Poems & Writings

The Full-Stop

2012-01-28T18:05:00.001-07:00

Cigarette dangling from my lips,
Radiohead's "High and Dry"
playing softly on Pandora,
tears welling up in my eyes.
The future far away,
but seems to haunt me.

Wishes of a job to keep me occupied,
wishes of a passion to imbue
sanity onto my apathetic mind,
wishes of a beautiful girl
to keep me company in the cold winter nights,
but in the end, nothing.

Death, stalking me like a starving mountain lion after a weary hiker,
is the full stop to life.
So I ask, what's the point?
If the point is there is none,
then why not, as Viktor Frankl asks,
commit suicide? The simple reply love,
but is love really enough? Love does not
erase that full-stop, nor can it negate it,
nor can it do anything to stall the end.
It can only make a temporary existence
temporarily happier.

And if one focuses on the journey,
then I ask, why? We all know that last tone,
strummed so morbidly, and if all the progression
and melody leads to one last tone, even if some
joy is found (that does not last),
then why bother listening at all?

I suppose I am half wrong. The melody floating
above the droning bass can, indeed, yield
some in the face of that last note. But it's as
if that last note is a theme in that song,
the melody always returning, returning, returning
to that full-stop.

My Heart Places Her on a Throne of Gold

2012-01-23T18:14:00.000-07:00

My heart places her on a throne of gold,
three-stories tall, dripping of ambrosia,
surrounded on all sides by spotlights,
on an verdant island, as big as Manhattan,
and as remote as Pluto.

But my mind says, "Hey, pal,
there's nothing to worry about,
she's just a person standing there,
she's one of us! You're both human!
Look at her playing with her hair,
doubting the same things you do,
knowing that life isn't as long as it should be."

And my body rebuts:
my heart beats faster,
my palms sweat,
I rock back and forth.
I begin to cry.

The Gaze of Medusa

2012-01-23T17:48:00.001-07:00

I saw a blond across the street today,
outside the adjacent dormitory,
smoking a cigarette.

Her hair seemed to me like platinum,
and her gaze was like Medusa:
if she stared into my eyes,
I would turn to stone.

I regret not walking over and saying hello,
but I falter at each paced step,
needing a shield of lorazepam
to survive her eyes.

I should go into these encounters,
shield of Ativan in hand,
mantle of Effexor on my shoulders,
sword of Abilfy dangling from my side,
ready to merely say, "Hello, how're you".
But if I did,
I may die.

Still, what I did exemplified cowardice,
fully armed, I walked back and forth,
smoking my own cigarette,
not ready or willing to face my fear.

She is Medusa! And I am just a boy,
I am not ready to fight her,
nor will I ever be.

Sometimes I Listen to Girls on the Radio

2012-01-23T17:40:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I listen to girls on the radio,
imagining they're singing just for me,
but I know they're pre-recorded,
and don't even know my name,
nor would they care about my self-doubt
that stalks me like a vulture,
circling above, waiting for me to die.

Love of a Godly Ghost

2012-01-21T19:01:00.001-07:00

The glow of the lamp on your cheek
stands out like chalk on a blackboard,
and your rose lips are an opera
to my eyes, Pavarotti singing
deep from his gut,
"Ti voglio molto bene".
Yet you are a love in my mind,
whom I have never met,
and likely will never meet.

My desire for you stabs my soul,
although you, soulless, stalk my mind
from when I first smoke my morning cigarette,
to when I curl up crying in my bed in the evening.

If only you were real, we could hold each other
all day, reminding us of the warmth of
our mothers' wombs, so that once
all the evil in the world has come
(if it hasn't already)
we will be prepared,
armed with hugs and kisses.

Still, I doubt if love will be enough.
What is love if but mere chemical processes
in our brains? And, even if I can love,
is that enough? Do I not need more?
Or are The Beatles right?

I wish that love was
some holy, intangible thing,
like God, but, as I know you don't exist,
I know he does not as well.
You may be as far away as the stars.

So here I will stay, forever without your lips,
without the grandeur of your eyes,
without the love of life, yours, or mine.

