Parking Lot

Our voices echo over the empty concrete
like a chorus of grackles, but more cheerful
and far less daunting than those pestilent
gruesome creatures that dwell in the backs
of our minds bearing the mark of yesterday
and the promise of doom on the horizon.

But for the time, our minds are elsewhere:
in the hands of each other and in the realm
of stars that we look to as we press down on
the cool earth and it stubbornly pushes back
up, reaching for the stars that are so far away
and so impossible for it to reach, but not for us.

Because out there in the parking lot
We are the stars that make up the sky
and shine so brilliantly with the silver light
illuminating our footsteps as they fall behind us
as we ascend into the heavens to yell out into the night
that we are the immortal souls who will linger long after

these nights and days together are spent and we no longer

exist here in this abandoned parking lot on the edge of this expanse
of nothingness, loneliness, despair, and ultimately the humilation of
life trapped inside the confines of brick walls that don't press so
much as oppress the minds of those poor, ignorant children who think
they are learning when all the learning to be found on earth can be
found not in the walls but out on that lonely parking lot.

We yell into the night
because we know it listens.
We laugh into the night
because there, we know no cares.
We hold onto the night
because there, we belong together.

On the edge of the parking lot,
In the middle of the world.

Warm Fuzzies

What it was is not what it is
and where it went is nowhere near
the place it will come to be.

I've got warm fuzzies in my mind
and in my heart and in the pit of
my stomach that ties in knots
every time that he comes near
and every time I suddenly hear
the words from his lips that melt
and then drips over my body
like the ice that thaws over my
torn
and broken
ugly, hopelessly
slain on the cutting room floor
heart.

I get warm fuzzies that slowly find
a way into those broken pieces
and they begin to melt the steel
and weld it back together
and stay there forever,
leaving fuzzy little fragments
to remind me that he existed
and to cheer me up when he no longer does.

What it is is not what it was
And what it has come to be
is nowhere near where it went.

Lies

They get easier,
these lies about my life.
With each

I lie to myself
to fool myself
to believe in myself
to avoid my true self

A tortured, scared
little boy afraid of the world
and wanting to be cared
for by some nice boy or girl
and waiting for this rare
gift to suddenly appear
out of some magic lair
that holds it so very dear
inside its black hole of a place
where there is no memory
of a lover's broken face
or of that of the empowered enemy
who tore apart my soul
within this painful recollection
of a time before he took hold
and everything was an image of perfection.

I lie to the ones who bore me
because I can't let them know me
Because who I am and what they see
are two opposites never meant to be.

I'm not what you wanted
Not your perfect little son
Who made the grades
and never had any fun.
I am not this innocent little boy.
I am not your eager little toy.
I am not your
rag doll, throw-around, play with me,
little insignificant ball of clay
so you can mold me in that special way.
I am my own stone figure
that gotten much bigger
than you and your tiny homestead lifestyle
out in the middle of this desert
halfway between civilization and ruin:
nowhere good to be!

But I will not lie to them
because I am friends with them
And everything I know, I tell them
Because they're NOT with me 'til the end.

There is safety in a friendship
that may last one more day
because things don't go the right way.
There is safety in a quick trip
down a memory that no one else knows
and where no one else goes
because it's that one quick dip
into the most important part of past
the most influentual moment cast
in my mind
and shared with those
left behind,
who never were close
enough to be permanent
in my life.

I lie to myself
to save myself
I lie to those who bore
To save them from more
But I never lie to a friend
cause they're not with me in the end.

Truth builds the bridges I will burn
when I'm on the other side.

Recovery Pt. 2

They say the quickest way to being happy
is to remember what makes you the happiest.
They say the quickest way to freedom
is to do the things that make you feel freest.

They also say the road to recovery is long and hard
and you can travel for miles and miles and not get very far,
But they also say the opposite; that happiness is a step away,
But if we all take the road less traveled, it's all ends up the same.

