The cold air stings my nose

The cold air stings my nose
Making my eyes watery
On a cold summer morning.
This feeling rare and waverly
Passing with the season
Replaced by a constant sting.

The sting is welcome.
It reminds me of youth
Not yet gone, but not present.
Dissipating in a sleuth
Towards quarter-life-crisis.
A creation of the year 1996.

Oh, to be young and ignorant.
Oh, to be young and wise.
A generation aware of the gap
A generation aware of demise.
The canyon approaches faster
As if downhill we approach on skateboard.

All doubt and no support
Makes a generation irreproachable.
There is nothing you can say
Anymore to make us sociable
Towards your ideals
Your archaic and close-minded ideals.

However, my old friend,
Let us not have this conversation.
Let us reminisce on a common feeling
To promote social justice evasion.
Excuse my sarcasm, it is when I tell the truth.
Truth is, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Instead let us remember that sting.
That summer morning cold air
Which in our youth reminded us
That the day was new, and fair.
Ignorant bliss, granted by adults
To children, who would do the same.

Oh, how I miss that ignorant bliss
When mom and dad were perfect.

“We should get a drink”

“We should get a drink.”
The classic vain offer
Given by a friend
Cheers’ed by myself
Agreement to be let down
Agreement to be neglected
Agreement to be left
Sitting, wondering why I said yes again
Sitting, wondering why he doesn’t show
Sitting, knowing that I saw this coming.

Why offer empty words
That sour like milk curds
Downgrading me to two-thirds
A human like the past herds.

I am human, I feel remorse.
When you leave me at the booth
To pay my own bill.
It’s cheaper than usual.
One beer, seven-ninety-nine.
One burger, eleven-ninety-nine.
One bill, twenty-one dollars and eighteen cents.
I paid the bill, like usual.
I tipped the waitress, like usual.
I sat for one more drink, like usual.

I sit hoping you’re just late.
Maybe you’ll somehow skate
Through the door with visible shake
Apologizing for perpetual mistake.

But you won’t.
I’ll see you at work the next day.
And you’ll leave me with the same words.
“We should get a drink.”
And my response?
“Yeah, for sure.”

Maple Syrup

The sap pouring from my mind
Doesn’t always flow like milk and honey.
The gears clog and don’t unwind
Stopped by a wrench thrown
Into the cogs until they grind.

Refine this sap. Boil it down.
Heat it to two-hundred nineteen degrees
One quart from the gallons in which I drown
Now take that quart, and pour it over
The gears, slowed down by that thick brown.

THE INBETWEEN

If you were awake at night,
Unable to sleep, unable to rest,
Would you look over the edge?
Observe your own death?

The indeterminate space between
The living and the dead
Where creativity lives
Closed arms and crossed legs

I stare into her eyes every night
A reluctant Salvador Dali
Walking in the equilibrium
Of that taut wire nightly.

I can see the Inbetween
I speak with the greats,
I attempt to paint with them,
I am no good, compared to these fates.

They care not, they only accept
Grateful for the company
Creativity eases her stance
Staring at my heart hungrily.

She is queen here in the Inbetween.
These relics she hangs with, her servants
The monarchy is not dead here,
She is worshiped, by minds overburdened.

Overburdened by a lack of sleep
From looking over the edge
From seeing something they must mimic
Something not-of-this-word, full fledged,
Eager to show the real world,
What their tormented mind sees.


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The Plastic Bag

Somebody, please find someone who cares
About the plastic bag drifting in my yard.
Drifting in my wispy pale face
Traveling through this dead grass space.
Today it is my responsibility
If I neglect it, tomorrow it is yours.
Find someone who cares
For my jar has been opened
And those around me,
Took what they wanted.

One-Hundred Years From Now

One-Hundred years from now, what will I be?
Hopefully remembered in grand-child’s strong memory.
Two-Hundred years from now, things are different.
I am a faint picture on the wall, whose quality they resent.
Three-Hundred years from now, the picture off the wall.
Forgotten and laid to rest, yet do you know the beauty of this all?
For this inglorious succession to happen, to even begin,
I must exist. I question the beginning not, for I understand the end.
The end undeservedly requires a beginning and a middle.
The beginning we learn to walk and finger fiddle;
The middle we learn what it means to live;
The end we learn what it means to give.
We give our last breath to this world.
And with my knuckle curled.
All I ask of my descendants,
Is to be remembered.


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You call people worms as insult

This is a variation from another poem I once wrote that can be found here.

You call people worms as insult,
Yet in all its wriggality,
That which eats dirt,
Feeds nations.

From dust you are
To dust you return
Where the worms reign
In the dirt which you rest.

We all try to escape the truth
That someday we return.


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Hidden in Burlap Shroud

I pulled each string from the burlap
Like plucking hairs from my head
Twisting them together in tangled trap.
One hair, two hair, a Seussian thread.
Every string makes it harder to snap.

The straws start long, growing shorter
I am the only one who pulls.
Like casting lots as a hoarder,
Or running alone with the bulls.
Laying brick without the one who lays mortar.

How can one feel so alone in a crowd?
How does the string not notice it’s companions?
Their wedding cheering seemed so loud.
They eagerly overlook the new duo canyon
While I sit at the bottom hidden in burlap shroud.


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Art’s Gravestone

Power is like bourbon stinging the tip of my tongue.
Swelling to sweetness as it moves.
Warming as it sinks to my stomach.

There was a time where the heat did not work.
Where I used bourbon to move warm my fingers
So I could rattle my keyboard a little more.

I wonder if this induced heat did more than warm.
If it awakened in me the pain that I could spew
Onto the paper in quatrain-couplet unconsciousness.

Like Hemmingway, but in the wrong era.
Alchohol is still glorified, but the product of it-
My induction to art, is dead in the grave.

Burried only 4 feet deep, a shallow grave
It’s not too late to dig her back up.
On the gravestone it reads in mossy chisel:

THE ABILITY TO CREATE
CREATION – 1961
MURDERED BY SENSATIONALISM


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Family Styles

What you offer is not good enough.
I deserve meat.
I deserve chicken.
I deserve ham.
But your hand offers the lightest of
Of proteins, the simplest of grains.
Which wash the hunger as a cup
Of water washes blood from my hunt.
As if I hunt anymore.
You hunt for me.
You hunt for the king.
You hunt for the queen.
You hunt for the dispersed people
You call family.
Are you so close that you cannot call?
Are you so close that you cannot see one another?
You live next door, yet,
You live miles away.
So far that antennas cannot connect
So far that plates cannot collect.
So far that conversations cannot context.
You speak of a connected family,
Yet you are more distant than Him and me.


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