The Viewing

She matched in black

Her pony slicked back

As I watched her clear her plate

Her tongue swollen to muffled sounds

My fingertips rubbed at my tragus

Yet still nothing but nonsensical noises

She appeared so alive

The sight bittersweet

My heart warmed but sank into my stomach

Was it God or that Devil,

Knee deep in Bordeaux

Who swims the circumference of a hock?

If God were a good man

My faith would not be uncertain.

Perhaps her strength was too lacking to live

But upon a bed she lay,

As do I when I close my eyes,

Her audience draped in all black

As was she

As she cleared that plate

In a state that seemed so tangible

That I reach for her hands

Clad in gold rings

Left to me in her remembrance

Push

I slouch in my chair when I'm with my friends.

And use words like “shit” and “fuck”.

She hates it when I curse around her,

And I apologize for it in her presence;

For my habitual potty mouth.

Sometimes it just slips out.

The way "I miss you" accidentally escapes my lips,

Down my arms and into my finger tips,

Then pounces on the word ‘Send’

Even though I saw her hours before.

The way I mistakingly add beautiful

To the end of every good morning.

Every good night.

I am predictable.

Predictable as the sun will rise and set.

Predictable as her fear of diving in.

She says she once dove into the shallow end.

It took her over two years to hit the bottom.

She wants to learn to swim again

But she won't let me teach her.

Cool, chlorinated water on just my toes

Can't satisfy my craving.

August sun beating down, 

My blood is beginning to boil,

And I'm inching into the deep end,

Trying to pull her with me.

She's fighting me. Crying.

Panic painted on her face.

Either I pull her in and she drowns,

Or I watch her bask in sunlight from afar.

Her fear stares me blankly in the eyes,

And for once, I am unpredictable.

A Love Poem

Your solitude a juggernaut,

Here you are.

There we were

Destroying all we are

The benevolent failing in their only work,

Your heart became ever so corrupted

The molten core I aimed to be

Became the dirt beneath your feet

Crammed in the map lines of the sole of your shoe

Seen only when you entered home

Searching for warmth and comfort

I left you on a Friday and regretted it on Saturday

I refused to turn back, to look 

At your plaid flannel and tapered khakis

To see your cheeks without a smile

Without those dimples, 

Rather covered in the tread marks of tears

I refused to let you see my swollen, remorseful eyes

Filled with dejected rage, two burn holes of bogies in a blanket

Yet here we are a year later, our tongues still stuck to frozen flagpoles

I’m only acquainted with your shadow

But for the words your mother shares with me

And the moments your mother shares with me

The time your mother shares with me

Your mother like a nicotine patch when I need that cigarette

To taste smoke on my breath

You on my breath

What is left of you that lingers on my breath

My very last breath

The one I used to tell you that I was leaving on that Friday.

Dennis

“Play it again.

This is just what I need,”

She orders him.

Tap, tap, tapping feet.

Each pluck of the guitar

Strings like tweezers

Picking out each 

Sore word the other man bore 

Into her that evening.

She did not see

The look in his eyes

While his fingers

Played notes he 

Had memorized.

Well learnt from hours

Of practice for this

Moment when he would

Remove the wounds of

Another man once more.

A Lonely Heart (quick write)

A heart does not do well alone:
Yearns for lusting, loving, a hand to hold,
To become whole, to fill a hole,
For another to listen and to console.
Craving that kiss, that meaningful stare,
A heart may see what is not there.
And although subconscious and unaware,
This heart will tear and leave no one spared.

Sleeplessness

Frustration sets in.
I need inspiration
To shatter this concrete block that fills my mind.
The emotions are present.
The need is real
To release me from the pain that won't subside.
My eyes are wide.
The moon floats high,
And yet my pages remain unwritten
Of valid thought
Worthy to publish;
Another night sleeplessness calls me victim.

