nostalgia is palpable

his mother when she was beautiful
his father with a full head of black hair

then he realises
he remembers these pictures
more clearly than the moments they depict

himself as a baby-
his mother used to show him
this photo
when he was a boy
and he couldn't believe
he was ever that young

he believes it less
now

these old photos look new
but the hands that hold them
assure him they are not

Death Wish Erotica

the night is ripe
with its breast heaving in anticipation
and a moon illuminated like a g-spot

stars gaze down
glimmering eyes of direction
each one saying
"don't just finger-fuck me
put everything in"

i turn up a Roky Erickson song
spin my wheels into the middle lane
and look away from the oncoming traffic

i can only orgasm when my life is on the line

Life on Both Sides

strangers don't even know they're dancing
as she watches them from the dark side
of the glass

in and out
back and forth
the afternoon parking lot ballet

on this side
of the window
she considers hers
the most exquisite opinion
on all matters of choreography

until . . .

suddenly
her thoughts fall
from the pirouette of ego
and it occurs to her that she
was on the other side of the glass
only a few moments before

before she ordered her iced coffee

before she sweetened it with three packets of stevia

before she sat in this chair
and turned herself into
whatever it is she was trying to be

this window doesn't make her different
the glass brings
her and them
together

the things that seperate them
are much less transparent
but far more fragile

She Stole the Blankets, and My Wallet

the darker the bar
the better i looked

a little red light on my face
added some much needed color

at twenty-three i was still learning
how to handle my drinking
and i was learning a lot

i worked back-of-the-house in those days
so there was really no limit
to the quantities i consumed

as a waiter you have to at least look sober
but as a cook
or a dishwasher
you just have to show up

in those days
2 p.m. was morning
as far as i was concerned

i'd only been with a couple women
but i already read most of Bukowski's
and Fante's work
so i knew enough to know
they were not to be trusted

she came over to my table
where i was sitting alone
with a pitcher of Blatz
and she said
"you're depressing me"

i didn't say anything
not because i was cool
or stoic
or anything
only because there was nothing to say

"you should buy me a drink"

i knew she was running one on me
i was her mark
but whatever
i just paid rent
and had a few bucks to spare

a tall whiskey and diet
i brought back to the table
where she was now sitting
with two male friends

it occured to me
that the drink was a ruse
to gain access to the table
since the bar was crowded

"these are my roommates"
she said
along with their names
but i already knew who they were

they were both hipster musicians
whose bands both sounded like
knockoffs of The Pixies

i didn't know their names though
and didn't want to

but her name was Monica
and i liked that because it made me think
of California
and i always thought i should have been born in California
and i should have been taller
and i should have had a bigger dick

i sat there quietly while hipster-dudes
shared musings about their latest gigs

"are you a musician?"
Monica asked me

"no"

"are you an artist?"

"no"

"well, this is Riverwest
you have to be something"

she was kinda right
no one lets you sign a lease in Riverwest
unless you're some kind of struggling artist

"i know"
she exclaimed
"you're a poet"

"fuck no"
i said

last call bounced on us
the ugly lights came on
and the doorguy came through
yelling for everyone to drink up

Monica and the two hipsters went outside
and i went to take a piss

i figured that was a nice thing to do
give them a chance to leave without me
and not have it be awkward

but when i got outside
she nearly jumped in my face
"what are you doing now?"

"i'm gonna go home
and drink some more"

"can we come?"

"there's not enough for four"

"is there enough for me?"

"yes"

so she went home with me
in spite of her hipster-dudes
advising her against it

"he's not even a musician"
they rebuked her

when we got back to my place
she had a good laugh over all my guitars
drawings on the walls
and books of poetry

and she could fuckin'drink

twenty year old women
they're so tiny
and innocent looking
but she drank more beer than i did

i'd like to say the sex was amazing too
but i had some trouble drawing my weapon
and fired it off almost as soon as i did

we drank more beer after that
the sun came up
the beer ran out
and we passed out

i had only been with a couple women
so it was nice to feel a warm body
as i drifted into sleep

a few hours later
i woke up freezing
seeing that she'd stolen all the covers
and cocooned herself in them

grateful she was still there
i just grabbed my coat from the floor
and went back to sleep

the next time i woke up
it was to the sound of her
quietly pulling my apartment door closed
behind her

i got out of bed
saw my jeans draped over the edge of the futon
and felt my wallet was gone

because of my o.c.d.
i only had as much cash in there
as i had planned to spend the night before

all she got was seven bucks
and my i.d.

