Translation

my ears perked up
when i heard her say
she loves a guy that writes

"this is it,"
i thought
excitedly

but before i pulled up
my poetry blog on the smartphone
i had to remind myself of subtext

those underlying tones
said without being said

what she meant was
she loves a guy who is taller
that writes

what she meant was
she loves a guy who is better looking
that writes

what she meant was
she loves a guy that writes
politically charged articles for the local weekly
humorous short stories
or fucking sonnets

she did not mean
someone who writes
self-deprecating free verse

she did not mean a guy
with no car
a bad back
a studio apartment
and a pen

she did not mean
me

An Origin Story

as harsh winds collided
the cruel eyes of two storms met
and could not look away

this is how love was born

time reduced to ash
all the clocks were made of fire
burning each second

Metal

in a small town during the 90's

fm radio hummed stale moans

of arena rock

for most folks
that was just fine

Classic Rock
the soundtrack of their youth

but the beat of Ringo

Keith Moon

Charlie Watts

was not one i could march to

i didn't want to march

at all

i wanted to run

but there was nowhere to

run to

my peers

enamored with the grunge movement 

found that was their answer to the boring shit

our parents listened to

but for me

it wasn't enough

Soundgarden

was as sleepy as Simon and Garfunkel

Smells Like Teen Spirit 

was no more resonant with me

than Rock and Roll All Nite

i was suffocating

choking on prime time television 

Jesus Christ worship

and video games

i was out of place

and angry

and that anger was my reason to breathe 

Chad Lennon

the older kid

on the other side of our fence

saw this in me

so he started lending me tapes

he started slow

knowing that Slayer
was the most extreme band

i had any knowledge of at that time

"that's a good start,"

he said

"but..."

soon enough

i was staring at a picture of Glenn Benton

with an inverted cross branded into his face

on the inside sleeve of a Deicide cassette

it shocked me

but not as much as it intrigued me

Death Metal

Black Metal 

Extreme Metal

i didn't give a fuck what you called it

it all hit me like nothing else could at that time

blast beats and monster vocals

were like messages in a bottle

that no Police song could fit into

skull art and Satanic lyricism 

was my assurance that others

like me

were out there

weird

hostile 

and unafraid

long-hairs dressed in black t-shirts

vehemently proud about being unusual

with a reverence for impiety

the more unholy the music was

the more sacred it was

now

i'm not as Metal

as i used to be

i kinda like Simon and Garfunkel

and my back hurts way too much

to ever set another foot in the mosh pit

but

there is always a twisted

black corner in my heart

reserved for the soundtrack of

my

youth

The Soil of Hubris

gravity undressed 

the ground

afraid it would be left alone

tried to shame the nakedness 

gravity blushed

the ground

felt its own weight

as everything crashed against it

She Loved Me

she knew i was weird
but she told everyone else
it was just because i was so smart

i think i believed it more
than they did

i think she believed it more
than me

i was 11
or 12
when i wrote my first poem

i showed it to her first
because i knew it would garner
her automatic praise

but i never expected the acclaim
that i received

she paid to have it printed
in the local paper

you'd have thought
i was Robert fucking Frost
or some shit

i don't remember why i wrote it
if it was some underlying need
to create
or if i just thought it would be a good way
to make myself stand out
and seem more interesting
to cute girls

i probably just saw some character
in a movie do it

either way
after gramma had it printed
in the paper
i knew i had to keep it up
even if just to make her proud

which it usually did

but she didn't understand
when i started writing free verse

"why doesn't it rhyme?"
she'd ask

and she wasn't thrilled when i would swear
in poems

"you don't need that language,"
she'd say

but she would always listen
to every
single
poem
i
ever
wrote

every
single
line

and even if she thought it should rhyme
and that it would be better without
the cussing
she would still convince me
that i was some kind of genius

sometimes
i still believe i am

sometimes
i think it was just because
she loved me

but that alone is enough reason
for me not to quit

Two Friends Meet for Coffee

he sat there sipping at a latte
drawing or writing poetry
while i stared at the back of his head

he peaked with excitement
as his friend walked through the door

the friend placed his winter coat
on the other chair at the table
and said
"I'll be right back"

in less than two minutes
he returned with a medium
citrus blend green tea


they talked too quietly
for me to decipher
what they were saying
over whatever machine
the barrista was running
behind the counter

the machine stopped
and they were talking about
friends they used to have
when they were in college

the whole conversation seemed
rather boring
but
so is my life
since i stopped drinking
so i pretended they were interesting

i pretended that i am interesting
for listening to their anticlimactic
dialogue

Damn!
the banality gets to me