So here's to that simple step to recovery
The laughter found in the closest friends
And the bond that's shared that bends
but never breaks
and always makes
it easier to live for
just one more day.

Here's to that first footfall towards success
And the striving goal to reach the best
and the drive to make up for the rest
of the time
lost in rhyme
and reason:
thinking but never doing.

Here I cheer for fear of mere insecurities
that can easily be overcome
with the help of those most dear.
Here I wail for failures of well-laid plans
that never came true
because something or someone bailed.

It may be a long road to recovery
But the first step is the worst.
Cause the blades get duller
and the feet grow stronger
with each passing day
With each pressing blade
against the bare souls
of uncovered feet of an old,
tarnished life.

It may be a long journey to recovery
But just open your eyes and see
That no matter the pressures
or pain or sadness or rain
The first step is the hardest
and the first step is fifty paces back
And five fathoms below where you are now,
Because look to the world around you
and happiness can so easily be found.

Just open your eyes
to the happiness inside
each and every last
one of us.

Box of Smiles

I carry around a box of stickers
that smile up at me when I lift the lid.
I call it my box of smiles
And every last one is mine to give.

I pass a golden star
to those who simply shine
And I stick a silver heart
to the loves of my life.

I share my happiness through
these paper, sticky things.
I give some rays of light
and hope new wings.

I carry around a box of stickers
My way of showing the world I care
Because even though others are quicker
I like to stick them here and there.

I carry around my box of love
And I hand it out freely.
I carry around my box of faith
and hope to believe it really.

The world tells you to succeed
One must think outside the box
But when I think about the world
I only think of how it blocks.

So I like to think inside my box
And keep my smiles in there
Because without the stickers
I just don't think I'd care.

The Happy Poem

I call this one the happy poem
Because it is THE only one
that can ever make me happy.
I don't write happy,
but who does really?

It's all
RaInBoWs
and
Blue Skies
and
Smiles
Just
little lies.

Happiness is a warm gun
It'll go off in a flash
and be gone until you reload
the endorphins in your mind
that help you unwind
from the stress of this
everyday
ho-hum
life.

But this was meant to be a happy poem
About those little rainbows and blue skies
And the things that make it seem alright.

Too bad I'm happier when the sky is gray
And the sun won't shine while the clouds stay
and I'm happier when the rain pours
than when the light shines down to spread colorful spores
of that disgustingly morose representation
of a culture that really can't be described in a rainbow
Because who the fuck is comparable to that?

Every color is never duller
Than when it's put into context
around this concave, convex
mirror that I stare into
and hate the rainbow-bright
starry-blue-eyes
glaring back
through the night.

This is the gay poem
The happiest there is?
This is the way poem
...just the WAY it is.

Here in my mind I find shelter
from the thoughts of the world
and the thoughts of my mind
when I'm exposed to that world
and the right that I'm wrong
because I don't love the girl
The way a man loves a woman
in that silly story of boy/girl
that started the mindset
that led to the hate
that burns my bridges
and makes me late
for this "fairy"-tale life
that I was promised
when someone told me
about one
Gay
Poem.

This is the happiest poem I'll ever write
Because I'm not good at happy, it just isn't right.
Cause who wants to take the time
When they're at the peak of mind
that defines the happiest moment of life
To sit down and write?

I live for the experience
and experience the life
So I'll pause when I'm brooding
Or seeing an insightful sight.

But as for the moment,
This is the gayest piece of poetry babble
That has ever "come out" of my life.

These Places Remind Me

Every memory has a scent
Every scent has a name
And a face and a time and a place.
Every moment has a memory
Every second holds a life
and a person and a place and a time.

Every place reminds me
Of a time and a life and a memory of
the things we had and the things we shared
and the times we spent and the way we cared.

Every scent reminds me
of a different time and a different place
and a different body and a different face
and my closeness to the world and all of you.