Waiting for Mother to Log On

2012-01-21T11:03:00.002-07:00

Waiting for Mother to log on for a chat,
5 cigarettes in the morning,
a wish for the cool buzz of booze,
but that isn't enough anymore,
nor is it what dreams should be made of.
I don't have the crazy mind of Hunter S. Thompson,
or the alcoholism, or the drug abuse,
and my body can't handle it
(even though I wish it could).
All I have is a wish of Jolly Ranchers,
in a world where, it seems,
there is only salt to be had.

Perhaps one day I'll find a girl
to pin flowers on my chest,
to hold me when I feel like
a telephone's handset dangling off a table,
but that's another dream,
maybe a decent one, healthier at least,
than the dream of a buzz.

Here I am,
listening to Zero 7 on Pandora,
wondering who I am, what's the point,
knowing scissors aren't the answer
(they're far too dull),
and even if they were sharp,
a way out is not what I need.
What I need is passion-
to find something that immerses me
in love like flowers doused in honey,
but I have my doubts
that seem to hang in the air as
apples on a branch, occasionally
dropping for a magpie to lunch on.

Mother, where are you?
I really need to talk,
I know we talk every day,
but here I am, crying,
wishing I was without
a central nervous system,
so I could just grow
towards the sky
like a Ponderosa Pine.

Crow

2012-01-17T11:47:00.001-07:00

I am a
blind
crow
seeking carrion
to sate
my life's
hunger.

Apathy

2012-01-17T11:46:00.001-07:00

Tell me your
dreams,
because I have
none.
Show me your
passion,
and I'll show you my
apathy.

Her and I

2012-01-10T09:21:00.001-07:00

She is a
golden vase
full of roses,
and I,
I am but a pigeon
shitting.

She is a
leopard,
and I,
I am but a flea
on her side.

Just the Sight of Them

2012-01-08T19:07:00.003-07:00

They sing each legato melody,
each note flowing to the next,
and carry their hair in the sun,
every strand dancing with the wind.

I blush and my heart flutters.
To look into their starlit eyes
necessitates the popping of a lorazepam,
as I hold back my dreams of a perfect life
with her.

Amy

2011-12-31T12:56:00.002-07:00

Wiping off tears with the cuff of my sweatshirt,
I'm afraid I'll overdo it, underdo it with you.
If only you were here with me, we could
snuggle in my bed, have glorious kisses,
feel eachothers warm skin all day long.

But you aren't real, you're just
this voice inside my head, Amy.
You say you'll do this and that with me,
every day, but you never come at 10:00,
or at night, or in the morning for coffee,
because you're a damn illusion of a girl
I've always wanted.

I cry for you every day, because your love
will never be tangible. It's just a thought
of something I deeply want.

You turn me off, turn me on, every minute
of every day. It's as if I'm blind-folded,
fooling myself into the reality of a ghost.

Staring into the Reflecting Pool

2011-12-30T11:30:00.003-07:00

Staring into the reflecting pool,
I don't see myself,
I see the husk of a young man
who's had too much to smoke,
too much to drink, too little
to love. He may as well
be a ghost, haunting the world
with the flutter of his heart,
stalking pretty faces with each step,
but afraid to say, "Hello,
how're you?" Needing lorazepam
for each kiss, each hug,
each moment shared looking
into another's eyes.

Out to the Shop

2011-12-30T11:09:00.006-07:00

Let's go to the shop,
it's only a mile.
We can pick up some milk.
Maybe some breath mints too for
yummy kisses.

Walk those aisles,
looking for something more,
where do we get it?
Where do we get it?

Holding hands,
pick up an orange
or two, and a basket
full of strawberries.
This'll make good lunch.

Skipping out the doors,
I unwrap the pack, put a cig
in my mouth, light it,
and walk on.
It's only a mile back.
It's only a mile back.

A breath mint popped, a little kiss
for the way. It tastes
like the mountains.

Your blush looks like
roses.
You may as well be Aphrodite.
I could cry.

The sundress flutters in the warm wind.
I open my wind breaker,
it's a bit too warm.