i was mostly pissed about the i.d.
but not even too mad about that

it seemed worth it
to remember what it was like
not to fall asleep alone

18

tomorrow
you will be one and a half years sober
as long as you make the next one and a half miles

as long as you don't make
a triumphant return
to The Waveland
or The Den
or Jeanie's

tomorrow you will be 18 months sober
as long as you get through the next 18 minutes

just keep pedaling
take the side streets
stay distracted

don't do what you want to
and try to turn this night into a rock'n'roll video

not gonna happen

best case scenario
your night'll end up like a Tom Waits song
or a Charles Bukowsi story
and people in Des Moines
never heard of them

you're in the wrong town
to try to be interesting

tomorrow
you will be sober 548 days
if you do what you did the last 546 nights

be bored
be boring
be okay with it

tomorrow
if you make it . . .

Do not underestimate my demand to win while simultaneously overestimating my will to live.

Appetite for Seduction

look beyond her full red lips
at those threads of heart
caught between her teeth

when she stares into your eyes
it is not because she loves
but because she is hungry

A Song That Does Not Swim

i am the brightest bone
in the darkest hull of the sea
a ballroom and a casket
a dance floor and a grave

no music ever swims this deep
no shark ever plays a trumpet
the fish don't dance
and the band
all drowned

i am only the scar of a song
that will never be played again

poetry
only
exists
because
you
can't
paint
emotions

The Book Was Drunker

i'd seen the movie
and thought it was alright

my dear friend Brent
told me the book was better

everyone says that
but i believe Brent more than everyone

and he was right
the book was better

and the book
more than the movie
reflected my own alcoholism back to me

now
my drinking wasn't as bad as Ben's
at least
not that week

but everytime O'Brien described
whatever cocktail our protagonist was having
it made my mouth water

the poison
that was destroying the man in the pages
sounded pretty tasty to the man turning them

those nights at the bar
i might as well have made my order by saying
"i'll have what was killing Ben in this chapter"

Trans

it's easy for me

to get it

as a baby

i should have been dressed in black

but they assumed i was going to be happy 

you can't tell a person who they are

but if refuse to accept that 

it tells who you are

I Wish I Was Your Favorite Broken Chair

stuffed into the corner of an attic
waiting for the day you have the time
for a bit of carpentry

just this one leg-
a little wood glue
a little maintenance
a little love

why is that so hard to find?

don't you remember?
the dinners?
the card games?
the summer night
you brought me outside for beers by a fire?

just think of all the other  memories
we could be collecting if
i wasn't up here
collecting dust

but
i suppose
you have plenty
of other chairs
and don't need
me
to keep making memories

A Bad Banana

i wake up lost in the jungle of morning

crying out to a monkey for help

he always comes

but sometimes he gets lost too

one wrong turn

suddenly there's no escape
suddenly there is only doom

aware of our surroundings-

our surroundings are the salivating jaws

of every ferocious beast

as the very bones in us fill with terror

we can feel where our flesh is most tender

where teeth will sink with ease

the jungle wins

the jungle is the fruit of death

and life was only a peel

The Osceola Moon

if only
no one had been
at the station to greet me
but the moon

and maybe
instead of me
getting off of a train
the moon could have got on board

as deep as the tracks traveled
to find a place where it is always dark

where sleep is a dirty word
and there's nobody foolish enough
to work for a dream

where the night needs no name
and the stars remember everyone
by face

where not an utterance
not a whisper
is ever spoken of the sun

I'm Only Here for the Sad Song

minor key tonality
requiems
dirges
and everything that hurts us
set to a melody

the kind of song you leave a woman to
the kind of song she leaves you to
and every time it plays you think of her face
in the space between the beats
takes you back to the place where you two first meet
every time that you hurt her
and every time that she hurt you
on every cold winter night
and each summer fight in the heat

the kind of song you bury a body to
the kind of song the dead always come back to
for every memory that just won't die
no matter how hard you try
no matter how hard you cry
the kind of song that crawls in your ears
and makes it feel like it's taken years
to say goodbye

the kind of song you just wanna be alone to
the kind of song you turn to glass from stone to

a song that's slow
a song that's sad
a song that feels like it's all you ever had

