Us Dogs

remote filled with doubt

spots outside the yard

lie in throngs and pangs

of heated lonesome thoughts

hit, cut, and punch into you

when you’re there

and

I guess it’s good you’re here.

but the food will run out and

soon you’ll have to go there

and the money will run out

and soon you’ll have to leave

and the memories will turn

to lucid wave-like imagination

far from the black and white moment

in which they were recorded

and

you will go search for more

amidst the now fresh space

no less nightmarish than the winter

no less disastrous than non-involvement

and

you stoke a small fire

disappear for a few days

wander

get a job

find a love

give it up

and come back again with holes in your pockets

memories cut and dry

like the ingredients for a new recipe

from a new book

askew with the ideas of a few different

people

and you jumble it all together

watch the pot boil

flare your nostrils

and wave in the new smell

glance in the mirror

hair wild Einstein like

and you know you’re creating something

special.

but soon the food will run out

and you’ll have to leave

and the money will run out

and you’ll need to go somewhere

and the memories won’t be as fresh

and easily triggered as before

so you’ll walk out of the yard

step on blades of grass

to slabs of sidewalks

to the marble floors of buildings

and you gather food and

you gather money

find love again

let it go

and come back,

“welcome home”

nothing says

but everything feels

as you open the front door

and the air walled up

smelling of you

smacks your body

and you know you’re where you belong

the colors of the wall

the pictures

hug you, feel you, believe in you,

and it’s all really sad

that home

has to be created

in small spaces

divided off from the rest of the world

like an electric fence

because

the same people that said to get along

don’t

and

so,

us dogs are

just

not

ready

to

play

nice.

Seeing the Future

of course I can see the future,

tomorrow

will offer little surprise.

ill wake up groggy and shifty

as I step to the fridge

for a slug of apple juice.

one cup a day.

I’ll heat up the shower by 7:45

jump in at 7:46

and be done by 7:59.

I’ll heat up an egg if I’m feeling

industrious

or eat a bananna if I’m not.

by 8:30 I’ll hop on my bike

make a right turn

and get a cup of coffee.

I’ll work my way through the sidewalk

cross over three roads

go uphill for a minute

then downhill for 5 more

and

be in work by 9.

I’ll drink my coffee

check my e-mails

and zone out until

930.

then I’ll go teach.

then I don’t know what will

happen but when I regain senses

it will be 5.

I’ll hop on my bike

ride through the sidewalks and rush hour

uphill for 5 minutes

downhill for 3

cross over three roads

and I’ll be home.

I’ll cook pasta for dinner

have wine for dessert

listen to music

and

be in bed by 11.

rinse, repeat, recycle, redundant, reboring.

superpowers aren’t all they’re

cracked up

to be.

Being Young Is Pretty Much Eternal

the great thing about

being young

is that it lasts forever.

even as you forget it

when you yell at your own kids

for the mistakes you made,

even as you land far from

the dreams you knew

you were going to make true,

even as you sacrifice too many this’s

for far too little that’s.

youth is always there.

it always happened.

you always

had a first love whom

all other loves are based,

you always ran away from home

a few times

only to come back for dinner,

you hatched brilliant plans

that defied all the laws of time

gravity and reality,

you

jumped from heights you

would no longer think about

daring,

you had a fight in ya

for something that didn’t matter

but you fought because you believed it,

the world was small

and

it made sense because

it made no sense at all,

things had magic in them

because they were all new,

rainy Saturdays in the summer

when looming blackness took over midday,

the ocean on sunny afternoons

and

the ocean at pink dusk,

Christmastime with it’s dark ancient

feeling of eternalness,

school and the thought

that it will never end,

the woods and the way it shaded

away the rest of the world,

car rides in your teenage years

just to scream your angst,

part-time jobs that were

meaningless and almost fun,

the total meaninglessness

of time, structure, order

and anything else quantifiable.

we were young once

and

it will last forever,

and maybe only I hope

that it isn’t under

a shroud

of

secrecy.

Signing off

 

I find lately

I don’t have to go too far

to get pissed off.

then I get pissed off

and people say “why aren’t you ever happy?”

 

but I am happy

just not around things

that piss me off.

 

maybe it fuels part of me

and

maybe it has made me into

a little piece of what I am

 

but here’s a secret someone

once told me

who was waiting for the apocalypse on

a hill

with a trashbag over his head

 

“We’re not really that important as individuals

you know”

 

“Oh yeah” I said.

 

“Oh yeah. I don’t think I’d be here in a trashbag

if we were.”

 

it’s good advice.

hell,

it’s gold.

 

I suppose the people that should read this,

those incessant bloggers

paring off their thoughts like they’re

giving away nuggets of ancient wisdom,

those toddlers real and grown

who argue in anonymous comment boxes

with all the oddity of a masculine infant,

those movie quoters

who know no lines actually written

by their own selves,

and

those people who use

other people as commodities

to fire their own misguided

nights,

 

wont.

