it all started with m

and today while I was driving over 125 mph on the 52 I had made only two choices:
I was either going to hit the side of the mountain first or watch the carnival of red and blue in my rearview while I tried so very hard to think of nothing
and do nothing until it just finally happened.
and while the memories flashed and the music
played I could not help but remember the very
thing I was trying to forget.
but as the freeway merged
I was closer and closer to what has
had me concerned for the past two years.
not the men in blue, or the end of the lane,
but for the same reason I'm writing
this damned thing
in the first
place.

december 07'

I'm laying here watching the smoke drift from the ash tray
and it looks beautiful.
it's deadly and I never liked cigarettes
but I lay here mesmerized.
woman are as deadly
as they are beautiful too.
they give you a high,
but when it's gone you want more.
it's too bad they don't come
with warning labels.

trace your heart out

last time I saw her was
in a parking lot
at a
Jack In The Box
on
Main Street.
I got
inside her
Chevy F150
with the broken
right side of
the windshield
and
stared at
the cracks
as the
little pieces
of light reflected
like veins.
I looked
at her
and she still
had those
easy blue eyes
and platinum
blonde hair.
everything
about her
screamed
freedom
while
the
pit of
my stomach
ached
as I traced
and mapped
every
line like
a palm
reader.
it was
then
and there
that I
knew it was
all finally
over
and that
I would
never
see that
stupid
platinum
blonde
hair
again

different rooms

with this vegan roommate I have to worry
about eating meat in the house.

If I had a religious roommate,
It'd have to worry about
smoking pot.

one shot of whiskey.

written over 300 poems and

there may be hundreds more to go.

I know what you're thinking-

but I'm not always one

for the drink..

It's difficult to write here in normal heights.

the air is foggy and these hardwood floors smell

like another lone-boy Thanksgiving day.

the people walk around here in their scarves with their small dogs.

nearby is a yoga studio, a pet store, a grooming store,

a pawn shop, a vet clinic, and a vegan restaurant.

the artists come out at night.

I've written poems elsewhere,

in different situations and in

different places.

I wrote a poem once inside my car in a parking lot

as a security guard circled around

with his flashing yellow lights.

I looked up and saw a beautiful girl

walking alone to her car,

and watched as she began to walk faster.

Sorry sweetheart. but you're not cute enough

for me to throw in the back of my trunk.

there are many things that will hold a man tense
with his art.

the usual grievances like lust, love or no love.

the following loneliness
then wanting to be alone instead.

a man lets go of the past he can't control,
learns from it and finds a way to moves forward.

small grievances don't seem to affect me
anymore, but I've also learned to become more indifferent.

it's a strange thing when you no longer have feelings.

something could die in front of you like a small dog or a fly
and you wouldn't feel a thing.

tonight was a rainy night,
but when I went outside for a walk it was lightly sprinkling.

you hear an old man yelling at a couple of dykes
outside the kensington theater,
but you walk by as invisible to them as they are to you.

being invisible,
that's what I've become.

-

I walk across the kensington bridge
and I see a couple holding hands,
they're both wearing matching beanies.

the cars are all driving by slowly,
nobody seems to be in a hurry to go anywhere.

the world is frozen.

their is no grief about being lonely anymore.
there is nothing left for death to take away
so I live instead.

small flashes of light like thunder
bolts in my head.
there are my favorite writers and
sufferers alike who have experienced more.