An Occasional Poem

There is a moment in a person’s

life when they wake to realize

that they have become comfortable

with their existence, regardless how

lonely, unsatisfying, troubling,

infuriating, broken, and stale.

I think this is called adulthood,

but I haven’t quite figured it out.

And in this poignant shift,

I’m told that you come to realize

that any chance of escape

or change sort of sifts

it’s way out.

But I guess that’s okay.

It seems sort of nice in a

quasi-Stockholm syndrome

kind of way. I suppose it clears up

time for more adult pursuits like

copulating, regret and

slowly falling into step with

whatever rhythm your life has for you.

It just sounds kind of lonely.

I’m starting to see it happen to

my peers and I suppose someday

it will happen to me, which is

fine, but till then I’m left alone

until my youth fleets away too.

There’s just this one thing,

There is something about this

solitude that allows me to feel

the deep, slight movements of

my purest, darkest sadness.

I haven’t quite

decided if this is

good or not.

Musings Along the Coastline of the Mind

I wonder if painters dream of arithmetic

And poets derive their coded language in sleep

My mental plain is punctual

I live my day by the law of logos

And at night by the light of pathos

I write these words

My tides are my ethos

an incendiary haiku

Snob poetry says 

Oedipus

thinks motherfucker

LOL

Why do we choose to speak these nonsense sounds?

Why do we choose to text, type and skype our way out

Of a human conversation?

Why is getting someone’s honest opinion their deepest secret?

But the sleeping habits of the town is table talk.

Is it too much to ask

For someone to say something

To me

Without the veil of sarcasm or technology?

We pseudo-speak a proto-language and never really say

Anything.

Do I know you or should we just be facebook friends?

I fear we are just re-tweeting, hiding behind our facebook walls.

Otherwise we might offend

God forbid, someone de-friends you

The basterds!

We all sit in our cyber strongholds afraid to

Walk out into the harsh reality of this world.

five nostalgic haikus

My childhood home

seven trees

staring at fresh earth

The path to the lake

worn with scars

from fighting forest

The lake where I

learned to think

is not a photo-op

I loved her then

unaware

of well faded ghosts

Don't think of her or

the house by 

the lake anymore

Chivalry

I spent the summer of my senior year

indoctrinating myself

with the words of one Charles Bukowski.

And though I tend to write with his signature cynicism,

I couldn't quite bring myself

to write the good fuck poem.

Tempted by the allure of untouched material,

I found myself torn

between chivalry and Bukowski.

Now thumbing through his beer stained words,

I find myself coyly pleased

not to be such an asshole.

Dear Stranger

It is on our favorite mistakes that

we allow our finest regrets to hang

*

( In theory, I would have

loved to love you.

But with reality crashing in

and the alcohol fading out

we drift like parentheses in space

An open wound

A story started

A book never to be closed