My Eyes

there are hints of
what the hell have i done?
mixed with some
what the fuck am i gonna do?

in the daylight they appear more homicidal
and more suicidal at night

but no matter what time of day
if you peer deeply
you'll see
that ready-to-die look is always there

they're heavy
they're sad
they're tired
they're crazy

they're letting go
and
they're holding on

oh
and they're brown

Don't Rest in Peace

So many horrors of which I rave,
and those I don't, amount to zero.
But the ones I love the most,
where flesh is eaten like toast
by the dead risen from the grave.
All thanks to you, George Romero.

An Empire of Dunces

As I finish re-reading
A Confederacy of Dunces,
I promise myself not to wait
another 13 years to read it again.

Next I imagine what might have happened had Toole not killed himself.

If the book had been
accepted by a publisher
before the author's grave decision.

Would it still have won the Pulitzer?

Would it still have been a hit?

Might Toole have even wriiten a sequel?
A novel chronicling the hijinx of Ignatius,
and the minx Myrna Minkoff
in New York City?

How would Fortuna's wheel spin
for Mr. Reilly in The Big Apple?

Those things we'll never know.
Questions without answers.

So for now,
here's to dreaming of alternate universes,
and cracking open a book that never existed.

An Empire of Dunces. 

The Haunting of Arey Elementary

i.

on one of the rare occasions i found myself
wandering my hometown
passing by the old Arey Elementary
i was blown away by
how small the playground was

there was a moment it was big
a moment i was big
life was big

a moment
as brief as a breeze
as long-lasting as a burn

it was 2nd grade
kiss-tag with a few cute girls
at recess

that was living
liked i have never lived
since

on the way back to class
full of excitement
telling the girls
"that was fun! let's play again tomorrow! that was so much fun!"

Tricia set me straight
"we only played that game to make fun of you! you're gross! no of us like you!"

that was dying
like i have died so often
since

ii.

Arey converted into the alternative high school a few years later

when Justin Dillon and his friends
made it clear that i wasn't welcome
at the regular high school
i finished my diploma at the alternative school

being back there
was like being my own fucking ghost

looking down at a parking lot
that used to be the playground
i wished it had always been a parking lot
i wished i had never played with those girls
i wished i had played hookie that day instead
i wished there was a way to exorcise myself
a way to forget
or not care when i remember

turns out
there was
and i found it at just the right time

iii.

i kissed those girls thirty years ago
and if i could take those kisses back
i would

i started drinking twenty years ago
and if i could give every drink back
i wouldn't

but as it is
the girls get to keep their kisses
and i had to set the drinks free

and somewhere on the landing
of the northwest stairs in the Arey building
there is the ghost of a boy who is full of light
about to ascend into a darkness that never shakes

I Haven't Thought About Killing Myself in a Few Days

i must be having a good week

suicide usually crosses my mind
once
or twice a day
at least

half the time
it's rather casual
over something as simple as
one too many donuts at Casey's General Store
or it's time to do laundry

half the time
it's the real deal

the cold draft of unrelenting loneliness
the sheer discomfort of my ever-worsening back
the dead-end job
the live-wire addiction
the bills
the people
the bugs
and the pain

the bills...
the people...
the bugs...
and the pain

anyways
i haven't thought about those things
in a few days

until i realised i hadn't thought about them
and
now...
fuck!

