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1
Pushing Up Daisies
I coughed up a bunch of daisies.
Not too bad except for
a bit of phlegm and spit on the petals,
nothing some time in the sun and a
few paper towels won’t fix.
You can put them in front of the far window.
The ugliness will soon fade as
water/care/light make them
grow tall and perfectly crooked.
Chest puffed out to the insects that
wriggle and buzz
through the pane glass.
Bright and pretty to show off
to unenthused house guests.
2
Two Weeks Notice
Will I still be a cashier when you sell out?
Scanning through kids clothes as your wife
chases the kids down the aisle.
Will the circles under my eyes recede?
Cynicism giving way to acceptance,
leaving her in the lurch because,
let’s face it,
I never quite stacked up and never would.
Dust collects on a framed diploma.
Spider web cracks
across the thin plastic
where all my frustration pressed against it.
Where will $50 dollars in wadded-up small bills
take me at 4 a.m.?
Down roads you traveled without me,
long ago,
when I thought
something better was around the corner.
3
Bygone Daze
I move happy in loose limbed nostalgia,
reds and oranges dancing
through VHS haze.
Weekends off the high dive
toes touching the bottom of the deep end,
slow motion heavy calm.
Riding on pegs and sipping Moon Mist,
Blink-182 reverberating through my thoughts.
Reality roots it all soon after,
weird nicknames and taunts,
unrequited love and bruised limbs
chatter eagerly,
drowning out everything else.
Happiness is the sound
of pavement whirring by under my feet.
Of the quiet the elementary school
by my house held just as the sun was setting.
When I could flip my skateboard under
my feet without anyone telling me I was
doing it wrong.
Happiness is a quiet parking lot mama.
4
Words
Language is open-ended
free-flowing love,
that every now and again
hacks up charcoal black idiocy.
It’s still worth it.
As malleable as fresh Play-Doh
or as rigid as a beam of steel,
skipping along
breaking concrete under footfalls.
It’s unfiltered rage let loose
in that letter you’ll never send,
it’s those first clammy,
apprehensive hands that lock
after too much thinking.
Strolling fancy,
knuckle dragging simple,
keeping us together
while tearing us apart.
5
Pure Applesauce
Black robbed reverence
that both sides of the political spectrum
take turns throwing rocks at.
The hinge on which the door of history
swings in reaction or revolution.
Where false secrecy and pretention
pomp and circumstance
play pick up football games.
Ones that end in bruised egos
and teary eyes.
History always has a losing side.
One that lumbers dumb and
oblivious through glossy torn pages
of future text books.
Stoic eyes that exert ridiculous
notions that fall over each other
down slick slopes of desperation.
Fuck off Antonin Scalia.
6
The Fourth
Some skin peeled back as I flicked the
yellow Bic.
My mother waited in the wings yelling
“be careful, oh god be careful.”
Once the sparks hissed out of the wick
I sprinted back to her side,
giggling to myself.
A shower of colorful sparks hissed out
yellows, reds, purples and blues;
hopping about like pagan gods
dancing some ancient jig
to a lost rhythm.
The sparks receded and a cloud of pale smoke
rolled out into the dark,
making its way through the pine needles above.
We hosed it down and moved to the next one.
Bottle rockets that shot up only to end
in an anti-climatic pop,
firecrackers under that old bucket in the garage,
rattling off like gunfire as the bucket jumped about.
Picked up and thrown about
as is custom for the youngest in the family,
bruised knees and grass stains.
Driving home late,
head thudding gently against the window
as we made our way back.
7
Imitation Woodgrain
I saw the ghosts of
fallen trees copied into
the laminate on the table
in the break room.
Pressed and sealed in
quiet inanimate death.
Miles from its commanding presence in
a forest of other trees.
At least a real wood table is
honest enough to give the
once tall trunk purpose.
This doesn’t even do that.
It just sits around until it
gets too shabby or wobbles too much.
