I wish.

I wish I weren't so lost inside myself. I wish Makayla were not avoiding me. I wish my friends weren't always busy. I wish this school thing was set up in such a way that I would thrive instead of merely survive. I wish God would show up in a glorious way instead of with still small whispers. I wish I understood the depths of the poets. I wish I knew how to write music as deeply amazing as the folks I listen to. I wish I knew what I'm going to do with my life. I wish I had a more creative mind. I wish I had a clear mind. I wish I communicated better. I w~~~ I knew why I'm plagued by so many questions I wish everything wasn't up in the air when I'm confused. I ____ I wasn't so sick of my restless heart

I wish the world would change

so

I wouldn't have to.

From Mouth to Hand

from mouth to hand
write a poem
I can hardly see them
the strange night lights

are they bullshitting me?
my eyes?
my mouth, my hands?
that's for you to decide

who are you?
a reader, in my bedroom
or a million miles away
I can't tell

but anyway my thoughts
turn to things of the past
to jokes told and by some's measure failed
because they only made me laugh
which isn't so bad

I'm glad I have that power
though I wish I had more

Title Comes Later

"i'm so sorry
i stole another man's work
we in film call that homage
however again, i stole a man's work
for that i am sorry

and i'm afraid
i only did it 'cause i'm so scared
scared i'm not smart
not creative
not unique
not talented
not hard-working
not brave
scared i'm a waste
of paint
of time
of space
funny isn't it?

i've made my grave
and i'll lie in
i'm so sorry"

A Satisfying Fantasy of Shia LaBeouf Apologizing

To Pose

I can't smile on cue

Whatever muscles in your face you can contort to convey a particular expression
Whatever comfortable pattern you snap in with ease
I don't have that power

Of course I'm searching for happy memories and my chest heaves with a strange laughter
To find sincerity in portraying a falseness
I mean I can act and I lie well

But I can't fake happiness
Not even for a moment
Never could

Perspective

on the highway to industry
crushed in the crucible

i suddenly find my cracked iPhone screen
a much smaller problem

with blood pouring out
of my foremost orifice

with bones that creak
snap and break
with each laugh

i find myself standing at the edge
staring down death however dimly

i chuckle at the absurdity
thinking leaving the front door unlocked
and free to let in a cold breeze
was a crime

i giggle at the notion
as my blood seizes my throat
that life somehow isn't a joke

A Cynic's Fairy Tale.

There once was a man who couldn't love himself, and this man thought himself great enough to deserve a princess. Such was his narcissism that he both hated himself and loved himself. So this man, seeking a princess, went about his way until one day he found a woman suitable to his desires; she was very pretty, so pretty he thought "I don't deserve her, but I will try for her, because I love this woman that I do not know."

The trouble with the woman that he loved was she was only a painting, a painting of a woman a million miles away, far from the knight's court where this man found himself as he was. And so this man thought to himself, "I must go and find her; I must go take what is so rightfully mine, so rightfully not mine." Then he asked the king and the king spoke to his knight thusly:

"You shall not have her. She is a million miles away. Over a thousand years of travel it will take you. She is locked up in a mountain far to the north, in a frozen wasteland, never to be seen again. She is cursed. She will not love you back."

And thus said the man to his king:

"I am no longer your knight, for I am in love."

And he headed north. The king was right. Many days, many nights, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of nights and days passed, the man hardly seeing food nor sleep for the love of this woman that he had not met, that he only had his projections to work with. And thus the man, after many nights and many days, found himself at the base of a mountain, weak and exhausted. He climbed. He climbed desperately like a man seeking food for his soul. And thus he found the woman, locked away, having not seen another person for quite some time. And the man thought to himself, "Oh. How I do love this woman, and I hope that she loves me." This man took her by the hand; she smiled; he smiled back. And they made a home together in that mountain and lived happily ever after.

No wait, no. Fuck happily ever after; there's no such thing. This man doesn't deserve a beautiful wife; he didn't work for it. Sure, he crossed a desert but it doesn't justify happiness. You don't get happiness by sheer force of will or strength of compulsion. It's absolute bullshit. You don't get to get those things just because you're a madman. You don't get happiness, and there's no princess, and there's no valleys and deserts and mountains; there's only life; there's only weird, nonsensical paths that we run up and down not knowing where to go. And we have no idea. We have no idea where we're going or who we're going to. And happiness isn't some bottle you find floating down the river with a message in it to tell you to go somewhere, to do something. It's not advice that you take; it's a place that you live in your head. And it's an impossible place to find if you hate and love yourself. So there is no happy ending; there's only a pathless wood, full of birches.

A Perfect Day 10 Years From Now.