It's Okay to be Sad Everyday

clear skies are the feathers

with which the lesser gods

tickle their twats and dicks

sunshine

is the gleam of a puckered asshole
about to take a big shining shit of insipidness
all over your stupid fucking heart 

any god worth a damn

would be filled with pain
all the time

filled to the brim with rain

and

He

She

or Thee

would never stop crying
over how empty everything is 

Peace

my hands were
gentle
reaching up
trying to hold an entire galaxy
like a small pet

my eyes lit up
as they swallowed
each star
and i almost wept
for everything i missed when i'd blink

but it is in
the clearest sky
that the storm of truth
is most easily seen

i lose my patience
hoping for forever

frustrated by
all the lives i will
never live
the one death i can
count on
and i concede my hands back to my side

i leave the stars where they are
push my foot against the earth
seeking peace in what i am
and what i am not

Beware

shards of glass match the tears in your eyes

the flame of the candle
trembles with you

truth and lie become indiscernible
as the promises reach my lips

when i say
i'll never hurt you
that's
my way of letting you know
i can

The Only Stripper in an Empty Stripclub

holiday weekends

in the service industry 

always a tough game 

the stage is empty

seats are empty, but for me

when a girl walks out

but she's not a girl

hasn't been for a long time

living on fake tits

worn, but not worn out

hangs in there 'cause she has to

the pole pays the rent

private dances buy her lunch

i am here to help

feed her with my loneliness 

The Birds Have Lost Their Minds

he said,
"i  could not measure how much i love you
with a thousand wingspans"

she blushed
and fashioned a nest

he proclaimed
"the sky will always be too short
for as high as my heart goes
whenever you are near"

she blushed
and laid some eggs

he told her
"when our chicks hatch
it will be upon the warm wind
of my affection for you
that they learn to fly"

she blushed
and told him
"i love you"

meanwhile
i sip at my coffee like a grumpy cat
and think
"these birds are fuckin' nuts!"

I've Never Been So Happy to Be Covered in Blood

deep under the skin
it festers inside of me
and mostly i can control it

but
sometimes...

sometimes it takes over
i am filled with pain and powerless
i am consumed
infected

until i let it out

Every Day Is Father's Day

i was born bastard
and not a day goes by i don't remember that

it is not the only thing
but it was the first thing

sitting on the floor of a kindergarten class
as all the kids were giving their responses
to the teacher's request for our favorite
"stories about Dad"

i hated those fucking kids
that day
and
every day

as i stared out the window of the classroom
mesmerized by a dead winter branch
waving in the cold wind
i hated the teacher

i was pretty well behaved in grade school
mostly because i was always scared
so Mrs. Marquist had a lot of praise
for me

she liked me
and i usually liked her
too

but i hated her that day

more than Mrs. Marquist
more than the kids
i hated their dads

some of them sounded like real assholes
and i could tell by a look on Mrs. Marquist's face
that she thought so too
and that made me start
to like her again

some of the dads liked to yell
and be real mean to the kids
and drink lots of beer
and i hated them

some of the dads were really nice
and i hated them more

i hated the man who Mom told me was in Oregon
and had a different last name than me

it was a lot of hate for a five year old
and it was just the beginning

every day that has come and gone since
every Christmas
every 4th of July
every Monday
every Sunday
every Election Day
every Valentine's Day
and
especially
every Father's Day
only served to remind me
that i am not going to fit in

that i cannot walk with the herd
i cannot fly with the flock
i cannot ride with the wind

i was born bastard
and i will die bastard

every woman is just a woman i do not love

every man is just a man i'll never trust

every holiday is just a holiday i can't
relate to

well...
i guess
Halloween is alright

Something Between My Teeth

the nagging remnants of a shitty meal
a morbid clown in the form of spinach
plays its pranks on the tip of my tongue

my fingernail is not long enough
swishing it out with water is not working
and i don't carry a fucking toothbrush around

at my wits' end
i concede into a restaurant
where  the beauty at the host stand
comes to the rescue when she hands me
a tiny
carved
sliver of wood

my mouth is free
my mouth is clear of debris

now
if they only made a toothpick for the mind

The Picture Frame Blues

i've seen picnics and first kisses

turn into weddings and honeymoons

babies into toddlers

little league hats into graduation caps

never the star of the show

never thought about that much

at all

but

i've always been here

it is my job to be unnoticeable

just four sides

and quiet

A Watched Pot Boils

i.

