the quiet peace that comes
from drinking until you can't climb into bed
is a momentary comfort
as fleeting as it is soothing

city rolls quietly by at its always audible hum
as i stumble down the hallway and attempt
albeit poorly
to get myself prepared for fitful slumber
that wall wasn't there a minute ago
fuck
fuck
where is my toothbrush
fuck it

across the hallway is my destination
and i fall into it
like the dream i won't remember
or the love that won't last

the first time i ever worked at a bar
we had a customer who drank the dinner hours
until phone calls from hungry family began
summoned by responsibility
begrudged by some unknown wrong
weighed on by life

he would never take the call, rather wave silently
when the phone started ringing
and begin to gather his things
always tossing a half hearted "evenin"
over his shoulder as his last tip

off into the world
that saddened him
and weighed him down
to the people that loved him
or at least, the people who needed him around
off to kill some hapless bastard driving buzzed
off to die in his sleep and save him
the burden of having to return to that
hell hole of a bar he wasted his relaxation on

his quiet desperation burned into me
keeps me on my toes
and off my rocker
the drink won't save you
but it'll dull the pain
and your people don't know you
and you're alone
and you're tired
and you need to go home

its dinner time

rob said that he'd been having less stressful
polo dreams as of late
i've been snapping awake at 3:30 afraid that
i have left the goal wide open
watching videos of european players over and over and over and over
i'd say i luddit if it didn't keep me awake at night

my floor is a combination of clean and dirty clothes
heady books
and piles of records
there's a fair amount if stems and ash pounded into the carpet
and my cat hides in the closet
when i snap awake i see my life clearly for a second
and the piles look more like home
p clearly for only a second
then i'm back on the floor stressing out about a game
no one cares about
and my cat chirps to remind me its 3:45 am
and that there's nothing i can do about it right now

i don't think dan has polo dreams
and if he does i don't think they're as stressful as mine
somehow its simpler to him
it has a beginning, and an end point in his mind
and he's content to do what he can
with the tools that he has

i don't think i've had a roommate
i haven't caught jerkin it

when i last shaved
the world looked very different
sleep came easy
my bones less fragmented
the frame of it all
not even realized

beer and whiskey have conditioned the hair
firmly affixed to a pit of exaggeration
and wild dreaming

it yellows near my lips
a sign of weakness
and dependence 
and more than once has kept a leftover
sometimes it reflects my heart
flattened to one side
and unkempt
slowly moving outwards
but constantly growing heavier


this beard is more me than i am

if love is like you desire
then love has already seen some weather

too much heat
too much tension
both care and abuse

the neck will need to be reset eventually
everything should be properly oiled
but improvements aren't needed
that finish is just fine the way it is
and those pick ups sound amazing

get used to the cracks and dings
they are all part of the mojo
for the love of god
don't de-string it and put it in a humidifier

take it out
play it often
think of all the songs it has already sung
the places it has been
the stories it can speak to your soul

you said you wanted to be loved like a vintage guitar
and i realized i'm not a collector
i want just want to shred for always

i wanted to write something
that would save the world
so i sat down and wrote about you
and how i used to believe in something more
about love in bloom
and dying to yourself

i wanted to write something
that would bring you back
so i sat down and wrote about the world
and how i used to believe in something different
about giving people more than they deserve
and loving with reckless abandon

i wanted to write something
that would sober up my head
but that's not gonna happen
till your face is a distant memory
and i can't still feel your touch

i wanted this poem to matter,
i wanted so much more

than a rocks glass
and painful memories

harsh noise and coffee
not exactly a relaxing start to the day
couldn't bear to turn on something
that complemented the cooling rain

a break in the heat
oppressive like this sound
heavy and thick like this coffee

i prefer the city on fire
imagine it all disappearing
and feel a calm knowing that though it is a
heavy concrete wound
it will give way in the end

the small yellow flower
breaking through the sidewalk on grand
the lake breathing in and out
waiting to strike
the sticky rain trying desperately to wash away
the memory of what once was
a shining beacon of the modern world

the city is not unlike my heart
fuck my heart