One Last Shot

The rungs of the ladder that I used to climb
fall away as I wonder if going up was right
not that I have the time to think
that I did growing up as a child
it’s all wasted...
and intellect, it lasts as long as love lives on
but not before creation flows,
a fee that’s paid for by your landlord.
Waiting is an invitation to all your vices
shake their hands and roll the dice,
decide your fate in a game of chance
but not before you wave goodbye
and hope that with your one last shot
you clear the way for the future,
not the one you thought you’d choose
but good enough to keep you clean.

I'm Far too Sensible for my Own Good

Because what I really want to do is
grab that starcaster and shatter its melodies
into a thousand pieces
watch them bounce and burn as shrapnel ignites
like entering the atmosphere

I want to punch through the drywall and
hope that it leaves me bruised and bloody
to feel the rush of pain that I feel inside
to bleed from my fingers
like they were tendrils of my broken heart
and my television screen is just ****ing asking for it

I hate you, God
because this life you've given me has turned
so sour, like milk left out too long
I hate you even though it was me
it was me
it was me, I cry
I'm the one that left it there, on the counter
to rot and decay like
Oh God, I didn't mean that
not a single word
I want to talk to someone, I just want to be heard

I want to cry, but
this milk hasn't even spilled

**** this life, this work towards nothingness
The lady who walked away, content,
a new digital camera and replacement plan in tow
There are no words to match the curses of my soul
and I can't remember
have I used the images of brokenness and blood?
I have? Then there's no recourse for you but to
label me
call me names that sting not because they hurt
but because you're not listening
you're not paying attention to the woes of my heart
oh my heart
I've used that too?
I'd ask you but I'm not sure that you'd know
what I should do

I'm far too sensible for my own good

I Can't Write a Slam Poem

I met a man one day
who said he’d never been
to the ocean
Some people can’t ride bicycles
Follow the leader
Or capture sensation
Some people can’t
Conjure up the fantastic
Or
Build a skyscraper of emotion and
Passionate artistry
Bricks of
Brain waste
Falling out around the ears
Like
Expendable
stuff
And I can’t write a slam poem

I can’t write a slam poem
because
I don’t have anything to say
about race
religion
pol
i
tics
and I haven’t learned how to
wave my arms around
like a windmill
make hand signs
like a deaf man
to em
pha
cize
my every point
throw my fingers in the air
coming up with new ways to count of the three two ones and the one two threes of an algebraically oriented society of ones and zeros,
binary collapsing on my
lungs
getting harder
to
breathe because for every
right there’s a
wrong and
everybody’s talking about black and white like
there’s some sort of
easy line drawn
in the dirt
in the dirt
in the dirt I saw an old man lie down to sleep
never to wake up again
and how do I know?
Because the blood is boiling and the people are tearing at the
Hearts of their brothers and friends and coworkers and partners in crime and business
and lovers fight about who’s right while others stand in the light with black suits tight giving children a fright as they whisper goodnight to the last dream of mankind
and soldiers are dying in foreign lands
as the shreds of truth float away in the wind
and how can a guy like me hope to win
in a battle of the wits as we turn to the pen
What’s privilege?
We live our lives of comfort as each day brings new horrors to the things we used to call people
And I can’t write a slam poem because I’ve got nothing to say
About race
Religion
Or pol
I
tics