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