when salt spills into the wound
i do not throw it over my shoulder
anymore

at seventeen i smoked a joint by myself
for the first time

when you're that high
and when you're that alone
thoughts will drift into places
they never dared to go before

through their own fences
around their own walls

a Pink Floyd cassette was
the soundtrack to the death of god

ii.

when a man wants something so bad
he can taste it
but they never told him that
it doesn't taste like vodka

at thirty-two i wound up in rooms full of necromancers
summoning the corpse of a spirit
with misplaced remorse

teams of half-assed Frankensteins
piecing together some monster of reason

no one had to believe "IT'S ALIVE!"
you just had to say it

iii.

when a moment alone is more graceful
than god ever was

at thirty-seven i stand over the mac&cheese
like it is the grave of my own desperation
dig a bit of salt from the wound
and sprinkle it into the water

no man has his own way of living
but you can get close

when you lock the door
and kick everyone out of your head
you can get close

when you have what the haunted never have
you can get close

when the only things you worship
are the walls around you
and the breaths you take

when you have a moment alone
you can get close
and that
is close enough

Once You Get Wet...

depression is a bit like
getting caught in the rain

at first you might
fuck around with an umbrella that won't open
or duck under a canopy full of holes

but eventually you just realize
you are going to be wet

once you know that's how it's going to be
it's easier to deal with

and even though it's not okay
you accept it

and even though it's not okay
you get used to it

and even though it's not okay
it's kind of okay

Suicide

Upon the cool breath of midnight,
stars between the teeth,
a moon was devoured.

Darkness swallowed each bit of light,
above and beneath,
shadows were showered.

She Felt Something in Church

It was in the front pew
that she sat, and she prayed.
Hoping to confess, but could not find the priest.
So, alone before God, she took to her knees.
Lustful thoughts, deep and new.
In her loins, devils played.

Heart stolen by sin's heist,
temptation coercive.
Flesh in constant quiver, arousal, dismay.
Immodest feelings that would not go away
In God's house, before Christ,
she asked Him to forgive.

The more she resisted,
the more that it hurt,
so she let go like a beast that no more begs.
With surrender, placed a hand between her legs.
As her young thighs twisted
she felt something in church.

[ glimpses of the sun ]

glimpses of the sun

pierce your hopeful eyes

through dark cloud armies

showers briefly turn to mist

lightning briefly relaxes

thunder briefly goes quiet

storm returns swiftly
great fury and rain
all hopes turn weathered

The Good, the Bad, and the Poetry

on a good day
a poem is just a death threat to emptiness

on a bad day
it is a love letter

A Tale of Two Dannys

part 1

when he loves you
he comes skipping
into your heart like a schoolboy

picking flowers out of the courtyard

picking major keys on the guitar strings

picking out handcrafted earrings at the hipster store

sweet little poems left in your inbox

anything he can do
so that you will love him back

part 2

when he loves you
watch out!

he's going to think you are his
as if every gift he purchased was just his way
of purchasing you

and like a
jealous
insecure
schoolboy
he's not going to get it
the first thousand times you tell him
it's over

taken hostage
you start to wonder if he's outside
peering in your window through a crack in the blinds

sweet little death-threats left in your inbox

anything he can do
so that you will love him back

The Star That Never Existed

i like to pretend in alternate universes
where everything is almost the same
just different in a few spots

under another sun
the two of us
worked
we were good for each other

under another moon
we enjoyed the nights
without
vodka
without
blow
without
whatever pills i got from dude

i like to pretend in alternate universes
where your eyes were still beautiful
and i never felt like a fool
for looking into them

under another sun
we weren't always
still drunk from the night before

under another moon
it didn't just keep starting all over

where i know you are alright
sitting next to me on a summer night
-not much different than this one-
gazing up at the star that never existed

the worm wrote a dirge
that put a catfish in tears
when it reached the hook

Mommy's Lie

Bobby heard all of his grandparents talking
about where he and his brother Ryan would live.
Mom's folks said, "We have more room, even a pool."
Dad's said, "Yes, but we live closest to the school."
Bobby heard enough, and snuck out to go walking,
inviting Ryan with a nod that was passive.