Heaped into landfills
where it’ll never quite break down
and taunting it’s distant wooden relatives
who will.
Returning to an Earth that nurtured them,
returning to quiet oblivion.
8
Swipe Left
Modern love is perfect love.
One where slight differences are huge differences
a wisp of cigarette smoke or
lame interest means rejection.
‘They’re perfect but they like cats…”
Compromise mingles with
ancient reptile bones in museums
with appropriate reverent signs.
Ones that’ll soon be covered in
lost love proclamations,
carved in deep by bored kids
on a field trip.
9
Balance
Remember to give equal weight.
Give those barons of exceptional
thought and brawn,
the same say as the vast majority.
Those job creators that give us
a wonderful existence.
Be careful of the lazy.
The ones who wait to
pull out the rug from under
polished Italian leathers,
waving high
flags of uncertainty.
Be careful of words like
“change,” “progress” and “equality.”
Make peace look so absurd
that no thinking person
would ever utter it.
Do these things and
the bright red, white and blue graphics
will never fade a bit on
America’s #1 news network.
10
CryMeaBeardHipsterPoetLoser
Unkempt beards
from block to block
on briefcase-wielding elites
and hippie punk kids.
Hell, there’s even one on my face.
I grew one back in high school
because, let’s face it, girls don’t
typically go for dudes with
pimples and acne scars
dotting and crisscrossing their face.
At 24, it’s served its purpose,
but it’s still there.
I still have
plenty of awkward contours to
hide.
I have self-conscious excuses
like you have bad tattoos.
11
+/-
Fall together into pieces.
Across the great expanse
of anything.
Fences are always planned to be built
but never are.
Who needs em'.
Pack up and move when things
get too slow.
Did I daydream a bit too long again?
Pressed against the heavens
in some sort of immortal
completeness that
always manages to
slips between my fingers.
Lullabies to the leaves and bark
sound out through fields of wire
and mechanical om.
Fill your lungs with smog
and say goodnight to
the orange moon
that lumbers heavy.
12
Daytona Beach
I want to strut:
sand between my toes,
radioactive pink flesh,
too much body hair and a little flabby.
Happy,
free from the snickers
and stares.
Speedo clad and beaming
ear-to-ear.
My bald spot peeling
and flaking.
I see slender movie star looks
self-consciously checking themselves
in bathroom mirrors,
prepping only for it all to fall apart
in a strong breeze.
13
Day Drunk
Red wine dripping down my chin
sun-baked and still fading.
My thoughts stretch and yawn,
moving through conversations a bit
too relaxed.
Shaking hands with awkward small talk,
dancing cheek to cheek with pleasantries.
Tomato-red pride
talking way too audibly
and stumbling way too much.
Dream of swimming through
cool covers
far away from all of it.
Wake up with a kinked neck at
6 a.m. legs hanging over
the edge of the loveseat.
Not enough time to go back to sleep,
coffee grounds on my tongue
watching the minutes lurch by
until my shift ends.
14
Listen to Otis
Guilt bounces around like
a bouncy ball thrown real hard
in a tiny room.
Thrown by a bratty kid
who isn’t going to look for it,
but somewhere deep down
wonders where it is.
Remember laughing when someone was different?
When a perfectly nice and
thoughtful human being was
reduced to a heap of ash before your tiny eyes?
You don’t get those moments back.
You can only add weight to that
heaviness on your shoulders.
Try a little tenderness
for once
you selfish prick.
15
Mr. or Ms.?
Why should it matter if
Bill wants to be Barbra or
if Barbra wants to be Bill?
You can see the tension
fill the room.
That typical hate,
radiating through the chain restaurant
off the interstate.
Land of the limited and
home of the “normal.”
Where flag waving inclusion
draws a line
that only time and education
can help erase.
It couldn’t come any sooner.
16
Flag Pin Guy
The red-faced shouter
that graces all the billboards around town.
The “us against them” guy,
who builds his foundation on fear
and the rest of the house on empty political promises.
