15 Things

1. Never Yell
Not much good comes from yelling in my experience.

2. Don’t Always Put Your Laundry Away
That shit’s exhausting. Put your effort into the dishes.

3. Create a Morning Routine
Follow it almost all of the time. 1% of 1 day is 14 minutes. Use it to plan the other 99%. The other days buy a dolled up coffee.

4. Create a Hangover Routine
No rules!

5. Write a Very Basic “X Number of Things” List
Pray to God that the self-referential humor is enough to keep you cool.

6. Calmly Accept The Fact That You’re Not Cool or Creative or Special
Isn’t everything selfish anyway? Is this list format making fun of list formats defeating the very point of trying to make fun of the sea of bloggers and influencers by trying to vie for the very attention and notoriety they are vying for?

7. Failing to Plan is Planning to Fail
Lay out your clothes the night before. Gas up the night before. Basically if you do something in the morning, its better to do it the night before.

8. Give a Coffee Shop Two Chances
Then ax it. Be ruthless.

9. Record Something and Learn From It
Preferably a conversation. Involving you. Without consent. Then turn the bastards in. Whistle blower.

10. Find a Favorite Band
But don’t force it.

11. Once Found, See Said Band Live
Absolutely force it every single time.

12. Write Down Something
A journal. Very detailed. With dates. Involving a domineering boss. Then turn the bastard in. Stick it to the man.

13. Save Perfection For the Gods
But believe in yourself really hard.

14. Practice Utilizing One Extremely Weird and Tenuous Metaphor Daily
Make connections in odd places. Tie knots people squint at. Like the captain of a great ship at sea have repeatedly anxious and paranoid suspicions that the silverware in your kitchen drawer is plotting a coup.

15. Yell
Scream at the top of your lungs. Sometimes its the only thing the logic of this life tells you to do.

16. Go the Extra Mile
People will more often than not roll their eyes. But some people will also give you promotions.

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Police in the Museum

Keeping the attitudes of inanimate objects in line
Even when present in the room is so trying
When I walk out the door, order restores
From desolate chaos to unbridled peace
It’s weird knowing life thrives more when you release

I learned from the rain, to pour myself when I desire
Making puddles on sidewalks and mud out of the mire
Caring not for irrigation pipes or scheduled systems
I throw the whole kitchen sink, and let grow what
Grows and push those drowning to the brink

Sloshing my days away.
From the edge of blank white.
Forgetting the details that stress me out.
And keep us all stitched together.

Transitions (Day Drinking)

its okay to not know what you want this year
this life

its okay to admit that our eyes have all adjusted to the dark
and we forgot to turn on the light

its okay to discard timelines for old mines
dig despite the nerves

its okay to pick up archaic agents of destruction
to unlearn what has been learned

its okay to gain perspective
even as you pour another drink

its okay for miracles to forget sometimes
because redemption never leaves the brink

Christmas Tree

There is nothing but quiet retractions
Plans I’ll never see

Save for one devious mission
Set out specifically for me

The mist clings tight as the snow
Forgives around my branches

Though distant sounds sinister cut
Through this morning in flashes

The children’s laugh pierce deeper
Than the cat’s claws in spring

I know that facade and the
Serrated teeth it brings

The veins in my wood rage unseen
Against tradition’s tapestry

Busy orange beanies speckled white
Round the bend as I curse my ancestry

Shade of Love

The fire’s embers pulsed against their death, waving their essence as a tattered white flag clashing frantically against the coming night.

I told her that dying fire could not be reborn, that the universe has known countless fire, but none the same.

She sat between my legs and laughed at my words.

“You demand little, poet. You slide easy through the night and shade the in-betweens.”

I told her that crying and laughing often is the only way I knew to squeeze the essence from the sponge we call life. If we aren’t careful it will retain all of us, a secret forever.

She kissed my neck and threw a rock into the sea.

“Love should be free and full bodied, don’t you think?”

I listened to her and inhaled her scent though fractured hues. Our stilted shade of blue blended with the night and washed out with the tide.

Stoking the smolder, I wondered at her whimsy and how it danced with her immovable spirit. I didn’t respond.

We sat and watched the fire whisper its final secrets we would never think to keep to ourselves.

A Gift

My heart is in the work.

Who can truly say that? Too few.
Those who are down trodden but full of
objective opinions on the ravines of life.
Who’s fire hasn’t gone out and if it has
they refuse to acknowledge the night.

The foolish. By certain metrics.
Their hearts in work the world
refuses to acknowledge. Holding tight
to within knowing without is without
a certain perspective. Theirs.

Never bored on a rainy afternoon,
never scared they’ll be taken too soon.
Mortality is a gift who’s pressure they
dance in, when they remember its presence.

Most of us wish mortality away with all
the times we are alone and can’t stand
ourselves. We would rather be bored
for eternity than face the forge of our
passions and fears.

And while we search for our hearts and wish,
they break open their sternums, exposing all.

And they work.

To The Poem That Escaped Me

I was not looking to possess you
undress you or even stage a rescue

from the danger of losing you
which was only brought upon me

paradoxically by your pouring presence
flowing down the back of my forehead

I remember your shape, vaguely; how
your corners bumped into my brain stem

as you drove in your stolen car from
one side of my head to the other

I will call you “the sunrise” as it seemed
that was what had funneled in through

my retinas, deeming the physical light
unimportant and teasing me with the notion

that the sensation of the tangible
dancing incorporeal through our minds

is the greatest miracle no one ever
writes about. Perhaps because

we always seem to forget.

Alice and the Lost Boy

“Fallen down one of your tunnels again?”

“Aye, just as you can’t stop laughing.”

The jovial bounce in her step echoed
the sound of his brain ricocheting off the
walls of his esophagus as it tumbled down
down down.

Wonder and hopelessness look very similar on the
surface, feel very similar when taken by the hand.

She fondly wove her dialogue with threads of
nostalgia, courting the paintbrush of life.

He pulled off smiles as his mind bubbled in the pit
of everything he thought had been and everything
he supposed this was.

Her eyes were taken by the moment and danced among
the stars. He was in a mood to be forgotten.

premeditated

Panicked past selves claw inside buried coffins splintered
20 years spent methodically killing kindred
We’ve traded the shovels out over the years
Exchanging crushes with 4 inch screens with forgotten fears

Plots of old time movie clips on repeat
Splotchy film bubbling over old time defeats
Superimpose the faces of those we love
Sepia stained expressions impossible to dispose of

Equipped inadequately to handle this race
It is no big surprise the surprises we face
Some innocuous occurrence turns us inside out
Among our guts we find what we’ve forgotten all about

Aim for distant lands as lions claw under the hulls
Drowning in wake while water invades maned skulls
Horizon vanishes to a mirage in the sea
Only to reveal what the lions could truly be

Fire licks behind our eyes as we ignore the dose
Without space colonization revert to morbid and morose
Lessons we mistook embedded in chests we never hated
Panic plot equip aim fire. Premeditated.

Palindrome (If Projector Sheets Could Hold Hands)

Read yourself backwards and find me
reaching out through the bending black

Pivot on that punctuation you once placed
and find the run on sentence of my madness for you

Twist and love and bend to reach me
be patient as I echo you

-not repeating your essence, but acting out my own-

In real time with yours
in this fractured mirror existence

Place my overhead projector sheet soul over yours
see the jumbled mess splayed on the wall

A tangle made by two patterns pure
only deciphered when seperated

And placed side by side.