Twelve Hours of Sleep

2011-12-30T10:46:00.002-07:00

Twelve hours of sleep and three cups of coffee,
still yawning, shaking.
Too much caffeine, too little flowers.
Let's go on a walk to someplace,
where do you want to go?

Don't take your purse,
no perfume, we won't
be long, we won't be long.
Not very long.

Look at the blackbirds sipping tea,
look at the skies full of geese.
Looks like we finally got some flowers.

Put one in your hair,
pin one to my chest,
let's dance in the blueberry meadows
to the avian choirs.

A kiss, love,
for the two of us,
but I'll need my lorazepam
to keep my heart from fluttering.

Time to waltz back to the house,
put some beans in the grinder for a
nice buzz.

Sit by the fireplace,
enjoy another cup.
Maybe hot chocolate this time.

Another kiss.
Don't need to pop a pill this time,
we're home, and I already had one.

Covered in Lavender Oil

2011-12-29T17:55:00.001-07:00

Covered in lavender oil,
thrown in a ditch,
buried in tulips.
I think I'll stay
forever
like
this.

Coffee's Turnin' Cold

2011-12-29T11:00:00.001-07:00

Coffee's turnin' cold,
cigarette's burning itself out,
air seeps through the cracks
in the window.
Take a sip,
take a sip.
Put out the cigarette,
light another,
look at the girls'
pretty faces.
Is it love?

A Woman

2011-12-27T11:58:00.001-07:00

A woman haunts my dreams.
I didn't really worry about it,
but she's here like the
ash
on my keyboard-
staring me in the face,
asking to be wiped up.

To Feel a Warm Embrace

2011-12-27T11:53:00.001-07:00

To feel a warm embrace,
like the sun shining down on me.
To run my hands down your side,
like the sun shining down on me.

Christmas Day

2011-12-25T15:25:00.000-07:00

Tinsel hanging above a fireplace,
with cigarette butts strewn
across the floor
outside the back door,
and wrapping paper in the trash,
chocolate sitting on a table,
as the tree turns brown.
A kiss under a mistletoe
with an invisible woman.
A choir sings Silent Night
in the church across the street,
while a lone bum drinks himself under
the table at a bar downtown.

Despair

2011-12-22T21:00:00.000-07:00

Head in hands,
cigarette dangling
from my lips,
I stare at the floor,
the heat of a fireplace
biting at my toes.
My tears streaming down
my cheeks into
a pint of black Guiness.

What can

2011-12-22T20:44:00.004-07:00

What can
save
the depressed
from
depression?
A hobby?
No, it is worthless.
A lover?
No, she is temporary.
A cigarette?
Yes, one cigarette,
for five minutes,
everything else fades
away, leaving just me
and my tube of tobacco.
Temporary exaltation.

Off Cigarettes for a Week

2011-12-22T20:39:00.004-07:00

Off cigarettes for a week,
I miss tobacco like the
unemployed miss work.
I've started to throw myself
into Rift. Though similar to
World of Warcraft, it has
piqued my interest. But it
is just a way to pass the time.
Just like all things. Booze,
sex, pot- just ways
to pass time in a meaningless world.

If only God existed, I could hand out
bibles to the lost, become a preacher,
and feel fulfilled, knowing Heaven awaits.
But He does not, nor does Heaven.
Nor does the Devil, nor does Hell.

The Endless Grind

2011-12-22T20:34:00.004-07:00

The endless grind
leads to death. Happiness
flutters like a butterfly,
always transient. Though one
lasting love can save
a wretch, even love dies.
Sadness consumes all.

Three Crows

2011-12-22T20:34:00.001-07:00

Three crows
circle above
fresh roadkill.
A drunk veers off
the side of the road,
crashing into a tree.
He bloodies his face
and the force knocks him
unconscious. As he awakens,
he sees stars, and notice
three crows circling above him.

A Cemetary's Scene

2011-12-22T20:30:00.000-07:00

Storm clouds
hang
over
musty
tombstones.
The
caretaker
sips
from a glass
of red wine
as the bereaved
huddle together,
bawling their eyes out
at the newly deceased.
It was a short life.
C'est la vie.