He stands at the side of stage
tired features and caked on makeup
to make a 60 year old shell look 25 again.
The hall filled with hushed, eager chatter
until he hops up on stage as spry as
a cheerleader with the smile to match,
walking to the microphone and
flipping on the autopilot switch.
Immigrants, jobs, American exceptionalism, regular folks, God’s will
hold for applause
guns, military might, the private sector, the economy, joke at other candidate’s expense
hold for laughter
empty closing part replicating Saint Reagan’s “are you better off speech”
that leveled Carter in the debates.
They still love stuff like that.
Walk off stage and wave a few times,
holding smile until out of sight.
17
Nostalgia Parlor Trick
Drag me through the streets,
skinned limbs and shirt sleeves,
heavy with rain water.
Chunks of moon rocks
lodged between my teeth,
blood on my collar.
Bulging trash water veins
carry out earnest
nothings.
Warm lamp light
glows out gentle from
the passing windows.
Our fingers don’t lace
together
like they used to.
Eagerly
and a bit too tight,
kind of like a kid who just
learned how to tie their shoes
for the very first time.
18
Etc.
I have a notebook filled
with uncrossed lists.
A thin layer of dust covers its
light green cover,
water damage warped,
curlicue wire spine
unraveling a bit,
but still pretty much (like) new.
It sits in a shoe box,
patiently
waiting
on me to get back in shape again
or to record that album of field recordings
I never quite go to.
I won't ever throw it away.
Those dreams still thudding around in
my cranium like wet clothes
in the dryer.
One day I'll take them out
and they'll be crisp and warm,
slightly smaller,
but generally okay.
19
Suburbanites in the City
A brightly lit haze
of social graces,
zig-zags through
drunk back slapping good nature.
A saxophone bleats out from the corner
as rain drops scatter,
then pour,
drenching sports jerseys
and haggard well-meaning beards.
A night on the town caves into soggy ruin.
Back to SUVs where you can
alter the temperature from
deep chill to sauna swelter with the flick of a wrist.
Careful to not make eye contact
with cardboard carrying freaks.
Their Sharpied pleas for help
running together in the down-pour.
Anxious wheels inch forward
against a tide of red lights
back to the expressway.
20
Re-Living
I gulped down razor blades
to cut away
the cobwebs in my throat.
NEW VOICE:
Confident and slurred
howling at the fingernail moon
that hangs fragile.
Do you want to skip class with me tomorrow?
Eyes red and glassy twins
holding hands
as we fall in place.
I want to fall asleep
next to you again,
still not knowing you’d
decide to leave me the next day.
Scratchy-throated longing
and bullshit whining yet to happen.
I wish I didn’t have to be
embarrassed about being 18 again.
But you don’t get to do that
and what a relief it is.
It’s certainly better to figure it out then
than to live it out at 24.
21
Tossing and Turning
I thought my nose was whistling,
but it was only the birds
outside my window.
I remember when my thoughts
used to open up veins like
red apples tumbling fresh
from the crate.
When things seemed a whole lot bleaker,
hinging on whether
you were in my arms
instead of his.
Imitation gold
wishes floating away
into oblivion.
I remember what it was like to
think people would never let me down
and that I’d never do the same to them.
22
$45.00
Placed neatly under
my driver's side windshield wiper,
erasing one day's worth of pay.
Moving my legs back to the car
and my car back down the street,
back down the interstate.
Rewinding farther,
back to comfort.
Back to my room with my records.
The ones I got in the mail today,
having just enough time to
break them free of their cellophane,
but not enough time to
listen to them without being
late.
Back to the sounds
of rain dancing on the rooftop,
making conga lines down through
the gutter.
$45 flowing with the water
through the sewer grate
off to do other things.
23
Zzzzzzz
I want to disappear,
stoned and lonesome
to that shack
everyone forgets about.
Stout rats everywhere,
still better than
anywhere
I can think of.