The axe cuts through my mind
Taking over, back to a time
When you cared for me and me for you
and all we had was the moment,
the rhythm, the rhyme.
Raspberries remind me of your lips
of that time in the alley
And that one, long, intimate kiss.
Downy reminds me of those soft times
when I would cry when you left me alone.

I can never drive by that big screen
without looking into your eyes all over again
As you fastened those shells around my neck.
I can never cross that stage
without feeling your arms around me
pulling me through the curtains, out the back.
These places remind me of those happy times
When we held on tight and promised to fight
To never let go and to somehow survive.

These places remind me of
what we shared
and what we held
and how we cared
and where we fell.

You weren't so bad as a first
And certainly not the worst.

But these places
don't remind me
so very often
of you anymore
Not like they did
a short time before.

Cause these places did remind me
To never trust you so much again
To guard my heart, marked with chagrin.
These places stand as monuments
of where we failed--where you failed
And I don't think I'll go back there again.

Inspiration

Art is the visual
or sometimes audible
form of inspiration
with a combination
of your imagination
Running wild
as brush strokes canvas
as flash over lenses
as fingers on plastic
typing in the rhythm
of the soul
pouring out the feelings
so damn old.

Film schools
and art schools
and writing schools
Specialize on schooling
persistent pupils
on finding unique perspectives
of this perpetually changing planet
on which we currently coexist upon.

That's why I read
Frost and Poe
Browing and Kippling
Everything from
Shakespeare
to the vampire queen herself
Miss Anne Rice

Because reading
is like speaking
out the truth of lives
that were never really
discovered until
opening a book
and finding perspectives
on someone else's lives.

Inspiration
builds upon my imaginations
and toy car mats turn
into something that represented
a bigger portion
of my life
than I ever let
myself realize
it truly did.

Everything links back together
like the legos that built my house
for my tiny little family
That I always thought was
perfectly normal
even though there were
no girls in that little window
And they still had a son
And a lovely home
with picket fences
and a lego car to boot.

It is how we were raised,
where we lived that truly defines
what we see when we wake up
and open our eyes.
It is that exposure to whatever
is already out there
that DEFINES what we are capable
of discovering on our own.

Because a picture is worth 1000 words
And if a picture contains 1000 birds
Then a picture is worth 1 million words
and the pictures contains 1 million birds
Then the cycle grows stronger still
and learning comes against our will
Cause the world is ever-changing
and the artist is ever-learning
The new perspectives
of a blind man seeing
Everything and nothing at all

Recovery

They say the quickest way to being happy
is to remember what makes you the happiest.

So I write in recovery
of a broken heart
of a failed attempt
to capture a heart.

A heart made of chocolate
Cause at least it tastes sweet
and on those late nights
When I cry all alone
I know that with chocolate
at least I have comfort
Like the feeling of being at home
Back when I had no worries
because gay was a word
we giggled about because
no one knew it didn't mean happy
because a gay gay is just an oxymoron
waiting to happen
Waiting to not happen
Trying to defy the moron
and put oxygen into a broken heart.

Kickstart my heart with the power
of the double-As in my remote
that say they keep going
like the energizer bunny
But that bunny sometimes rests too
But it still has enough power
to jumpstart my life again
When the sting is gone
from my broken heart.

Fortunately
Only three months left
Until this hell is gone
and I'm on my own
(in the good way,
the way I want to be)
INDEPENDENCE.
Graduation
Liberation
Gratification
Exultation
3 months.

Acceptance is a bliss
felt only once
or fifty times
in these meager
lives of ours.
Acceptance is going
to a place so
very far away
that no one here
can bother me there
unless I want to
be bothered
by you
and yours.

My future is bright,
even if my love is dim.
Because right now
I'm not setting up love
in a place I'm only
squatting in.

I'm on the way to recovery
But it'll be a while 'til I'm ready
to say that final goodbye.

So if you want to love me
I'll be happy to oblige.
But if you don't...
well...
The chocolate's the best
Kind of heart there is.

Who's to Blame?

It's not that I hate you
or that I'm mad
Because how could I be
when the one to blame
Is ultimately me.

