those tears in those eyes
they burn worse
– trust me –
salted wounds
in witnessing eyes;
they have nothing to do
with the repercussion stare

that smile burns too
it is an unbroken secret
sworn to silence
speaking volumes


everything we ever wanted

well this is all a handwritten message to him if i am being honest and i am not sure why i am doing it other than i want to and yes that likely makes me the kind of person who would do those kinds of things but what else would be true? nothing else would be true. nothing else; it’s in the realm of things i do.


Mussitations mumbles mummers: muttering some somethings felt. Details lost lips flitter flutter: eyelash cover too high a cost.  A passerby is prowling pouncing: a drive by with a subtle smirk. The moment leaving longing lingers: description blotted till obscured. Memory is minced until another moment passes, as concrete figures turn to form a projection shadowpast. A ghost’s still gazing grinning gripping: as time speeds inconsistently and legs regain their strength.  

ignoring advice

The truth doesn’t matter,
just what does it feel like?
It feels like your hearing
is two steps removed.
The truth doesn’t matter,
just what does it feel like?
It feels like taking outside advice in matters of internal decisions
would be the same as listening to static and dancing to its tune.

The truth doesn’t matter,
what matters is how it feels,
and an outside perspective is too acid-etch obscured
with too many broad assumptions and too lacking past regrets.
The truth doesn’t matter,
what matters is how it feels,
and to explain that would be to malconstruct a memory
where it exists in perfectly abstract formlessness.

The truth doesn’t matter
in its weighted aggregate,
but it feels exactly as it should
when I know it to be true.
The truth doesn’t matter
in its weighted aggregate:
it lacks the beauty of a well-crafted fiction
written by a single author,
using eigenwords without abuse.

The truth lacks
the the twisted interpretations
of a soul-searched history;
it lacks the rewritten meanings
of a thousand words
previously defined insufficiently;
it lacks the trust that I have in myself
to know when to say ‘when’
when it starts to feel wrong.

The truth doesn’t matter,
just what does it feel like?
It feels like I should step outside to start my life:
like I should step into the sun.
The truth doesn’t matter,
just what does it feel like?
It feels like I should throw away my interpreted mistakes:
like there’s no point any longer to consider them.
The truth doesn’t matter,
just what does it feel like?
It feels like life could be futile, but it could also be fun:

I considered your voice
I hummed my own tune
I picked up my scissors to run

show your teeth

I walked out. I see myself staying post-marriage and post-children, but still walking out. Becoming someone else’s shitty father. Leaving handwritten notes. My hand is already tired; I am already tired. I take another sip from another glass of a familiar drink. I become a modern-day version of my heroes – still present; I’ll let them find their own. Just like I did in the presence of my father’s absence. Did I select incorrectly/did I make the wrong choices? Do I give in too easily/do I submit myself to losing? My mother learned shorthand in school; one day my already weakening skills will become relics of the past as well. The wrinkles in my forehead: the imprints of my own frustrations. The lyrics I’ll remember from forgotten nights: sung in a slightly different time signature. I obscure all that I reminisce. I drink another sip. It’s not too late to walk away: I’ll wait until it is. A wide-eyed deer standing in the line of fire: too tired of choosing any one direction to take a simple step. I stare down the barrel of a loaded gun: waiting for the end to come: to be placed carefully over a mantle as a pretty prized possession, with only a molded grin to show my teeth.


The people congregate to talk about the things they don’t know much about, but want to seem like they do. The people stand in circles counting pieces of bubble gum by pairs of shoes. The people are grouped into discrete anger classes, within which they raise their concerns. The people light matches, flick them into community parks, and watch them while they burn. The people are texting the people on their phones while the people around them are texting the people on their phones and the people on the phones are answering the people who texted the people on their phones. The people forget how good it feels to be in a public place and completely alone. The people practice facial expressions proving happiness, sadness, anger, surprise, and indifference in a mirror after a hot shower. The people vote the people into office with individual misinterpretations of what it should mean to be in power. The people cleanse their sins by pointing out the sins of others; the people point out fatal flaws. The people think about crashing cars into 10,000 different monuments, each representing a no longer supported cause. The people don’t have to listen to reason; the people don’t have to believe. The people have the right to chatter, the right to bicker, and the right to be deceived. The people watch their televisions to learn how to behave. Some people learn when it’s too late and take their lessons to their graves.

a day

The days we live are quite average,
on average,
our lives are average too.

The yesterdays todays tomorrows:
all similar.
The difference: a slight skew.

A waste of one:
A push to a next:
Another attempt to start.

We live the same day
after day after day:
it’s the only one that’s ours.