The older of the two, Bobby led the way,
toward the park where Mom used to take them.
Ryan just followed him, didn't say a thing,
and when they got there they both grabbed a swing.
The same old park, but it was different today.
The trees changed. The flowers changed, petals and stem.

Ryan broke the silence when he said, "Mom lied."
Bobby nodded, but his eyes stayed looking low.
Tears on her cheeks, she said she was just having some fun.
Just scaring Daddy, and his "friend" with Daddy's gun.
The boys waited in the car while both their parents died.
Now where the boys would live, no one seemed to know.

the spider's last meal
a violent appetite
wasp caught in her web

Honest Liars

fiction is just the truth that never happened
and writers are the only honest liars
out there

It's Coo'

my eyes are tired
of peering out second
and third story windows
looking for redemption
in the glow of streetlights
but...
it's okay
i'm pretty much used to it


my heart is ruined
from every time i threw it against the wall
to prove to someone that there is no point
in loving me
because i do not love myself
but...
seriously
don't worry about it
i'd be bored if i didn't have
something to be bummed out about

my head is swimming
with another fishy idea
the salty ocean appetite of a whale
and about as much follow-through
as a puddle
but...
for real
it's fine
i just need to go on a bicycle ride
and listen to some Roy Orbison

my soul is blowing away
like a pile of ashes left in a park grill
the burnt remains of a sunny afternoon
scattered off into one last dying breeze
but...
nah
totally
it's coo'

Price Chopper

clouds clear
and the sun like an ambulance
in time to see your last breath
finally shows

but the light is not there to spite
the dark

they need each other
even though the darkness may not always
realize

and death never knows
that life only dances on graves
because there is no music without it

flowers at funerals
are the whole reason for balloons at birthday parties

the widow is deep
in the heart of every bride

and that little shit
bouncing the ball in aisle 7
someday becomes the man
with a bad back
and a broken soul
writing poetry and contemplating suicide
in the grocery store cafe

Last Laugh of the Tree

On the day that I met the axe

I could see in the Lumberjack's eyes

that he meant to chop me down where I stood.

Make believe himself as strong as my wood.

After he swung his last few hacks,

the way I fell was his last surprise. 

Storm and Street

Rain seeps into the pavement,
they were meant to be together.
Each drop penetrates into the concrete,
with the chill of passion, storm and street meet.
Water makes love to cement.
Wet with romance comes this weather.

eyes looking for art
even if it is not there
will always find it

Flammable

her teeth are black
from the ashes of ex-lovers

a hopeless romantic
her heart is reserved for burn victims

with gasoline lips
and a book of matches
she's always looking for her next kiss

Light Roast for a Dark Soul

opens his eyes to the morning sky
as if it is a tightrope

his first thought is always to cut the rope
but somewhere inside himself he finds
a shred of will
a drop of endurance
and a speck of bother

the fall comes soon enough
no need to rush it

he starts a pot like he's opening his umbrella

he stretches his arms into the day
takes one step at a time
one cup in front of the other

his skin scorched to crisp

man who saw himself as flame

went looking for home

Ghost Story of Chicago

where Cal's Liquors used to be

he haunts outside every night

peering in at the empty shelves

through a thick pane of glass

where once someone peered in at him

toward the corner

where the bands used to set up

he sees things that haven't been there

for a long time

remembering a cigarette

he wasn't supposed to light

remembering a girl

he wasn't supposed to message on facebook

remembering the keyboard player 

the bass player

the banjo player 

the sax player 

and the drummer

that was when he was alive

that was when Obama was President

that was before the guitar was covered in blood

he only moans when the L passes by

so noone hears

so noone tries an exorcism

he doesn't want to leave

he doesn't want to forget

he doesn't want to be dead

Safe

all the sunny streets look the same

so bright

so perfect

so fucking boring

their lawns grow

on the excrement of dead dreams

their flowers stink

of mundane ambition 

and their fences maintain 

the illusion

the lie

that anything here is unique

false narratives are the pollen of suburban hypnosis 

where neighbors vomit friendly smiles at each other 

and call it honey

honesty does not live here

never did

it stays locked inside

of a run down flat

on a rainy boulevard 

between two deep dark alleys

the only place it feels safe

Open Mic / Closed Casket

not much difference
between a pallbearer
and a broke musician

carrying around coffins
full of broken dreams
that are as heavy
as dead bodies

setlists look like obituaries
strings stiffen in rigor mortis
in tune
out of breath
down beat
time's up
roots music
code blue
singing corpse
decaying crescendo

