finish the job, lazy ass

no matter how intently i focus on getting things accomplished, i find that i am often distracted. there are so many things to stray my attention toward. the bottom line is, there is not enough order in the world for me to complete every task i undertake.

it is just fucking impossible.

finish the job, lazy ass

never a blank look, for

there’s work to be done


shots to be fired and
peoples’ jobs to lose-

every time we downsize
an SUV gets its wings
and the seemingly insignificant
happenings will appear
much brighter in High-Definition

and since my hometown is
a basement gone digital, i am ready to convert

still,
there is work to be done

messiahs to bribe and
accomplishments to be stolen

there’s constructs in our heads
that need names-
let’s call them all deities and pretend they talk,

convince ourselves that
we aren’t lonely, just concerned

just connected,
bound by rope to the trees we remove

drowned by the ash from
the bones we burn
and
there’s work to be done

there are things to make
DEAD
and air to be blessed with
our routine breathing

there’s an empty part
of every bed
and there are lungs next to
that heart, you know-

there’s a bitterness in the brain
and love that
has died like stars do


there are flowers that
wilt and whither before
they are given,
kept wrapped and dry as a reminder

that always,
there is work to be done

sitting in front of the heater, breathing in

this was something that just sort of came out while i was in class. not that i often lose focus enough to write poems, but every once in a while i find an excuse to distract myself from lecture; or rather, the excuse finds me after i have already floated off into the smoke that lingers in my thoughts. i don't mean to space out, and by no means is it a frequent occurrence, but this time, when i realized that i hadn't been listening to anything my professor had said in the last forty-five minutes or so, i laughed at how much it reminded me of high school. what little time i spent there. 

i fucking hated high school. with a sincere passion. anyway, i digress... the title of this piece is where i thought i'd rather be while i was writing it. 

sitting in front of the heater, breathing in 

who talks 

  and who thinks out loud?

who whispers and

  where do they get the air?

speaking and screaming 

   can't take the rain away. they are

poor substitutes for a coat and

      it never helps to slip off my jacket

my nerves know the elements well, now

   and

the cold is no different than

the sun is no different than

the clouds that hide my face

  from the stars that wouldn't want

     to leave my head if they had a choice

             --i just know it--

                             

                    

another broken window

this started out as some sort of ode to the planet, or to the inhabitants of it-or something. i was hoping to depart, at least a bit, from the whole confessional cry-baby sort of shit that i usually write, but i am still unsure as to how well i accomplished that.

either way, here it is.

oh, i almost forgot..."Yay for Earth!" Earth Day is April 22; let's all keep that in our wasteful minds.

another broken window

what a pretty little
hamster wheel we've landed on
-so blue, so bright, so green-

it just might be the
cutest little marble
to split this either, yet-

it seems to me that pearls
are simply palettes
to be prettied-up and fancied to
reflect the verdure of our
perfect little bead;

how beautiful it is,
sparkling amidst the
violent starlight

how bound to its plight, it remains
just for being what and where it is-

so inspiring
and
pathetic, it spins

how tediously self-wrought
with imperfections

how wry she smiles
unaware of our resemblance-

owning her elliptical grin, she makes
over one thousand promises every second
that we break with every sound our chests make...

mother,
we have not yet learned to fly quietly

when you can't escape your destination

this poem was assembled in my head over the course of a week or so. i had been thinking a lot about art, in all of its forms, and wondering about the state of our common plight. as people make things, i think it is important for us to remember why those things were made. when art loses its genuine nature and humble candor it becomes a mockery of what it is intended to be. it is no easy question of philosophy or integrity, i know, but i don't think it is too much for us all to give a level of deference to the crafts we use to make ourselves human.

when you can't escape your destination

seeing familiar names  

in a story never helps  

when surrounded by strangers

 all voices are new

and unnerving; it's true

 

it's why we

talk to ourselves

it's

why i misplace

facial expressions and

save loose change 

(because i don't know what i'm doing)

because i need

sounds i can count

 

rhythms that resound and implore me to

write a song about no one 

(and play it like it's for everyone)

hum melodies and lie to myself humbly

like the headliners who are stuck at home

smile for the camera-shy and

fill the blanks with modulations 

hoping to bless integrity with tactful wings

just by singing to unknowns or pestering those closest

or maybe i'll listen only

to the background noise for our

performance on strings,

(rusting hinges in all our joints)

like little dolls made to look happy

focus (or lack thereof)

i often sit, as i always blabber-on about, in a room by myself, reading or listening to music--things like that; but i also spend a lot of time wandering in my head. the walls i leave mostly blank for this reason. i enjoy staring at a wall and letting it put the empty space in my mind that i need to facilitate my meanderings--it brings me a relaxation that is paralleled by few things. 

