wandering things
I flatten out the
bed sheets
and I disregard
the crumbs
I should break
my habit of
eating in bed,
but I am no longer
afraid of the
roaches
I understand that
they must
eat, too
like all
wandering
things
poem in red
this is a poem in
red and my hands are
shaking and
my bed is not
a bed
and I lay still and I
think of dreaming and
I think I’m dreaming
and the yellow walls are
not yellow until the sun
is on time and
puts them in
filthy piss yellow
and I wake up from being
awake
and I daydream of
sleeping
and I bleed colors
and I forget what day
it is
and I write a poem
in red
survival
there is not always
a good reason to break
an old habit
the easy way out
is sometimes the
only way out
at 3:14am
the night crawls
the fan blows
the whiskey
chokes
there are symptoms
of fear that
must be hidden
buried or
forgotten
a man can only
survive the
moment
take what the
whiskey will give you;
taste it
relish it
let it have you
when your old habits
kill you,
you’ll remember
that you were supposed
to die anyway
love poem
It’s all God
It’s all the poets
It’s Bukowski in tears
It’s the pain of some Picasso
It might be Mary Jane
in the comforting arms of the night
It’s something like the Coliseum
It’s the stranger
who kept a promise
It’s four kids in a hole in the wall
on the east side of town,
yelling their dirty little hearts out -
It’s just a dollar for a CD
It’s John Fante, or Hemingway,
or maybe even Nietzsche
It’s six strings or a pen
or two measly colors
It’s your heart on an island
It’s in a box
It’s in a prison
It’s religion without religion
It’s the unveiling of a soul
It’s right around the corner
It’s just beneath your fingertips
It’s beyond the machine
It’s found by some;
lost by many
Denham Springs
There’s a hotel in Denham Springs,
Louisiana,
where I redefined my prison-fed idea
of home.
I funneled my thoughts into the universe of
open space,
and focus became the freedom in
my step.
There was no more gazing into silence with nothing
on my tongue;
No more anchors of fear.
I sank into a strangers bed,
and I counted my blessings,
while I dreamed there was no better
place to be.
57
when I’m 57
I’ll think,
all those years
I spent
getting here,
all those steps
I took
getting here,
all of the awkward,
unnecessary conversation
that took me
nowhere,
all of the failed
jobs and hobbies,
the failed relationships,
every dehydrated
morning and
every self-loathed
night,
all of the
overpaid landlords,
every bill
paid late,
all of the
redos retries
reboots and
all of the times instability
led to a forced fresh start,
all of that
young pain
behind me and
I’ll think,
I’ve been waiting
a long time
I flatten out the
bed sheets
and I disregard
the crumbs
I should break
my habit of
eating in bed,
but I am no longer
afraid of the
roaches
I understand that
they must
eat, too
like all
wandering
things
poem in red
this is a poem in
red and my hands are
shaking and
my bed is not
a bed
and I lay still and I
think of dreaming and
I think I’m dreaming
and the yellow walls are
not yellow until the sun
is on time and
puts them in
filthy piss yellow
and I wake up from being
awake
and I daydream of
sleeping
and I bleed colors
and I forget what day
it is
and I write a poem
in red
survival
there is not always
a good reason to break
an old habit
the easy way out
is sometimes the
only way out
at 3:14am
the night crawls
the fan blows
the whiskey
chokes
there are symptoms
of fear that
must be hidden
buried or
forgotten
a man can only
survive the
moment
take what the
whiskey will give you;
taste it
relish it
let it have you
when your old habits
kill you,
you’ll remember
that you were supposed
to die anyway
love poem
It’s all God
It’s all the poets
It’s Bukowski in tears
It’s the pain of some Picasso
It might be Mary Jane
in the comforting arms of the night
It’s something like the Coliseum
It’s the stranger
who kept a promise
It’s four kids in a hole in the wall
on the east side of town,
yelling their dirty little hearts out -
It’s just a dollar for a CD
It’s John Fante, or Hemingway,
or maybe even Nietzsche
It’s six strings or a pen
or two measly colors
It’s your heart on an island
It’s in a box
It’s in a prison
It’s religion without religion
It’s the unveiling of a soul
It’s right around the corner
It’s just beneath your fingertips
It’s beyond the machine
It’s found by some;
lost by many
Denham Springs
There’s a hotel in Denham Springs,
Louisiana,
where I redefined my prison-fed idea
of home.
I funneled my thoughts into the universe of
open space,
and focus became the freedom in
my step.
There was no more gazing into silence with nothing
on my tongue;
No more anchors of fear.
I sank into a strangers bed,
and I counted my blessings,
while I dreamed there was no better
place to be.
57
when I’m 57
I’ll think,
all those years
I spent
getting here,
all those steps
I took
getting here,
all of the awkward,
unnecessary conversation
that took me
nowhere,
all of the failed
jobs and hobbies,
the failed relationships,
every dehydrated
morning and
every self-loathed
night,
all of the
overpaid landlords,
every bill
paid late,
all of the
redos retries
reboots and
all of the times instability
led to a forced fresh start,
all of that
young pain
behind me and
I’ll think,
I’ve been waiting
a long time