 

As our best waste away,

as I fail to bring unity to something,

as everybody fails to bring unity

to everything else,

as we separate ourselves further and further

looking to prove our uniqueness

instead of just having the courage to be it,

 

maybe I too should wait with

my friend on the hill.

Why Nothing Gets Done

please strangers
fall to your knees and pray
to deep darkness
for the world to get better.
pray to a stranger
that other strangers
recover from their strange tragedies.

just pray.
just fall to your knees and speak
to the earless air
what needs to happen.

don’t fix it.
don’t change.
just pray.

pray that one day
someone steps in and saves them,
pray that one day someone
carries love in on a plate,
pray that one day
the burning fear is gone,
pray that one day
the child grows up,
pray that the wicked are punished.
pray that the wise teach.
pray that the lullaby always puts us to sleep.

pray to a stranger because
it’s easy.
pray to a stranger because
then
you wouldn’t have to do anything.
pray to a stranger
so nothing
really
ever
changes.
pray to a stranger so that
you can feel like you did something.

no really,
pray to a stranger
he would want you to wouldn’t he?

if you did something
then he wouldn’t be so needed
would
he?

Look…

It’s not as dark as

The absence of light might

Make you think.

 

You can’t see your feet

And

Jesus doesn’t love you but

As long as you love something

Else

It’s good enough.

 

And

 

Sometimes we’re lost

Down bulleted alleys

With reports piercing

Nothing but our

Ears

And even that’s not so bad

If you’re looking through

The light spilling

Out of the aftermath.

 

It’s not a race to make sense.

It’s change into what you want

Or

Be changed into what you don’t.

 

Can you take it from here?

Raining Cats and Bullets

The rain punches towards me

From above,

Hurtling out of the darkness

Like where it’s coming from

Is worse than where it’s going.

It slaps me on the forehead,

Drips down my nose,

And falls off my chin towards my shirt.

 

The neon lights from the nearby hotel

Reflect in every drop.

They’re like red bullets

Streaking across

A black canvas.

I don’t even need to close my eyes

To imagine a better image

Than this,

Now.

 

I cup my hand

To soak up pieces of this scene.

Drop by drop screams out of the darkness

And into my palm

Splashing into a forming ocean.

Soon,

The crimson puddle I’m holding

Overflows in a steady wave-like rhythm.

Dripping off my fingers

It looks more like blood.

 

If it is,

I don’t fight much to

Keep it.

Things are perfect right

Here

And

Now.

Yeah, I Bit The Core

In a bit of a mystery I bit the apple core

And a clique

Kick

To the througt of Holmes

Brings the burning pages

To a one page story

Not too filled with counter moves

And substitute croons

But all too familiar to the

Limping mistakes we’ve all made.

 

Feeling isn’t so much a mystery

Anymore.

This will cause that

And like a throw of a stone

Into the lake

The ripples move out

And subside.

The lake remains the same

And the involved move on.

 

The mystery is we keep getting up

At all.

As the kick projects itself

To more kicks,

It’s bruised dog meets the hand no one

Sees.

And if every dog has his day,

I suppose,

Those of us who care to wonder

Why

Are winning and we

Will never know

 why.

Any Sherlock can figure

That out.

Throwing Up Digital

We walk on the street connected to

Each other

Closely.

We stand shoulder to shoulder

And technology has

Made us even closer than that.

We are available to whoever

Needs us

Whenever they need us.

At least seven gadgets on us

Can connect to

The internet.

When we’re needed

We’re found.

We’re compelled to answer everything

Thrown at us.

So many things pile on top of

Us

That finally

We’re drowning in digital.

New things pop up so fast

We can’t digest what went in

A few moments ago.

I’m throwing up information

Anonymous thoughts,

Unbalanced news,

Undeveloped ideas,

And the offspring nightmares

Of other peoples broken hearts.

I need it out of me.

We need it out of us.

 

We’re drowning in digital.

 

As our hands type faster than

Our brains can think we direct ourselves

Into territory that has no

Emotion

Because it has no face.

When our faces finally

Are

Insulted,

We run for cover in

Spaces of bytes

And spill our problems into

Other peoples cups.

 

We’re drowning in digital and

It’s not going to change

Anytime

Soon.

As the neon lights of

The cities work to glare out

The dark night

And disorient us

 

I hope that someone remembers

Where they really are.

Sorry, Your Card’s Been Denied

I lost myself this weekend. 

Saturday night,

Over a mind flaming with the

Thoughts

Of all the things I couldn’t have.

 I wanted to reach out into

A mythical store

And buy

Security for the future,

Contentment with what I am,

Solid happiness.

I laid in front of myself

And

Tried to buy these things,

Cheap

And

Instantly

But my credit was denied.

 

I’m glad they tore me up.

 

Everybody,

Scours the earth looking

To feel these things.

Everybody,

Breaks down to nothing.

Everybody,

Prematurely gives up hope

On their real wants

For cheap pink happiness.

 

I think my whole struggle

Was

Keeping the faith enough

To still believe

I

Am

Not

Everybody.

 

And neither are you.