now, this is not to be mistaken for some traditional sort of meditation; where one would seek to clear their mind of all thoughts in order to properly meditate, i would rather catch every loose thought and throw it in to a basket that i can set aflame--breathing in smoke is also something i enjoy. 

and speaking of breathing... this piece was inspired by the action of sitting and trying to take deep breaths to calm my nerves; though it doesn't always work, it is a great excuse to not move much for a while. i enjoy not moving, as well.

focus (or lack thereof)

people make better
  statues than puppets

really-
  if we could catch
 clouds in our mouths
at least our whispers would
   live up to their namesake; but

instead our sighs rise like smoke-
  taking obvious answers to a height
       that belies their origin

while we remain
    framed in pictures
 covered in ash that don't talk about anything
   no matter how well they float (or flail)

it's all the fault of the air-
  but we never complain while inhaling

we spoil the sky, the 
  oxygen with our weak lungs
and we expect to breathe wantonly
      until our last gasp
(and we'll try without meaning to)

we'll never fly without assistance
  but it will become a more 
comfortable fall every time we lighten our heads-

the atmosphere assures it:
  it thins itself out; mocking our
 smiles that are forced into place
       (mostly) by the wind

my nerves weren't born to lie dormant (they know this now)

while i let my nights turn to mornings, i spend a lot of time pacing. this is something i've said before and, though it doesn't do much in the way of elaborating on the writing that's produced during the aforementioned hours, it gives me an excuse to voice disdain about my main source of time-wasting; that way, i can feel a bit better about the purposelessness i, so often, allow myself to be preoccupied with.

essentially, i sometimes have trouble accepting the fact that some people just don't care enough about anything to be kept awake days at a time contemplating the futility of their own, supposedly important, self-investments.

i think i may just be jealous of anyone with a somewhat regular sleep-pattern. god damn diurnals.

my nerves weren't born to lie dormant (they know this now)

mutual sleep
minus the dreams,
we find, is an ill-fated request

at best,
water to follow the
bottled smiles

at rest,
next to our pasts,
we'll know what our futures
could look like

how they'll
seem so so surprising-
but won't be

because
whatever we decide
to worry about
will let us do just that-

(we walk because we can
and breathe because we don't know we want to)

we'll give flowers to the air
as the weight arrives,
apologies to our shoulders for
every phone call ignored

we'll find a song to match the distraction

burn plastic and melt glass over
all questions asked

and that'll be us:

aglow in gasoline clothes
like we all dreamed we would be

fighting cities

this piece, i suppose, was to kind of reflect on the span of my romantic involvements. upon recalling some things i've come to realize a few things; namely my incredibly discouraging record of experience.

i had no idea how much of a piece of shit i could be.

fighting cities

no rest for the truly despicable
left nestled in visuals
pressed to keep cohesion

too-frequently i neglect reason

too often i've played a part in
the dismantling of relationships
simply to relish in the demolition,
the shattered minutes spent being a battered vicitm,
the pattern rising from the skin,
the blood i've given;

it's no matter when or to whom
because i'll never get it back

my love is scattered,
to search it out would be like
chasing fireflies in daylight

and still i've done just that
attached to the passive suicide i find
inside my cigarette pack-

inside the ones that fail to impart
a lasting impact-

inside my empty stomach...

they say you are what's in your gut, right?

love birds and broken windows (in three parts)

i've become increasingly aggravated with my inclinations. all of them can have their up-sides, but the hindrances they prove to be, on rather regular bases, take their toll very swiftly.

claiming that what i do creatively is actually working toward bettering myself, i get away with a lot; mostly fooling myself, though, as i suspect many can see through my weak facade and know that i am just a scared and nervous introvert, struggling to make my way through or find my place in the current flow of things before i drown.

when i start to reflect too much on this i usually smoke a couple bowls and see what i can do to cope with this incurable listlessness.

aren't i pathetic?

love birds and broken windows (in three parts)

one.)
taking aim at a pen on its last drop
is like stealing a lighter and holding it hostage
(unbeneficial)

the problem with gods is
they always end up just like me:
jealous and mean

two.)
searching for words is a long walk
i've just somehow embraced it all and
left the shoes i wore out in the garbage

metaphors and facsimile
bunched-up in the pockets of a backpack;
ridiculed, while syntax battles for its straight break
and never hears the sound of the moving trains meant
to take me away from here--

though i know
no place is home for more than a place to sleep

three.)
if wheels never stopped
i could rest along my scheduled route

but instead, i sit
using music as an excuse
to close my eyes while standing and
forget all about blankets

to shiver and bite my lips until my teeth shatter

until sense bleeds from my smile--

here...
until my habits consume me