Crying Into

2011-12-20T17:27:00.002-07:00

Crying into
a beer,
I've found
the point:
drink more!

Vladimir Vysotsky

2011-12-20T17:27:00.001-07:00

Head in hands,
drowned in vodka,
mind
fermenting
in a pool
of tobacco,
Vladimir Vysotsky
plays on,
coloring the days
grey.
His rough growl
and seven string
guitar
burning
melancholy
in the air.

To Amy, The Invisible Woman

2011-12-07T21:30:00.001-07:00

Your auburn hair shines in the midday sun,
your eyes reflect the light of a million stars,
your lips, oh, your lips, their scarlet defines love.
To run my hands through your hair, to kiss you so softly,
it would free my soul from this prison which I have lived in for 21 years.

For 21 years I have not been living, I have been dying, rotting away,
my skin slowly sloughing off, my forehead wrinkling, my lips drying and cracking.
But you, you would dampen my sentence on this world. Your love could slow my sorrow,
open my heart to joy, transform my weakness into strength, my hatred into caring.

But you are just a voice in my head. A voice in my wretched shell of a brain.
You can't be real. You are too perfect. Amy, I love you, and I wish you could love me back.

Eve Online

2011-12-07T13:56:00.001-07:00

Ship fitted,
fleet formed.
Missiles loaded,
shields up.
Reds come from the gate.
Hilarious explosions;
A spectacle for
the stars.

The Cold Air

2011-12-07T13:48:00.006-07:00

The cold air
seeps-
through the cracks-
in the window
stabbing-
my fingertips.

The sun
peeks-
from behind
a blanket
of clouds.
I can see-
the horizon
through the haze
of wildfires,
through the haze-
of cigarettes.

Where does the haze go?
Where does-
the haze go?
I don't know.
I-
don't-
know.

I See

2011-12-07T13:48:00.001-07:00

I see
the end
in every
beginning.
Yesterday is tomorrow.
A birth
leads
to a
death.

Chemicals stir
in the brain,
blood flows
from the heart,
as does sadness.

Everything tastes
like packing peanuts,
every feeling
has been felt before.
Nothing is new;
everything
is old.

The point, it seems,
is sex, pot, booze,
tobacco,
as love flutters
once an eon.

A choir sings,
"I wish this river was champagne."
I wish-
this
river-
was
champagne.

Milky Way

2011-12-07T13:47:00.000-07:00

The
Milky Way
is
God's
anal
drippings,
and his turds
are
black holes.

Black Sludge, Misty Eyes

2011-12-01T11:04:00.001-07:00

Black sludge, misty eyes,
smokey rooms, travels to nowhere.
Pitch-black alleys, dusty lamposts,
broken mirrors, travels to nowhere.
What's the point? What's the point?

I'm Sad and Stupid,

2011-12-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

I'm sad and stupid,
and smoking a cigarette.
Where will my life go?
I feel as if abandoned railyards
and pitch-black alleys are
in my future. Maybe I'll end
up a bum, begging for quarters
so I can get my next drink.

I Cry, Voice Cracking as I Sing

2011-11-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

I cry, voice cracking as I sing
another song from High Violet,
so I pause to smoke a cigarette,
just listening as the chords strum on,
just feeling the music swim through my
despondent mind, just trying to feel
content in a discontent body.
But I will fucking keep going.
Some day I'll flush my depression
down the toilet, and drink five
bottles of champagne with best friends.

Listening to The National

2011-11-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

Listening to The National,
still no motivation for anything,
except to listen.
Still stuck in sorrow,
worried about the world.
How many people off themselves
every day? Will I be one of them?
I might. But I really can't.
I can't leave Mom, Dad,
and Cat alone. So I will listen
to The National, so I will
swim in tears, so I will
stick with my lack of heart
until things get better, maybe.