I want to be lucid
as my consciousness is shook loose,
tumbling down some
dark staircase in
the shack.
My last thoughts hopping and
skipping through the tall grass
and rotted wood.
24
The Intergalactic Church of Eternal Happiness Inc.
Laugh at death like it’s
a wacky cult knocking at
your door at 8 a.m.
‘No thank you,
please,
I’d really rather not.’
Keep the pamphlet,
the one Brother Dean made
because his parent’s
computer had Photoshop.
The one featuring stock photos of happy
families skipping into
unending complete happiness.
That one.
There’s no need to worry about it
and no sense planning for it
because it’s going to happen either way.
That is, unless you call the
24 hour toll free number.
25
Beer
Don’t be so glum,
it’s only a passing feeling
tiptoeing in the dark.
It’ll be gone by morning,
leaving only footprints across your back.
It visits from time to time
never staying up to talk things through.
It just sits there,
lurking in the corner
awkwardly
pretending to check for new messages.
You kind of wonder if
there’s any enjoyment in this.
If there’s something you’re not quite getting.
Maybe it only exists to write
poems about it at 2 am or
to keep you honest,
keep you humble in some uncomfortable way.
Either way,
it doesn’t get any easier to keep around.
26
Daydreaming Past Third
Hold onto that stare.
That one that can flag down cabs in
the pouring rain.
The one that still turns my kneecaps
into uneasy wobble, even if
I haven’t seen you in a few years.
Don’t lose it to age
or disenchanted bitching,
to sore joints and
sagging skin.
Hold onto it like a nervous
high-schooler gripping
the baton in track.
I hope that stare lands on me again,
when we’re older
and able to look past everything.
When we’re able to be friends
without all the complicated things
that being in love and fucking up
drags across subsequent years.
27
#
The ongoing discussion is always cut a bit short,
fads fade out as quickly as they leap in.
Deep, complex social unrest
compacted into the news cycle
doesn’t hold interest or sway
like it once did.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth working at.
Hold up those signs on street corners
even when your shoes are heavy with water
and your dripping snot is mixing with the downpour.
Although that’s easy to say
if you’re an armchair quarterback like me.
One who’s only been to a handful of protests,
who makes excuses like you make stands.
Whose selfish bitching about
the drag of this wonderful existence
eclipses unmet potential.
Where looking cool nudges aside
actually doing something.
28
Fresh Paint
Like opening an escape hatch
and falling for hours.
Where quotas fade into the background
like the music your
dentist cleans your teeth to.
Bushes swirl in murky water
and breathe life into the canvas
you sunk part of your paycheck into.
Carve out the empty space,
little by little,
as someone arranges some household objects
in a New York art gallery.
They net twice your income.
They don’t have day jobs.
They eat all the most organic and
healthy things available,
making sure to chastise anyone who eats
McDonald’s and uses the extra money on
their daughter’s dance lessons
and cheap art supplies.
29
Eviction Notice
They tried to carve out some
of your grandfather’s front lawn
for a right turn lane.
Bull-headed determination
and some angrily worded letters
held sway with the city council,
but didn’t last.
Soon they’ll be propping up a highway right
through our little community.
Faceless concrete drone
snuffing out block parties
and pick-up football games.
Packing us into sardine cans
where boredom and desperation
breed like rabbits.
Where a zero tolerance policy
can mean a hollow Christmas.
Track marks and pipe burns accelerating
despair housed in the quieter moments,
kids moving in with their grandma just for now.
But there’s still life here.
There’s still a sense of community
no matter how dislocated or
misplaced it has become.
It’s just hidden from the affluent gawkers
who stare out of rolled-up windows,
driving through, quick as can be.
30
A Vote is a Voice
A suggestion box
doesn’t make your workplace
a democracy.
It doesn’t give you a seat at the table
or a say in the conversation.
A suggestion is a suggestion.
It isn’t a vote.