Green America (A Quick Write)

We are America,
Big and broad and vast,
A plot of land,
An outstretched hand,
But what shadow do we cast?
Our past erupts in smoke and flames.
Our ignorance is loyal
To the roots that run beneath our feet
And solutions for which we don't toil.
Our world is screaming for our help,
Yet watch as we walk away.
We close our eyes,
Turn off the light,
And in tomorrow, conceal the turmoil of today.

You Showed Me Everything

You showed me everything:
The colors in the sky,
A way to look upon the world
With wide and open eyes,
An open heart,
An open mind,
An open field of play,
A breath of air,
A final closing,
Beginning to a day,
No worries, relief,
And disbelief,
A change in every flavor,
An effortless climb
One step at a time
Filled with moments meant to savor,
A change in life,
The colors so bright,
A change I, myself, could not bring;
So different than was
And only because
You showed me everything.

Self-Reflection

What is this, this room that's spinning in circles?
A room with nowhere to hide;
No way out but to admit to denial
And confess up all your lies.
No windows, no doors, no glances to dodge,
Just the guilty conscious you hold within;
One twisted mirror veiled in white, misty fog
And a patience that's wearing thin;
A hand on the mirror reveals a clear spot,
Your lonely face framed by the mist;
Beads of sweat, eyes red and shot,
You read into the reflection you've missed:
A sturdy stone path turned to nothing but pebble,
A barren pine be the only sight.
The leaves flutter and fall, the wind causing a tremble
As the soul sinks and unveils the night.
You're back in the room, you in a glass square.
There must be something more.
You bat air in attempt to see what's not there
Yet creaks open a pine wooden door.

The Power of Vulnerability

I once thought tears meant weakness,
Depression, guard down, insecurity;
That showing my pain stripped me of my strength
And showed the ultimate signs of vulnerability.

I felt bare naked when I cried
Like the entire world could see through me;
Embarrassed, ashamed, and plundered of pride
And scared to death of how the public would view me.

Uncontrollably my heart would bleed
But in the form of lead on canvas.
My tears began to water a seed
That I never even knew had been planted.

Simple aches turned into desperate cries,
And pages upon pages filled up;
My darkening world feeding my every line
Of the writing that brightened it up.

I once thought tears meant weakness,
That I was feeble, useless, and broken;
That crying was only acceptable
If I let the pain remain unspoken.

But unspoken words help no one,
And my silence only made me a coward,
But shortly my pain evolved into strength,
And my words evolved into power...



Words have the ability to connect millions,
But only if we let our anguish be known
Because through all of life's aches, sorrows, and sadness,
We are never truly alone.

Falling

A jump, a startle, the feeling of falling;
The pounding, those eyes, that look that keeps calling
Me forward, closer, to the press of his fingertips,
Press of his chest, the press of his lips;
His grip, his movements, his dive, and his deal;
Laced and locked and learning to heal;
Twisting and turning, the fall, a new leaf;
Pressure, pressing, presuming relief.

Recognition

That demon I thought had faded into the shadows
Now creeps again into my mind.
And surely enough, my heart then follows,
Leaving nothing but my shell behind.
A wake of crushed and crumbled pieces
That once had formed such life
Is but now a projection of imagination;
A mere and useless fight.
My soul surrendered to fear itself,
The fear of repetition;
Trying so hard to see the new
But sadly with no recognition.

I Am a Writer

I am a writer. Sometimes my mind just wants to write. And sometimes it just won't generate. Sometimes I lay awake at night staring at my dark ceiling telling myself, "I should sleep," but my mind still wanders. So many thoughts, words, broken phrases to put together. Hours passing, and yet the only change I see is the shifting in the shadows upon that same dark ceiling. Are they sleeping? Are they tossing and turning in their sleep because their minds too wander through their dreams? Or do they also lay awake, staring back at me, watching the shapes in my eyes swim as thoughts continue to dance behind their glassy facade? And in the dark, I begin to write blindly. My mind cannot rest until those racing thoughts are halted with ink on paper. And upon their settlement, I finally sleep.