It's not that I'm angry
It's just that I'm sad
Because how could you leave me
even if the one to blame
was ultimately me?

Who's to blame
my dear?
Who's to blame
for me being here?
Who's to blame
for me for you?
Who's to blame
why don't you choose?

Like you chose to listen
When I told you to go
Like you chose to love
When I told you so
Like you chose to leave
When in my heart I know
that I never wanted
to feel this entirely low.

Who's to blame?
The instructor or the student
for the A+ paper
and the whole systematic legitimacy.

Somehow,
It
All
Leads
Back
To
Me.

The Breakdown

I try to keep my distance
from those happy couples
walking hand and hand
and sharing life together

I try to keep my poise
and I try to maintain grace
When I look around
and only see his smiling face.

But for some reason I cannot
get over him. At all.
I tried to just move on
but the drawing board is
always revisited
and it just doesn't work out
the way I thought it should.
The way I knew it would.

"I'm sorry.
I don't know what to say."

Neither do I
It's frustrating...
and stupid
and it COULD still
be the way it was
Nothing changed
between us
it was outside of us
beyond us
Above us
Controlling us
Separating us

I told him to move on
that I would be okay,
that I would move along
just please don't stay.

He listened so well
and so suddenly he fell
from where we were
to someone else
his love.

I told him to move on
but what I said
was wrong.

Poetry flows through my mind
faster than I can type.
Faster than 90 words per minute
Faster than flying fingers
fumbling, flailing, flicking
keystrokes on a broken
connection between
past and present.

I try to keep my distance
from those happy faces on pages
of long lost romances
that I'm sure never engages
me again.

I try to keep my distance
from those happy couples
where I once belonged.

It's funny now
that I don't cry
But I want to
cry a thousand tears
just because you're alive.

I'm happy for you,
but as for me,
not so happy.

But I'll wake in the morning
and go on with the life I choose to lead.
I'll wake up in the morning
and smile as I mundanely succeed.
Behind this mask
Behind this joy
Is this quiet
Helpless boy.

I told you to move on
But I was wrong.
I told you I'd be fine
But I just get along.

Poetry flows through my mind
faster than I can speak
But that's not for you to know,
because you cannot really care.
Because you're not here
And I'm not there.

Thanks for listening...

His Voice

Testing?
Can you hear me now?

I can hear you. I don't know.

Testing
Testi-

Are you there? I don't know.

Testingtestingtestingtesting!

I can hear you. Take it slow.

We are like the broken connection
of my rundown computer late on a Sunday night.
We are like my hand on the mic dock,
gently pushing one against another and never giving up
Even though the pointlessness of this
is driving me insane because it won't just repair.
It's easier just to start over.

Can you hear me?

I can hear you. I don't know.

Good. I missed you.

I missed you, too.

I can say it time and again
But it never means the same
When I hear it from you.
Cause you may miss me
and your voice says the same
But it's not your voice anymore.
It's not my voice anymore.
It's His voice
coming from your lips.

Testing?
(Can you care for me somehow?)

I can hear you. I don't know.

Figures.
You only heard the first part.
Bad connections to your voice
Bad connections to your life
Broken connections
On a lonely Sunday night.

He's Your Boyfriend

He's your boyfriend
and I'm just your has been.
And all of this is so confusing
And I want it all again.

But he's your boyfriend
And I'm your has been.
Has been yours
Won't be again.

Apparently...

Illusion's Noose

Despite the angelic little wings
Cute diapered bottom
And rosy cheeks
Cupid is a fucking demon.

Who wants to be hopelessly devoted
To an image that could so easily fade
And so easily fall out of reach and mind.
Who wants to be so helplessly in love
That the only thing that matters is him
And the only thing that you can't have is him.

Cupid, you bitch.
Live vicariously through us all
Because you yourself refuse to fall
Aphrodite never wanted you
Because what were you
but some little bug
buzzing around deities
that never paid heed
to your tiny arrow
or you one strong need?

