Monday
Apr042016

the rules

the rules say:
DON'T RUN WITH SCISSORS.
but what about really sharp, pointy sticks? like chopsticks?
what do they say about those?
it seems like they never updated the rule book.
i think it's the same book they've
been using since scissors were first invented and
sharp things simply didn't exist until then.

the rules also say:
DON'T USE A HAIR DRYER IN THE BATHTUB.
why would you ever do this?

DON'T EAT BEFORE SWIMMING.
what about during?

DON'T RUN NEXT TO THE POOL.
what if i'm being chased by a rapist?

DON'T STICK ANYTHING INTO THE MOUTH OF
SOMEONE HAVING A SEIZURE.
it never occured to me to do this.
now i'm super curious.

DON'T CRY OVER SPILLED MILK.
what if the milk killed my brother?

ALWAYS LET SLEEPING DOS LIE.
what if they're sleeping on your arm and
cutting off the circulation?






 

Monday
Apr042016

what could it be

it could be low testosterone.
it could be depression.
it could be allergies.
it could be heart disease.
it could be cancer.
it could be a lack of _______.
it could be too much _______.
it could be the humidity.
it could be anxiety.
it could be money.
it could be love... or the lack thereof.
it could be dehydration.
it could be dry skin.
it could be withdrawal.
it could be anger.
it could be loneliness.
it could be regret.
it could be the guilt.
it could be the food.
it could be the spiders.
it could be the bones.
it could be the muscles.
it could be the neighbors.

or it could just be regular fucking life.

ugh.

Sunday
Dec202015

The Things you Are!

you're the cutest hog on the pig farm.
you're the cleanest bum by the bridge.
you're the nicest rapist in prison.
you're the hottest milk in the fridge.

and of all the horrible things there are,
you're the best of those horrible things.
the most sensible drunk in Reno,
with the prettiest shower rings.
Sunday
Sep202015

squinting as a child

there is soft, white, particulate matter
hanging in the air,
like snow without gravity.
sometimes it feels as if i've surrounded myself
with so much of it, I am trapped in a
perpetual cloud of chalk dust.
it's as if I've clapped some erasers together
and the world just froze in that moment.
dry clouds in my eyes that leave me swinging my arms
and grasping for the handrails.
the world a fog.

i sometimes think about Christmas time as a child,
in my parent's old house with the brown shag carpet,
and the really big windows that made me feel so small.
i remember sitting in the living room alone,
squinting my eyes at the Christmas tree,
forcing the lights to bloom and streak within my vision.
i remember when i first realized that i could do this,
that i could make lights smear by squinting my eyes.
that i could change the entire world by something
as simple as pushing my eyelids together.

but now, here i am as an adult, sitting in all this dust,
wondering how i make the world shift again,
with the simplicity and ease that i once did as a child.

when you're an adult, you harden your thinking
to the experiences and environments you've
been exposed to. 
the world doesn't change when you
squint your eyes,
you do not make the world blur,
it is you that change.
it is your eyes that are different. 

although there are exceptions to the rules,
it is my position that the inability to believe
your own fairy tales
and follow your own inner dialogue to
strange and unsual places
marks the death of
your imagination.

so go make your own fog
and blur the world
with anything but
your own logic and reason. 

do it as if
it is all you have left.

 

Sunday
Aug232015

dinner in the yard with old friends

an ashy, rickety, wooden table
sitting on the crest of a mound of silt.
an admiral, velvet window curtain
thrown over the tabletop and
seasoned with grape tomatoes,
wine, bread, and pesto.

a frail breeze to push the music.
the sky's veneer, a net of frosted light,
and then the entire city, in the pinch of a finger,
just sitting there as if we had
something to do with its placement.

a quiet night with old soldiers
gathered around the table.
good friends that have been fighting
the same war for decades,
each through their own glasses,
feeling the world push itself upon them
one at a time,
with an unaplogetic force that
whittles lines near the eyes.

a deep breath into the evening.
into this one quiet night.
it is the way I imagined every night would be
when I was older.
candlelit with friends, wine, music.
simple joy.

and then suddenly I was older.
and mosts night were just nights.
much like how most mail is just mail.
because handwritten letters are rare.
as is this night.

just enough wine to be
glossy and bloom the stars.
just enough breeze to
quiet the neighborhood.
and just enough union to be content
with each other's silence.

simple and quiet.
love and respect,
as subtle as it can be.