St. Jimmy

Happiness is the great lie of my generation.
So many things are designed

          to keep us smiling,

money and love and lust and liquor;

really, they are all just commodities.

               They sell us shit that breaks.

Hearts and bodies and lives and dreams,

there is no permanence here.

                    There is no more anything for anyone, anymore.

My friend Jimmy told me that.

Everyone says that he's crazy.

They aren't wrong, but

                         that's how you buy happiness. 

You get convinced that you aren't Jimmy,

that you aren't crazy, then it's over.

                              It's an idea worth buying into.

God help us all if we aren't happy.

 

Star Crossed

Something

keeps tickling the

inside of my memory.

The stars are all in rows

like the first time we kissed.

It was December, I remember,

beneath the glow of a streetlight.

My hands were wet

with dew and cold sweat.

I'd been here before,

I'd seen you before,

but never like this.

There was something I needed to say,

but I lost it between your lips.

I can't remember now,

but I wish I could.

Maybe then...

no title

Your heart must be stronger than mine,
to hold the weight of all of everything.
It's easy to do as I do
and let it all go.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Become a solitary point in the universe,
balance all against the weight of an idea, an ideal.
My heart does not exist outside of my head.
You wear yours like a trophy,
with  the scars as a testament
to the battles you've won.
Or maybe lost, but it's all the same.
I can't touch what you have,
and in my own little universe,
it terrifies me.

Valinor

I have sung the song of Roland
And ventured where I may;
I have walked the halls of heroes
While ravens had their say.

I have sparked up conversation
With kings from days of yore;
Sailed on with bow struck west
To live in Valinor.

To say that I'm a dreamer
Would not be oft amiss;
My heart beats more in rhythm
To love than than loneliness.




to my parents, who taught me to love reading.

Singularity

Sometimes
I wonder what the point
of a poem is.
The graceful bend
of word and tongue.
To make language
more than a casual friend
whom one fucks
for no other reason
than convenience.

Who, but you,
could follow a poet's mind
down the tracks
of a truth that lie
inside a verse.
How does one
cut through the bullshit
that obscures some
single point of knowledge
or of love or of hate.
What life does a poem have
if her meaning escapes
the tracks it was set upon?

Untitled

All I want
is to lose myself,
to drown in the ink.
If life could be still long enough,
if I could find the right cliff,
my words would flow forth
like a war cry,
like a kiss.

Sometimes

Sometimes, the best thing
is not friends or laughter.
Sometimes, the best thing
is not your crutch.
Sometimes, the best thing
isn't there when you need it.
The best thing, you see,
is the reason you are here.