Help, I've fallen and I can't stand it
And I can't give in or get out or live
Without HIM.
I can try to start anew
but the only thought is you
GOD...you....

What an illusion.
2 weeks of fabulous fantasy.
2 weeks of being so carefree.
What you gave,
I can never give back.
What an illusion.

How real it felt
What a deal you delt
When you kneel, I felt
I fell. I dove. You impaled
My heart.
My
<3.

Less than three...
It's odd that I always read it that way
even when I finally figured out how to say
I HEART YOU in condensed form
Because that's all love is nowadays
Just a condensed form.

We meet.
BOOM.
We greet.
BOOM.
We kiss.
BOOM.
Pure bliss.
BOOM.
You go down.
BOOM.
I fly up.
BOOM.
We make love.
BOOM.
We fall in love.
BOOM.

Like an atomic bomb that falls
We split like those atoms
And we never looked back
Because there was NO back
No way back. No turning back.
No back way, no easy pay.

But for some reason
Cupid keeps me in illusion's noose
and I long, day and night, for you.
Because I don't want to loose
the man who took away my youth.
I burn
forsooth
And hope
for you
to return
to me

A fool's dream
ends in death
but we always
awaken before that.
We always awaken before the noose
tightens around our necks and chokes
us with our own precious illusions.
Before we drown in the dream of delusions,
We awaken.

To bad WE don't exist anymore...

Ring Pop

My brother and I used to play with cars
On a giant mat six times our size.
We had an aversion to Matchbox
and an odd obsession with Hotwheels
that stemmed mainly from
his entrepreneurial desire to
later sell those childhood memories
when he got too old to play.

Back then we always followed traffic laws
That were enforced
by six inch, pint-sized
Police officers of our own devising.
Funny how it seems to still apply today.
We had to tick-tock at every stop sign
And allow the right-of-way to the lone motorcycle
that never had a rider
but who we always imagined was the coolest
kid in that little schoolhouse
at the edge of the map.

Our ideal town has two ponds and a factory
It had 1-point-7-5 mansions
Two farm houses
And the promise
Of Utopia
emanating from the circle around
one lone farm house in the middle
of urbania, devoid of neighbors
and alone in the center of that tiny
Hotwheels world.

We would play for hours on end
with our imaginations running rampet
as I became the poor man with a single car
and my brother took the mansion with his slew
of high-end automobiles that really didn't matter to me
Except that they looked really cool
With their sleek little curves
and silky-smooth textures
of bright red and moody black.

I loved my little Auston Martin
because it was a convertable
That would never convert back
from its wind-in-the-hair,
celebrity appeal of having the top down.

Funny how my brother never grew out of cars
And I never grew out of the idea of cars
He's still fascinated by the gentle hum of the engine
that we once made by vibrating our lips at supersonic speeds
And I still care about the way those little toys felt
as I brushed infantile fingers over the waxy surface.
The pure beauty of sculpted curves taunted me
when I looked down at the blob of skin
which blocked the view of my feet.

I still crave that perfection
And get closer every day
He still craves the attention
And gets richer in some way.

But it's funny to think
that they designed those cars
To be so small
Like the ring on a ring pop
You're meant to grow out of
But sometimes, you never do.

Silly little hourglass

Each grain of sand is like a millisecond
Passing from one side to the next
Like the river that flows between
the lover's bossom,
The Nile tearing apart Sudan
and the Ethiopian children
Who starve despite
The fertility of their basins
Despite the constant nutrients
That flow from this tiny grain of sand
To that immense desert on the bottom
Of the glass that tells me my life
Is merely waiting for the grains
to finally run out and all time
to stop
to fall
to fail
to cease
to run out.

But here I am staring at this silly hourglass
Waiting for the moment when the grains
mean something more than what I'm waiting for
Waiting for someone to flip it upside down
And turn all those shattered dreams
Into something of this realm of realities
Because if I could go back
I could repair the mistakes
I have made and realize
That I am something more
Than
these
tiny
grains
of
falling
s
a
n
d
.
.
.
.
.