It rubs shoulders with an opinion
but it doesn’t mean change.
It can mean things are taken into consideration,
sure.
But considerations aren’t commands
and aren’t beholden to anything.
31
Open 24 Hours
I don’t want to come back,
but I probably will.
Vegetables and air filters,
lawn gnomes and dish soap;
everything under one roof,
stepping in time under
heavy buzzing light.
Low low prices
and no questions asked.
Just sunken in eyes and
and never ending pressure.
Hours that never shorten
by a supervisor who never seems to
have a good day.
But here everything is at my fingertips
perfect shiny clean
in neat rows
before bloodshot eyes.
32
Neon Exoskeleton
I’m letting it all overflow,
dripping over the top of the glass
on the good carpet.
The stupid concerns and the valid ones.
Typing things out and sending them out
gives some immediate honesty,
but that fades quickly.
It soon gives way to overexposure
and a strange desire to point
the car West and never come back.
Where the idealism of open howling
empty is replaced by
identical rest stop towns.
Golden arches reaching high
into the vast hazy morning.
Try to sleep it off and float through
the warm and inviting vibes,
a future where we balance everything out
and slow down for a bit.
33
Skate Park Hierarchy
10 years old and terrified,
head to toe covered in padding
that I really wish I could take off.
Covered in sweat and self-consciousness
I wait at the top of the ramp
for my turn.
Older kids talk about exaggerated
sexual encounters and drunken weekends,
waking up oblivious to their surroundings.
Slapping me on the back to punctuate plot twists.
There was a bizarre sense of community to it all.
We were all stigmatized kids that
sipped soda accented by vodka
and waxed up curb sides.
Ones that sprayed graffiti on
the walls of your corporate parks
and snuck out late with your daughter.
The caricature that
played out in after school specials
that never really showed the
difficulty of the actual sport.
One that never had the prestige of throwing a spear
or running in a circle.
Never held a candle to giving a kid a concussion on the
way to a line on a field,
throwing a ball through a hoop
or kicking one into a net.
34
Snake Oil Blues
I found some dinosaur bones
in my backyard that turned out to be
remnants from a 1972 cookout.
I had already told everybody
that they were a long lost
link to a reptilian wonderland.
The website was paid for and
laid out in an easy-to-use format.
Scientific inquiry about my findings has
been met with drawn curtains.
I’ve even been parking across the street
more and more,
digital and actual mail box
filled to the brim.
A dedicated few defend my findings
and give impassioned defenses
about my sudden disappearance.
I feel for them.
I wish I could keep stitching together
those crazy dreams
that would make our small town
a bit more lively.
But I’m hiding in the back room because
a car is in my driveway.
Curtains drawn, lights out,
hoping this will all be over soon.
35
Try a Little Harder
“Try a little harder”
they might say after they
kick you in ribs.
When they foreclose on your house,
making you wonder where you’ll go next.
Maybe it’ll be with a relative,
putting more stress on their overstressed household.
Make something of yourself they might say
when you’re trying to figure out how you’ll
pay for food this month.
When it’s making the decision of
whether you get to eat or your kids.
Show some initiative they might say
as they throw you in prison
on a third strike because
you stole some VHSs to feed
you’re addiction to heroin.
If you only tried a little harder
to escape these social ills
you could be the next Donald Trump.
The owner of brash glitzy real estate, assuming
of course you were born into the Trump family.
Good luck kid.
36
Mellow Apparition #5
He doesn’t care about your bills
or your new sedan.
He only wants to talk about
his energy that hovers through your attic.
He doesn’t speak words
and isn’t exactly intimidating.
No bloody rags and rattling chains.
He just wants that last cup of coffee
that sat in the pot before he banged his head
cleaning the attic.
He’s the creaks and phantom footfalls above your head
the distant moans that make you toss and turn.
37
Funeral Luncheon
I was late for work,
not enough coffee and a snooze button
that was way too close.
