Originally posted on 3/5/2014.

Stop
calling
what I do 
therapy.

Stop calling therapy
what exists to spite disorder,
what persists after breakdowns and
attempts.

Stop calling therapy
what I would do more of
if I were less 
a mess.

Stop calling therapy
what I call breathing.
Stop calling therapy what I call 
my self, spread on paper.

Stop calling triggers on guns
material.  Stop calling
triggers on others’ lips
material. 

Stop calling too-blunt knives
and weak pills and slender ropes
and bed restraints and hours
of paying to talk around agony

“the dark timber of my art.”

Stop calling.  
Stop insisting,
stop speaking
of therapy.  

Stop in fact your fantasy of why
and what and how;
for me this is no pressure valve
and verse is not surgery.

I’ve written
hundreds of thousands
of words
or more;

if it worked,
if it was
as you say,
I’d be fine.

Originally posted 2/22/2012.

Ever hear
that crack about
being cracked
that says
that’s how
the light gets in? 

I was fractured early
You’d think I’d be full
of sunshine but

thank Hell
a good flow
seeped in
Dark syrup
no light
no filler
It crusted thick
It sealed my fate within

That badly broken
That closed up that early
I could only become one
of three things

Artist
who makes it shine

Criminal
who makes it pay

Amateur actor
who makes it disappear

I was two of those by nature already

So onto fraud
Of thee I sling 
garbage in
and prophecy out
(or vicey reversa )

I said as much as I could
never stopping to breathe 

Still at it
Still grinning

There is an analgesic effect
to wordslinging 
You can forget a lot
by writing it down

If you want more
Buy the book when it comes out
This is the short con
You’re going to want the long game
for the full payoff
Trust me on that

Nod your head
Set the hook 
You’ll call it art 

I will too
if you’re still listening 

Originally posted 8/30/2013.

The last hawk in this town
just lifted off from the Town Hall roof

and flapped straight over the river,
rising as she went.

I know somehow she won’t be back.
I know somehow we’re somewhat doomed.

I get an itch in my limbs just thinking of it.
It’s not going to be the same here without the hawks. 

I’ve been trying to empower myself
with other animals’ symbolic value

but they all insist on living their lives.
How dare they! They really ought to be

useful.  The hawks
have never understood that well.

Far beyond the river, a dim sighting
of many hawks plunging and soaring.

Such teases.  What are they telling us?
How should we respond? 

Originally posted 5/18/2012.

Stupid you, cold drunk crashing
right through the knee-high fence
in your own front yard
and planting your face
among the weed-strangled old tulips.

Through the old weak fence
right on your old weak face 
in the front yard where the neighbors can see,
and you don’t seem to care enough
to run and hide in shame this time;
you seem content
to lie there ass up
for all of us neighbors to see.

You’ve been stupid since you were a kid,
a drunk since you were just past that,
and none of us can count how often
you’ve tripped over that fence stupid drunk.  
Stupid drunk, that’s what you are —
our object lesson, our signal disaster;
face down in the dead tulips with ass sticking up.

You’ve been in that position for a bit now,
at least an hour, and we’re all still laughing because
it’s likely the best job you’ve had, the perfect job for you —
no real effort required: just lie there,
let the neighbors point and laugh
and say things to their kids
about being drunk and stupid
and a public spectacle.

Now a crow, a real live crow,
has landed next to you and is inspecting you
up close and personal.  

Never gonna let you live
this one down, asshole.  
Priceless.  I’m gonna see
if I can get close 
and snap a picture —
if you can’t get up on your own,
you deserve this.