Something more than a silly hourglass
Which assumes I will bend to its tiny fate
That I will perish when it runs out
and contain a life like this within its tiny bounds
That I will sit around and wait
just to see if all this is true

I'm more than a
silly
insignificant
hourglass
I am more than a
ticking
time
bomb
I am more
than
this
More than the grain of sand
But less than a desert

I
fall
some-
where
in
between

As for me...

As for me
Well, not so great.

I find myself living
through the relationships
of my friends
I find myself thinking
myself on that ship
in that kiss
I find myself waiting
for my own ship
to set sail again
Yet I find myself knowing
that's one ship
that will take a while to set sail

I'm happy for you.
But as for me
It's not so great.

I find myself pretty content
With life right now
But somehow
I find myself doubting a lot
About life right now
Because somehow
I find myself wasting away
Hours each day
As I sit and play
Flirting with the screen
But never being seen
Cause they are 1000 miles away
Safe from the wrath
of an unseen demon:
the heart-breaker
The soul-taker
The evil bitch from down the hall
the one that caused my only fall
The one that broke us
Bent us
Tortured
Us

What was that?
Us
Us
We
Me and You
You and I
Me and he and she and it and us
US
U + S = US

Ha. Freedom in the land of the brave
Freedom to have those freedoms taken away
What are we but a newborn child
Mommie protects us
Then she dies
Then he lies
And then we die

US
US - U = S
Sucks
Shit
Stupid...

AKA me

I'm happy for you
Y O U
But as for me
M E
Meagerly Eager
to please
get out
GET OUT
leave.


There YOU are.
There HE is.
here i am.
alone.
here i am all alone
because i am home.

Late Nights Remind Me of Him

Late Nights Remind Me of Him

Late nights remind me of him
Like the pale touch of his lips
Running over my skin
And the odd fascination
I had
Have
Of his childlike grin
As he tickled me while
The tickling meant more
And every swift movement
Made my insides soar
And every breath felt like heaven
And hell – fire and ice
Oh! It felt nice.

And the rain of his whispers
As he told me he cared
As he took ahold
And took me there!

All this I think
as I stare blank ahead
All this I know
while lonely in bed
All this is gone
Because what she said
All this I thought
But all this is naught

It is over
It is done
I am lonely
She has won
Where is life
Love? Happiness? Fear?
Is it inside?
Linger it here?

Late nights remind me of him
Like the whisper of the ocean
The brush of air on skin
Late nights remind me to think of him
Late nights remind me I am without him
Late nights remind me I am alone
Late nights spent lonely, lonely at home.

The Birds and the Bees

The Birds and the Bees

It’s always been about the birds and the bees
From the first step on earth with Adam and Eve
It’s always been just the bird and the bee
The man and the wife, the Adam and Eve

But what happens when the little hummingbird
Falls for a bright bouquet of feathers?
What happens to bird who loves a peacock
Instead of the bumblebee?

Cause the bee is so fine
She got the honey coming from her bee-hind
Got the bird out of his mind
Can’t have the same kind
Cause it wasn’t Adam and Steve
It was the bird and the bee
Two that fly
Two in the sky
But not two of kind
Not that I mind…

Cause what of that bird?
And what of that bee?
And what if they find
An attraction in mind
To one of the same kind?

Who can resist the Technicolor feather
Or the sweet manufactured nectar?
Who can resist the tantalization
Of a newfound sensation
Stirred only in naturalization
When two of the same collide?

What’s the harm to take the dive
Birds of a feather flock together
But never do bed whether
Or not they’re in love

Cause it’s always been the birds and the bees,
The man and his wife, the Adam and Eve.
But I do admit
That it’s not the Eve but the Adam
That holds the apple of my eye

Cause bees sting
And birds sing
My Adam can be
The only one for me
Let him raise voice and sing
As we defy everything.