I sat at an intersection
where a funeral procession took longer
than a tyrant appointed by god.
Once the last hiccupping sedan waved it’s
orange flag through I jammed the pedal down
like someone who was afraid of being fired,
gunning it to beat to the next red.
I barely made it only to see an
ambulance careening toward me,
barely missing
horn and siren tumbling down the road,
hollering in unison
“WHAT THE HELL MAN.”
I punched in a minute late
and slinked out to my register
throwing on the best face I could.
I stood in place for thirty minutes
moving back and forth once it
got too painful to stand still.
Watching over a ghost town of
clothes racks and tables,
cardboard signs hanging for no one in particular.
Employees shuffling everything quietly
into place.
38
Vary Superstition
I am the skeptic who
leaves tails-up pennies where
they lie.
The secularist who
says “God bless you”
whenever aunt Carol sneezes,
bowing my head
at weddings and funerals.
Neat and productive,
tense, but complete
whenever I cave for tradition.
But when it’s just me I’m
all unhinged bad luck.
I open umbrellas indoors
when no one’s around,
smashing mirrors next
to the dumpster when no one
is looking.
All tightly bottled up
anxiety coming loose and
ricocheting across the room
like a newly opened bottle of Champagne.
39
Copasetic
I want all the dents to
magically rise to their
original state.
The original hub caps
firmly in place.
Scrapes, chips and wear
like they never happened.
Free of rust.
It’ll be sitting in my
driveway like it was 1999.
I want my bank account to be
a little less depleted,
my nerves a little less strained.
But decay sets in from day one,
accelerating through repair bills
and sleepless nights.
Until it’s with the other
identical scrap metal cubes,
hoisted and moved shifted,
moved to the bottom.
40
Lush/Green
Stumble drunk through
full moon painted
uneven pavement.
Air doused in bonfire perfume
mingles with voices and beer bottle clink,
rising up through
cool empty pitch black.
Dog nails scrape across concrete,
bike tires clack at rest.
The world is all
happy bends and
awkward foot falls
as I make my way home.
41
Goodbye Weekend
I’ve got a heavy feeling
in my stomach.
One propped up by
buzzing cell phones and
missed calls.
I’ve got some lonely in my limbs,
heavy agitated,
spilling drinks and losing food
in the couch.
I’ve got some clutter in my skull
that makes simpler tasks
fall by the wayside.
I’ve got a lot of nothing without you.
42
Much Better
We swam in water that
felt like it was imported from
the arctic.
Me all awkward flailing
and you graceful strokes,
like you had just arrived home.
After I tired myself out,
I stayed on the shore and shivered
it out under a blanket against
overcast skies and a cool breeze.
The beach was empty except for
the Vampire Weekend song clanging
out bright through the speakers.
I watched you from the shore
moving effortlessly through the waves,
not jealous or lonely
only happy and complete.
Happy that at least one of
us knew what they were doing.
43
Born Under a Flickering Sign
I was born in the house next to the Citco
and the expressway.
Our curtains always drawn,
making the best of it.
It was a nice place,
new siding and fresh coats of paint.
The country struck me as eerie.
I moved out there with
a job that suited the degree pinned up
on my wall.
Way too quiet.
You could almost hear the lonely
howling out through the fields.
This big house
with its constant creaks
and moans.
Matching this strange empty
that rattles on through my frame.
44
The Scenic Route
There are cuts on the inside
of my mouth again.
Ones I accumulated
when I was sleeping.
Roadmaps to unease with finally being okay.
The frantic five minutes of ironing
a crooked collar before I leave,
deadlock madness as
I make my way in.
The fifteen minutes that
I try to stretch in my consciousness
for a lifetime.
It’s much better than where I was.
It’s not perfect,
but I wouldn’t really want perfect either.
All I want is for things to be steady
for a bit.
To slow things down and
get a little comfortable.
45
Invisible Cage Welders
Tension hangs heavy,
ingrained deep into social routine.