I wake up, refreshed, ready, eager for a new day, for that first crisp breath of air to fill my lungs. I look beside myself to remind I'm not alone; there she is. A smile, a secret grin for a sleeping angel. I rise to my feet to walk down a short hall in my humble abode, albeit a cozy and small hall, but it's my home I'm walking through. I'm the king of this suburban castle. The walls of the hall are strewn with art, mine, hers, ours, as well as childhood pictures and old photographs that could never really capture the moment. These all blur in my peripheral vision as I head immediately for a kitchen table; it is my kitchen table. Yawning like a lion, I pour cheap sugar flakes and bargain milk into an inexpensive bowl. Clutching at an MP3 player, I start the program to send wonderful oscillations, vibrations and reverberations directly into my ear canals. And then I emerge from my home, ready to slay a new day.


But first, coffee! Walking down a crowded sidewalk at dawn, I kill time smiling at strangers until I arrive at my favorite coffee shop; the familiar smell fills my nostrils as the familiar bell rings because I've pushed the familiar old wood door so I can see my friendly and familiar friend behind the counter. Ever since I had watched a couple episodes of Cheers, I wanted to be able to say "The usual, mac!" I think about that while I order; I'm glad I've found just the place. A quick sip of a bittersweet chocolatey choco-lattè before I start typing into a sleek and nifty digital device, pouring in thought after thought while I pour the hot beverage down my gullet; I get so distracted I didn't even notice a lady, my lady to be specific, send me a cheerful good morning. Don't worry; I'll notice it later and get a smile a mile wide for quite a while. I say good-bye to my barista brother and leave quickly to work. Another round of high fiving random pedestrians before arriving not quite late, but definitely not on time, to a music store, my music store, bursting through the door with my signature dramatic entrance!


Friends I also call coworkers greet me with bright eyes and that oh-so-common subtle curve of the mouth. I return the greeting. A male fellow teases me about punctuality and my lack thereof. Thinking quick, I make up a poor excuse and then, realizing it won't work, write it off as a joke. We share a laugh, one of the best things to share I find. The next hours from the sunrise to noon are filled with more joyous rubbing of shoulders with fellow musicians, anyone from the young and rich Brooklyn-hipster type to the kind of person that doesn't have enough cashflow to afford a guitar, just a few picks and some browsing with dreamy dispositions; both are my kind of people, though there's something especially beautiful about a starving musician; underfed angels are they all. Whether they have or have not, I help them find their next prized possession they never would have guessed they would cherish for years to come for its fantastic tones and mystical music with simple flips of switches, taps of strings and smacks of skins. I help people with a hobby, the hobby of expression at its finest, my hobby. I eat a quick lunch and then I'm back to work, but it's not really work. It's play. It's something I want to do; it's not just a paycheck; it's not a choice of circumstance I was forced to make. It's not hard to find motivation because I do it for myself, my family, my friends, strangers I want to shake hands with and my God. It's my deepest joy; money is a reward for doing nothing besides standing around waiting to talk with nice folks about something I care about deeply: art as sound.


The dawn I once knew turns to dusk. The sun is waxing and waning, disappearing in and out behind dark clouds that are getting in line, single file like firemen, pouring water on the Earth, right onto a place I didn't realize needed rain until I'm dancing in it, wiggling and jiggling like a loonie to some songs no one has heard of by a band you couldn't even pronounce the name of. Old husks look on with disgust; adults look on with concern; psychologists look on with fascination; children look on with their big eyes with shock and awe. I laugh at myself and my own silliness, taking a bow after the album ends. A few folks even clapped! How nice!


I come home, not tired, but eager. Why? Because she's home.


We hug. We talk. We laugh. We love. We share our day for a short little while, before we retire to our personal slices of heaven: me to my lion's den where I pick up an ancient text I could read for hours without boredom and her to her lioness' den where she fiddles around on her fiddle and stares out a window, in wonder, at the city we live in; at the concrete that's covered with life; at the city that turns and churns with the masses; she smiles at the sky above it all, at the very, very, pretty, pretty sunset. I start to wonder about what she's doing; even a good book can't keep me away. I get up from my comfy chair and walk from my room to hers. Even as I enter I feel her smile and I see it light up the room. I playfully ask "Why are you smiling?" She turns, her face aglow with the warmth of humanity, ever-smiling as she answers "You know, I'm really not quite sure." I get closer, taking her under my arm in the dark room with the window framing the sunset with the fiddle on the floor of the room of our home in the city, our city, grinning like a fool. I say "I think..." just to pause. I exhale a happy sigh and inhale contentment, continuing saying "I think we've finally found it. We've found a place where we belong." I suddenly feel her silky hair crash on my shoulder and cascade down my back, making something in my chest feel warm and fuzzy. We don't need words. As the sun ends her journey, I chuckle aloud at the thought, because I have too. I'm home.