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

The Moon Doesn't Know What's Good for It

the moon doesn't know what's good for it

sharing the night sky with all those stars 

and still feeling like it's on its own

isolation can happen anywhere

even in a crowd

loneliness has nothing to do with being alone

and everything to do with being afraid

the moon doesn't know what's good for it

spends time with werewolves

hoping it can learn how to change

bounces sunlight off its surface

hoping it can learn how to shine

orbits the earth

hoping it can learn to appreciate a routine

but boredom is eclipsing

darkness is familiar 

and familiarity is the death of growth

the moon doesn't know what's good for it 

but even if it did

it would probably keep doing the same things

In the Numbers

one bird that stays north

when the rest fly south for winter

will never convince his flock of snow

The Why

because
the words trip over my tongue like
broken footed ballerinas

because
my lips quiver like
wet puppies locked out in the snow

because
my teeth chatter like
skeletons afraid of their own bones

why?

why do i write poems?

because
i don't know how to talk

Free is Me

Capitalism is God to the people.

If there is big money behind something,
it is sanctified in their eyes.

I am not a poet
in the eyes of the Capitalist.

I am not a musician
in the eyes of the Capitalist.

I am but a hobbyist of poetry, and music.

That it means
everything
to my every breath
is insignificant.

That it is a labor of love
is too abstract for them to understand.

They are incapable
of determining the value of art
without a price tag on it.

As if one could write from the heart,
and then place a dollar value on it.

The only price
I could in good conscience
put on a poem
would be my last name.

nights dream of the sun 

a star not so far away 

and skies not so dark

Are You Music?

word traveled fast
about the man with the crying ears

sad with silence
an absence of music
left an absence in him

the heroes of this story
were a note and a beat that
embarked upon a journey to the man's home

they rolled
down roads of relentless rhythm
they marched
through fields of mired melodies
they trod
tirelessly over trails of backbeat tempos
and they persisted
along long paths of panged percussion

when finally they reached the man's home
the door was open

they walked in to find him
alone in a house empty of sound
staring through the walls
and deeply into a hush

the beat broke the silence
with a tap at the doorway

he lifted his head toward them
with the faintest expression of hope
fighting its way onto his face

then
in a voice that had almost forgotten
how to speak
he asked
"are you music?"

the beat nodded
and the note said
"yes"

tears of joy welled up in his ears
and he sang
"i am so glad that you are here"