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$15,000 in debt
15,000 people
15,000 poems

something interesting just happened

March 20th, 2016 § Poem #448 § 0 comments § permalink


Something very interesting just happened…

I walk into the coffee shop and walk straight up to the counter.  The barista was off to the side making a drink.  I take one step back so as not to seem like an impatient customer and wait there for two or three minutes for her to finish.  No one rushes or even hurries here.  She is nearing the completion of her drink when the front door opens.  A twenty-something girl, cute, pseudo-hippie, walks in, walks right in front of me, straight to the counter right as the barista approaches the register, they say “hello” to each other and the barista takes the girl’s order.

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this world does not surprise me

March 5th, 2016 § Poem #447 § 0 comments § permalink


I have become restless
addicted to the screen
eyes uncomfortably strained
while I let my teeth rot away

isn’t there a bakery with real bread anywhere?

I do not even realize I am doing it
in the middle of writing a poem
time passes
and then passes some more and I realize
I am scrolling
through pages and applications reading
nothing but nothing
and do not understand why

i do not prescribe to the rules of the world
but they rule regardless of my interest
i simply do not believe them, or believe in them
but i follow what follows me as I survive

the tragedies and successes mean nothing to me
humanity is not that important
there is nothing in existence that does not create and destroy

what is expected in this world
and what occurs in it
does not surprise me




(written in marble notebook)


February 3rd, 2015 § Poem #446 § 0 comments § permalink












(pen on paper)

the hampster wheel

February 2nd, 2015 § Poem #445 § 0 comments § permalink


He walks a lot because it helps move the thoughts along in his mind.  Similar to a hamster on a wheel.  Similar to the function of his intestines.  When he walks, he ignites a serum into his blood that gives him the energy and passion to want the life he dreams of.  Walking elevates him from the cement.

He remembers memories, and question’s questions, answers them, then questions further.  Sometimes an answer satisfies him for a while, then he’ll remember another truth, and begins to question again.

Today, the sky is blue, white and dark gray.  He can smell the thunderstorms that are still some distance away, and he knows they are not heading in his direction.  That disappoints him, but he enjoys the smell either way.  He has found his pace, and nothing but his thoughts exist.

I just want to fuck her.  Why do we have to place consequences on it, or dictate that a choice has to be made if I do it.  I do not want to choose.  The two circumstances have separate agendas.  I want to be respectful.  I’m tired of being the good guy.

It keeps coming back to that question.  That idea.  That philosophy.  That belief.  The atheist’s freedom.  Nothing humans do, good or bad, matters.  One hundred years does not register on the timeline of the universe.  But his thoughts continue.

The need to analyze why I feel all of this is infuriating to me.  Especially because I already have.  Especially because no moment lasts long enough to be able to be analyzed.

All I have are ideas.

The extremes of passion, not contentment, are what keeps him walking.  And he collects these extremes in hopes of doing his part and properly putting it down on the page.

I want her to claw my back.  I want to pull her hair.  There is nothing intimate about it.  My intimacies are satisfied.  There are only a few years left in life.  I want variety.  I want to taste as much of existence as I can.

And then he stops in front of the coffee shop, creates a finger list of thoughts, steps inside to order his eggnog latte, sits down to an open book to finally answer these questions.  And when he does, sit down and ready his pen, as it always does, the hamster wheel stops and the memories fade away.  And the questions become forgotten, again.  Not answered, again.




(written with pen on paper)

city at night

January 30th, 2015 § Poem #444 § 0 comments § permalink


It’s the old romance I miss.
Jazz within four walls on a cold autumn evening.
People drinking to remember the good ol’ days,
wondering how real our urban sunset memories are;
the city that will never exist anymore
with those who built it now wandering through
this suited playground, unrecognizable;
the pain of being forgotten now having replaced
the struggle that breastfed creation.
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do not integrate

January 29th, 2015 § Poem #443 § 0 comments § permalink


Why do you want to integrate?

The western society is a highest-bidder society.
It gives with one hand
takes with all of the others
poisons its people in order to heal its people
makes its people dependent on it with rules against its people
» Read the rest of this entry «


January 28th, 2015 § Poem #442 § 0 comments § permalink


I ate salted scraps of a pig
and drank plants ‘til life became blurry

My black shirt got salt lines on it;
lick it up tequila whores,
I’m gunna fuck a married woman
Don’t care if she’s best friends of who

Gimme a plant I can drink
and I’ll smoke that shit » Read the rest of this entry «


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