dollar in the hat
blood in the basket
open mic
closed casket

Parachute

the sky felt what a beast
man can be

his body tore through the wind
like the claw of a cornered animal
all at once
scared
brave
and vicious

as flesh fell
the mind soared

as his heart tumbled
freedom lifted inside of him

where his bones would land
a crash site of peace

too often is quantity mistaken
for quality

he knew that an entire life
could be realised in a moment

a way to live
and a way to die
can be the same thing

and before he ever set foot on that plane
he knew he would not be pulling that cord

I Kinda Wish I Was Dead Today

i toil around with writing a haiku
it feels like my dick
but longer
harder

it's cold
it's raining
the cable's out
and god never was

i've been sober
too long to think drinking will help

sober just long enough to know
it doesn't get better

i look in the fridge for the meaning of life
and in an empty fridge
that is exactly what i find

Uncle George

"no more Uncle Spooky Eyes,"

my little brother said

i told him to shut up

because i was that typical

shitty big brother that you always hear about

Uncle George used to 

flip his eyelids inside-out

and roll his eyeballs backwards 

hence

Uncle Spooky Eyes 

us kids really got a kick out of it

freaked us out

but we liked it

in February of 1992

he took his own life

"no more Uncle Spooky Eyes,"

my little brother said 

"shut up!"

i yelled

suicide was a lot like his spooky eyes

it disturbed me deeply

and yet strangely fascinated me

i didn't like it 

it freaked me out

but

i 

sorta 

understood it

it was almost

poetic 

the aftermath of a suicide 

however 

is far less Shakespearean 

my gramma

whom i loved so much

was devastated 

crushed

emotionally reduced to rubble

my usually stoic grampa

crumbled into tears

all my aunts

other uncles

and mom

were burdened with wondering

if there was anything they could have

done

there was arguing

and fighting

and blaming

a fucking shit-show of feelings

Gramma blamed Grampa

Grampa blamed himself

aunts blamed other aunts

uncles blamed other uncles

what an easily upset institution 

the family unit can be

we were never a high functioning clan

but after that

it seemed like there was always a feud

and i always think back to that night

when my 6 year old brother first experienced the death of someone in his life

i've never talked to my brother about it

i don't know that he remembers

but i would certainly guess

what an easily upset institution 

what a love deprived wasteland 

what a cradle of neglect

the family unit can be 

i try not to have regrets 

as they are useless

but...

i wish i could go back to that night

"no more Uncle Spooky Eyes,"

my little brother would say

and instead of yelling at him

i would hug him

and just say

"no more Uncle Spooky Eyes."

Proselytizing

if you offer chocolate
to comfort a man who is weeping
he will know that your heart is sweet

if he declines
letting you know he is diabetic
and again you offer him chocolate
he will know that your heart is foul

I Am Not My Crippling Social Anxiety

getting an invitation

for a party
in the mail

was like receiving a death-letter

honestly 

i'd feel better about it if

someone had died

at least there'd be one less person there

the family gatherings

the friendly get-togethers

the outdoor music festivals

fuck!

especially the outdoor music festivals 

i never wanted to go

every class 

every shift 

induced a minor panic attack 

some less minor than others

meeting just one friend for coffee

that's not too bad

meeting a few friends for lunch

that's worse

but

a fucking party?

i start wondering if it would just be better 

to throw myself in front of a bus

right now

when i was drinking 

the bar wasn't so bad

because they had my anxiety medication 

on hand

but in my sobriety 

human interaction is like a hangover 

and solitude is my hair of the dog

i try to tell myself 

that it's all in my head 

that it's some form of chemical imbalance 

that

i am not my crippling social anxiety 

but i never believe it