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