That neatly pressed uniform,
the glow of sirens in the rearview.
The ones that scolds unkempt hair
and baggy jeans,
the one that tells you to
please step out of the car.
Yes, that dented-to-hell thing that sputters
down the road.
The one that was flagged down miles away
by a shiny new cruiser.
Shivers down the spine.
Time slips through fingers
that are then clenched and slammed
against cold concrete.
Years spent for that one joint that
fell between the seats.
Years without friends or family,
years that won’t let you get another job,
years you don’t get back.
46
Don’t Be a Stranger
Where excited talk
about where you were going to go on vacation next
flaked away to whispered voices
and resumes left in the printer again.
Weeds grow up tall through the now cracked
and ragged asphalt.
Remember when it was all smooth pitch black?
When we had to park a block away while they
worked on it?
It was during the hottest part of the year,
yellow sweat stains that served as the excuse
for not asking Amy out that weekend.
The smell of fresh carpet when we first moved in
and the coffee stains that soon multiplied
were now the roaches problem now.
Brown cardboard boxes overflowing with knick-knacks
as we, one by one,
made our way out during downsizing.
We all knew the hammer was about to fall
on the last nail,
sealing away this strange little shared experience.
Goodnight to office parties
and dumb pranks.
To themed days and making fun of
team building exercises.
Goodnight to our lips locking together at the Christmas party.
I’m going to miss it all.
47
Old
Making lists is a comforting
kind of insanity.
Itemizing your life
between lined margins,
reaching out into the unfulfilled future.
Goodnight happy abandon,
I’ve got to slip out for a
couple of drinks.
Take care and rock yourself
to sleep with the old hymns.
I’ll be back in the morning,
sandpaper voice and five o’clock shadow.
I’ll see you less and less
as the years run together.
My spine heavy and irrelevant
filed to the back of the cabinet.
I’ll see you when I can,
for the hastily planned weekend getaway
that is more of a headache than a relief.
Impending responsibility looming
overhead like some phantom
that doesn’t get social cues.
One day I hope you understand.
48
Getting in Shape Again
My gut is beginning to
show more again.
Weeks of running only do
so much if you fall back
too far into comfort.
Packs of cookies start not to last
as long.
Three cookies a day snowballs
into eating the whole row.
Rewards for not messing up too bad
easily slip
into amazing routines.
It’s weird being stuck on this
ridiculous balance beam
that never quite seems to end.
49
Scattered Daydreams
The microscopic moments
where thoughts give way to
unfiltered imaginary bliss.
Everyone from the Fortune 500 CEO
to the single parent who works three jobs
experiences it at some point
in their day.
Daydreams that are typically forgotten
once we’re jarred back into reality.
The overbearing responsibility and
ever slipping minutes
that crashes through,
making you feel helpless
all over again.
But for those odd little moments
none of that matters.
You’re free.
You’re able to live out whatever crazy notion
you can sculpt out of your thoughts.
There’s something kind of wonderful about that.
50
ALL HAIL LORD XENU
All hail criticism that
keeps things interesting and
pushes us forward.
Thoughts and ideas not
boxed up and placed in neat lines
for fickle customers.
Allowing for growth and thought,
for dissent and disapproval,
making the first amendment
everything it could be.
It gives credit to everyone
who made that once hypocritical amendment
into a reality for the marginalized.
A voice that could echo
through impoverished rural communities
and bustling urban decay.
A voice that’s been muffled by
Citizen’s United, but not extinguished
all together.
A voice that high-powered lawyers
have trouble stamping out.
All hail criticism
and all it could be.
51
52
53
54
About
Nicholas Arthur is 24 years old and currently
lives in one of the many lake towns in
Michigan. He is a Wayne State University
graduate. Along with poetry he dabbles in
music, writing and art.
When he is not writing he can be found
looking in the bargain bin at the record
store, drinking coffee far too late at night,
and eating breakfast any time he pleases.
He has a cat named Simba.