there’s no additives necessary
for Modest Mouse and pancakes
to wax poetic ceremony
melted butter finger trails
like sweet kisses across
the universe’s syrup fields
to the tune of beauty’s upbeat
masochistic self-defeat

"The disease is life itself"

Life isn’t meant to make sense. It is a congestion of people, thoughts, random inanities, illusions, etc., it is a mess of swirling disasters with few hints of happiness, and if you’re lucky, hints of bliss. But, see, poetry and prose are the ongoing failed attempts at making some sense of life, of hesitantly easing the dagger drenched in blood out of the bony hip, of solving the grand puzzle whose treasured solution always remains up for interpretation, of holding disarray and covering its scars and pains with smokescreens so that the good and the bad look nice and pretty. Life isn’t nice and pretty. And, the disorder will not disappear; but, too, will the cries of lovers and of thinkers, of poets and of writers, not fade into the midnight fog. We will continue to fail miserably in making sense of life, and we will continue to succeed in making life a lot more confusing than it needs to be, for poetry and prose will forever stream through our fingers.

that awkward text

I remember
the way you smelled
like afternoon naps,
and how the light
pressed like anvils
on my eyes,
so loud.

I wanted to hide
beneath the cover
of your chin,
but the sidewalk begged
and I walked away.

Concentration via Distillation

Drinking silver and spitting gold
It’s hot in here but I feel cold
Always walking tightropes between
Realities and dreams unseen
At night I sleep and wake to remember
Covered in sweat and grasping embers
Of the narrative that swam inside my head
Like smoke it curls up from my bed
But pencil cannot pin it down
Eyes sting like stars and now I drown
Midnight sorrows in alcohol proof
The best ideas are distilled truth

resolution: resolute decisions

why can’t I just
it’s just that
I’m sick and tired of
if I could only
the problem is
I don’t know why but
I can’t believe
but that’s what I mean
I hate it when
it’s annoying how
I can only imagine
if only there was
but it’s like
isn’t it funny how
now see that’s
I mean obviously
it’s just ridiculous
there’s just so many
I really do think, that, you know
it’s just one of those things where it’s like
see, no matter what
I can’t fucking stand it

Relinquish disaster, stay intact for tomorrow. Among make-shift gifts for the holidays, hostility is the only bargaining I’ve been doing lately. The surprisingly sane one in the corner might beg to differ. Regardless, I’ve been a frequent visitor to this daft, grummy place off the brinks of prudence for a while now and with experience and without good reason it seems I’ve made a bed here—one much too comfortable to abandon. And so it goes without stating too bluntly that this is an alarm to the nearing train heading my way.  Bearing fond memory and a distaste for this new breed of disorder, I feel it is only necessary to disdain from any sort pride that may suggest to me another idea of soon-to-be failure. Its best to just stay on my tracks for a while.