shake

i'll shake the dust 

from the cuffs of my jeans

into the bottom drawer of that

gaudy green dresser.

i'll pray for hours laying on my back

that i'll see love&happiness in their 

truest forms

somehow wandering these foreign streets.

the sun is shining on my old brown shoes

and the dust of the ground is still unsettled.

and my god, my god the only time i think of

you

is when i write,

and then again, i hardly write anymore.

but buddy said, 

"Isn't the true poet or painter a seer?

Isn't he, actually, the only true seer we have on earth"

maybe i'll see you soon.

god i hope so.

it's 1:16am on a sunday morning.

i'm sitting at a wooden table set for 8

in a san francisco hostel

with strong benches for seats.

the t.v. is blaring a 60's detective film

and a man is passed out on a couch not three feet from me.

is this poetry not enough?

is my life not words on a page being written out in front me?

and i love it.

you're drunk and you have

no idea how beautiful

it is.

and i took a breath on the phone

and listened to your voice.

and the way you spoke,

and i swore i heard whispers in 

the asphalt when we walked the other day.

and then the blankets get pulled to high

and i can't breathe but i kiss you

and i'm filled with fresh air and my mind is gone

my spirit's weary but my face doesn't show.

but you lift my lungs

and kiss my spine 

and everything is fine. 

and everything ugly in the world is sad and beautiful

but we have desperate memories.

and i'm loving every minute of this.

it's so hard

to keep my head above water,

with all these sharks circling.

but lately all i want to do,

is drift off into some sort

of man made lake

on a not-so-steady raft

just to see

how far away i can get 

before i miss everyone.

and other days all i want

is to curl up into a ball

and sit 

under my desk for hours and hours 

until my roommates come home

and i get embarrassed and tell them 

that i dropped a quarter

or a paper clip

or whatever pops into my head first.

and other days,

i'm just looking for escape 

in a bright blue sky.

my

handwriting
and my vocabulary have both gone to shit.
and i want to tell you
about all the places i want to take you.
all the memories that you remind me of.
the weird way you give me
a nostalgic feeling
i don't know.
it's silly.
but i like it.

inferior and full of doubt

there's only x amount of ways
to pick all the green
candies out of
the mason jar on the dining room table
and there's only so many ways
of getting mad at your closest friends
for living their lives
like a beautiful dream
and there's only two ways to move on.
and from what i've seen,
neither of them are pretty.
the first doesn't bring joy and happiness
like old promises told.
in this,
we are not laying naked in a field of flowers
listening to sigur ros
and reading kerouac.
we are sitting 12 hours apart
in phone booths, coffee shops, curbs,
and inside dumpsters.
and we're both trying to maintain composure
as our frail hands grasp the telephone tight.
and as the phone clicks down, we're both in tears
in the second we're both living out our broken dreams.
bootstraps, and railroad boxcars,
penny-candies and everything we have we stole.
but we're not together.
and this isn't the end.
but everything is seen through
a veil of pot-smoke
and tasted with the lingering wine breath.
and when we're home,
neither of us cares to be alone.
and neither of us cares.