your hat problem

i can not wright anymore, the words,
they have left me.

i see them collecting just outside the tongue,
trading card like jokes

to be used when its their turn to play.

your kisses do
this to me. for a time-for its

when you smile-you leave out the punch line.
like your saving it for something,

for something that won't cut you.

for something worth more then
a night,

more then an itch,

more then christmas in july.

you give something else instead.
something below your neck, below your

freckled skin, and
between the words you used, when we talked
about, how drummers are assholes.

but i won't judge you when you wear hats,
because you think it hides your thoughts

and takes away the feelings secretly
shown in yours eyes,

and keeps the sun out of you.

but before you go i would like to tell you
that i think your funny,

and wouldn't mind it if you stayed awhile;
we could eat some cereal and talk

more about your hat problem.

the coffee table

two cups of coffee, a half eaten bowl of corn flakes
and an overt expression of debility,

conflicts what was,
an otherwise distant coffee table.

when it was younger it kept records
of people passing, and the words each one used to

describe proclivity. but as it aged
with coffee stained wrinkles, it began to loose track

of the many worlds spoken. as time rubbed corners
clean, my coffee table forgot what it was like

to carry lightly objects passed upon it shoulders,
residing instead to hold, with yellow constraint,

strings of frustrate. never cut or untied these strings
stretched, made shadows on the walls and assumed the art.

and now, in shadless excuse,
the morning pretense smiles.

blow me a kiss, and i will keep your hands
busy, belly torn and you can not feel

the sensation. the morning will come,
bringing its single blade of straw, breaking,

and brooming away all the clutter from burdens
past; but not today.

i wear my glasses to bed

i wear my glasses to bed, sleeping still,
to see my dreams more clearly.

to define the leaf from the twig
at distance, and learn in multiple ways

the differences between them.

to rewrite signs and tangled lines, unmanaged
by the view-

seen through eyes, the shapes comprised of
reprimand, broken glasses

and the saltless tears of forgotten dreams.

but in the sake of dreaming awake, i find
the stories enduring,

like a fire burning tricks
like a sandbox shitting on babies
like an onion buried yet blooming
like hell, but in Miami in December.

job hunting

job hunting is like trying to sell cloth to a clothes line.
you have to convince yourself, and the clothes line, that bearing cloth is normal.
is every cloth draped line, bent heavy, swaying in a sunlit afternoon, happier than the others?

the others, standing just as tall.
the others, entertaining birds.
the others, undressed without defense-scaring sheep.

job hunting is your last cigarette rained on.
the wet paper turning clear, exposes the guts.
forcing you to smoke it gently; or through it in the gutter.

it forces you to lie, by telling the truth.
to dance, interpretively, to the sound body language makes, underwater.
I can hold my breath for 30 minuets without laughing.

job hunting is for losers because winners already have jobs.
but if winners have jobs then what's the second job for?
and in the real world you wouldn't have to bleed, just to blink.

a story of the middle

we enter the story in the middle
the middle
being where some stories become not boring

where its beginning to show signs of
something worth telling

worth repeating the story

and thats where it begins
in a sense

the beginning being ignored
applied as
unimportant

or at least
in as far as

the story goes

omitted

it is a story unfinished
the end is unseen

and therefor can not
and should not
be speculated upon

however it is important to note
that an ending is being formed

even now
as the middle progresses
from a beginning

into a middle
and eventually an end

meaning the inevitable demise of
and resolution of
the story itself
and most

if not all
of its unwilling inhabitants

i assure you
all the details will be presented

in order of importance
which may lead the reader into a twisted
albeit predictable ride

the tale
being unpredictable by nature
should exhaust such fumes

of nonsense
choking its participants
its readers

and if its lucky
any ears listening to its retelling

and this is where the story bends
the reader

searching for meaning
in the words
but sadly

i can not go any further
seeing as though

we have now reached the end

i moved on

i moved on,
my legs carried me, as they do.

I walked out, into the path
of a man

drunk, pissing on his shoes,
his knees, cock hanging

freely as he stumbles.

life turns real in the time it takes
to wet your pants

and the street below. life always
appears quickly.

says hello with hatchets, stands
staring behind sunglasses

appearing to stare without sunglasses
waiting with hatchets.

I wanted to turn around.

or do it over
again.

if it was possible I would
have

made me selfish. taking you upstairs
to keep.

but.

I moved on,
my legs carried me as they do.