Mornings

My mornings begin with beautiful scenery and serenity.

The landscape rises and falls and the way the ink wraps around her small shoulder can hold my gaze like a child holds his brand new puppy.

I look at her closed eyes, eyes rejecting the external, cut it off.

Because inside feels like an afternoon nap on the sunny part of the carpet at the house I grew up in.

How’d he forget?
The things that make him feel
Mosquito bites don’t hurt a pulled muscle
The sun can’t burn a broken heart
He moved
From art studio to art studio
He left the artist behind
Behind a window, the artist is safe
Safety killed the artist
Complacency killed the lover
All life begins diving out into the unknown covered in blood
It’s time to bleed
But be careful you don’t bleed out

We are not vague because we have to be but because it pays to be.

Most people would rather be quiet than mean.

Maybe it’s the saturation of attention some people get that makes it so hard to appreciate one person’s full attention.

But really it’s a lack of courage. We almost always know the right path. But sometimes the right path punishes you and the wrong path rewards you, just make sure you’re on the right one before you’re walking all alone.

A Dirty Poem

You call it filth, well I can happily thrive in it
Show me the dumpster, I’ll full out dive in it
You’ll watch and feel disgusted while I smile in it
I pick an old dirty shoe, walk a mile in it
You plug your nose from the stench, but I’m flyin in it
You think it looks dumb,  I see some style in it
There isn’t error just because some trials in it
Who wrote this poem? it stinks, smells like kyle in it

words words words

words words words
how fantastically absurd
explode from your lips 
make me feel like a cheese curd
cuz my insides are melting
soon I’ll be gooey on the outside
yet how sweet are the juices
land softly like smooches
I feel truly clueless
and it feels so good
those words words words
they can do so much
and I don’t stand a chance
when they’re followed by touch
and so I must
I need this much
I need to clutch
don’t call my bluff, raise me

and don’t forget the cuffs

choco mocha latte enema

I once read that coffee enemas can help cure some cancers. Well we as a society need some specificity, because the choco mocha latte enema isn’t curing ours.

Ravers complaining about oppression from police, but they were wearing hand cuffs of bright green beads long before they’re busted for smuggling homemade chemicals into hippie festivals.

We play electronic fishing games after buying and consuming a fish filet from mcdonalds, all while wearing moccasins with soles as rubber as our own, like compression-mesh-silk-under-armour with images of loincloths printed on.

Tribal skin markings reserved for special occasions are permanently etched into the skin of drunk uninspired zombies hoping to buy creativity for a hundred and fifty dollars.

Our peace pipes turn to exhaust pipes as we choke on the meaning that our lives lack, but used to run rampant in the lives of our ancestors.

And we mock hipsters and rednecks and anyone else who is naturally attracted towards self-sufficiency and a total disregard for what the silent (unless-behind-the-keyboard-of-anonymity) majority thinks.

We’ve always believed we’d behave differently in their shoes, we can talk and talk and talk, but we’ll never have to tie those laces.

And every time you look at your phone, the reflection stares back from behind the glass barrier until you’re behind the screen and it’s your reflection that wakes up in the morning, talks to your friends, and acts out your life.

We have hundred fold the amount of flash and shine of our enlightened ancestors with a hundredth of the meaning.