Time To Write

Time to write,
after a shower and a bite.

But then again,
I should first clean my den.

Ok, that’s done.
I have to sit down, write a ton.

But wait,
I got time to masturbate.

Sorry for the TMI,
I really shouldn’t – I gotta write my “Life of Pi”.

Is that movie on Youtube?
I better be sure, I best not assume.

Enough dicking around.
Time to sit down.

I have my tea, I have the motivation.
I have to check my 6 New Notifications.

Is there no one who can see my plight?
When will I ever find time to write?

Wake Up

Wake up.
Do not miss the sunshine to escape harsh winds.
Weather the storm whether you like it or not.
You are stronger than ever,
think not of sleep again.  

Shape up,
or ship out,
as they say,
but ensure that the vessel is not leading astray.
You are the captain, the crew is afraid.
They will tell you the lifeboat is suicide,
a foolish man’s ride. 

Look alive,
feel dead.
Believe the jive,
drink the bread.

Question it,
get a hint. 

Fall asleep,

Wake Up.

If That Was Your Best

If that was your best,
your best won’t do.

I’ve drank the dirtiest waters,
seen the lowest trenches.
Been cast out by the sisters and daughters,
and cast out by the wenches.
But I found me a girl,
a woman,
a friend.
Found the other part of me,
my beginning and end.

If that was your best,
your best won’t do.

I’ve been hooked on the tar, the smoke, the booze, and the toke.
I’ve done things to get them that I’m ashamed to admit,
I’ve chosen my people, outside the offsale and an inside a familial joke.
I’ve spent life as a quitter, but just could not quit.
But from the ashtray I rose,
When no one cared or supposed,
I now see life from the other side,
I see myself in the red eyes of bar-flies.
As the Bud Light Gallery grabs their 7th can,
and gossips about what a loser I am.

If that was your best,
your best won’t do.

Depression is not an Instagram post
of Lana Del Ray smoking a Marlboro Red,
depression is dirty clothes, a bedroom beyond repair, and a stained bed.
It is when everyone gives up on you. You are lost.
Your best nearly best nearly bested me,
My life was tedious as an old joke,
My life took an arrow to the knee.
But I am still here,
and am here to stay.
I will survive, I will thrive,
I will do what they say is impossible,
Like Goldblum’s female dinosaurs, I will find a way.
Nothing can hold me back,
especially not the word, “can’t”.

If that was your best,
your best won’t do.

 

Drifts

Whispers of winter

Drift over pearl dunes and dry cheeks.

Under sun dogs and over black bears.

 

Sleeping giants.

 

Rushing into the windows of a smoking traveler.

 

Pitch black.

 

Screams and whistles and moans.

Subzero scowls and hot coffee night owls.

 

Protest- then drift away

To the cheeks of farmers, cursing the winds of this January day.

 

 

 

The Weight of The World

When a man chooses to stop learning

Is the day that he truly dies.

 

The herd of the mundane

Ridicules the fires of passion as insane.

 

And so the man suffocates it.
The embers smolder, crackle, and hiss.
He has destroyed comfort and direction.
He is now cold and blind.

“You did the right thing.”
The herd offers its petty assurance,
“At least now you’ll have health insurance.”

But it is still so dark,
The man lays to rest
He’s toiled and troubled today
for someone who doesn’t know his name.

With eyes closed, he smiles.
He sees
That roaring flame that used to be.

Planes

As a boy, I would look up to the clear, blue skies
mesmerized
by the screaming white lines and triangle silhouettes.
Miniature and mysterious.
White and grey.

Crawling through the abyss
in slow motion
at blistering speeds
they march,
at altitudes as high as my ungrounded dreams.

 

My head in the clouds.
The pristine cerulean brilliance, once arrogant in its own awe
is now cyan. Tainted by envy.
I longed to pierce the heights, to damn Nature’s law.

 

My head in the clouds.
Someday I would be there.
I would be on one.

One turned to two.
Two became three.
Three.

And many more.

Daydreams of worldly travel died with long, sleepless nights and Oriental Mix.
An international hub of shysters, sore feet and dicks.
A bustling city of the dead. No one stops, no one lives. No one rests.
Creativity thrives amongst thieves and franchises,
demanding inconvenience as the price for the convenience.
Tired, hungry, and drained
forced to fight a war
versus an army of employees
who need to get laid.

BE THERE TWO HOURS EARLY!

They say,

To be two hours delayed.

 

Despite the delays,
the maze,
the twelve hour days
and the employees who need a lay.

Despite it all,
Tell the child in me that I made it,
that the beauty of the flight is worth endurance of the locusts.
I now look down at the billowing, majestic clouds.
Light as a feather,
moving anciently, as if woken from a millennia old slumber.
Flexing, lumbering, and blustering like the authority of the Earth that they are.

Respect is found in my heart,
my true size revealed in this wild tube ride.
Mesmerized
by the yawning white behemoths below,
and their black silhouettes.
Majestic and mysterious.
White and grey.

 

The Birthday Poem

The skeleton dances ’round the sun again.
It dances with the sword, the mat, and the pen.

“Happy Birthday” creeps me the fuck out.
Standing loved ones surround me,
my heart resounds with anxiety.
Delusions of immortality fade into doubt.
I look around, it’s too uncomfortable to stare at the smiling people.
They sing off-harmony, they sing off-key.
They sing from the heart, they sing with glee.

“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter to myself.
A great, white ball of fire is before me,
ready to be extinguished,
ready to reveal a singular prophecy.

The loved laugh.
My love is by my side.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter. “But I guess it’s not that bad.”
Annual lifetimes have brought change, sorrow, toil, and laughter.
Twenty-seven trips- some were triumphs and some were disasters.
I laugh, I think, and I shed a tear.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter.

“But I do hope to do it all again next year.”