Inkwell

2011-11-27T15:51:00.003-07:00

I am drowning
in a
inkwell.
I struggle to the surface
and manage to get out,
black still
dripping
from my arms,
face, and legs
I try to dry it off
but it just smears
on my towel
and
the floor.
The ink spills
into my glass of whisky,
onto my pack of cigarettes.
It covers my
eyes
so I cannot
see.

A numbing mist
comes over me,
lingering,
lingering,
stealing heat from my
ink-stained body.
I put on a sweater,
but the sweater freezes,
along with socks
and sweatpants.
It chills the blackened
whisky, it ices over
my cigarettes.

I am cold and dark.
The sun does not shine
on me today.

Will My

2011-11-27T15:46:00.000-07:00

Will my
depression
ever
lift?
I switch
between
cigarettes,
food,
taking shits,
and baths.
Games are gone
with music.
Chopin no longer
acccompanies
me. I have
no interest
in books.
I have
no
interest
in
life.

Looking Down at my Deep Red Shirt

2011-11-25T18:56:00.001-07:00

Looking down at my deep red shirt,
cigarette just smoldering in the ash tray,
I wonder what I am worth. I have spent days,
weeks, months doing nothing but crying,
feeling miserable, reading books, checking reddit,
occasionally roleplaying as a Nord in Skyrim,
slaying dragons and collecting loot,
or as as a wise Tropican dictator,
leading islands to fortune through tourism, farming,
and mining. Even a job would've been pointless.
Money would only lead to more trivial time,
spent drinking gin or beer or vodka,
spent smoking cigarettes. There really is no point
to it all. If I had a friend, maybe I'd feel better
just with company. But, again, we'd waste our time,
since no time is spent well. Even if I was a researcher
in physics, working towards a major breakthrough,
I would have accomplished nothing but picking up
a tiny shell beside the 'great ocean of truth'. And a
shell to an ocean is merely a mote, and many other
motes have already been uncovered. It would just be
adding a single grain of sand to a mound of knowledge.
There really is no point to anything. There really
is no point to anything.

A Man's Short Journey

2011-11-25T10:00:00.003-07:00

The soft glow of a warm harvest moon,
the softer pallor of the stars all about.
A man with a cane stumbles down the middle
of an avenue. He has nothing on his mind,
and no destination to speak of. He wanders
into a park, lamplight illuminating his
shined shoes. It's nearly blinding to his
poor eyesight. But he walks on, stumbles on,
looks up to the stars, yawns, and, seeing
a beer bottle on the ground, stamps on it,
breaking it into tons of pieces. He takes
his worn cap off and tosses it into a field.
He then takes off his jacket, shirt, pants,
and underwear, leaving himself completely naked.
Strolling onto the frozen pond, he breaks the ice,
and falls in. He thinks first of the cold, and then
of the coldness of his wife. He waits. And waits.
He shivers vigorously, his lips turn blue,
he looses feeling in his hands and feet.
He struggles to breathe. But he looks up at the stars,
again, and he ponders the endlessness of the them,
the endlessness of the sky, the endlessness
of the universe.

Thanksgiving

2011-11-25T10:00:00.001-07:00

Thank you. So much.
Thanks for the yams,
the pumpkin pie, the turkey.
Thanks for the American Spirit
Blacks. Thanks for a peaceful Great Falls.
Thanks Mom and Dad, and sister too.
But my mind has not yet mended.
Cigarette, lead my destiny with your glow.

I am Nursing an Invisible Pint

2011-11-22T16:07:00.000-07:00

I am nursing an invisible pint
while smoking a cigarette
in a town where I have few friends.
I've known these walls for years.

The Eternal Taven That I Seek

2011-11-19T22:36:00.002-07:00

The soft melodies of one of Chopin's Mazurkas
accompanies me into the cigarette-filled night.
Nihilism dominates it. What one can achieve through
trophies mean ultimately nothing.
Everything is forgotten, everything
dies,
"And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."

Does the only joy in life lie in good company,
the sharing of tobacco, weed, booze, moments?
But in the end, that just amounts to a good evening.
But what are evenings then, if merely transitions
from day to day, week to week, year to year.
There is no eternal tavern in which
I can reside, unless that tavern is the world,
and I am merely a merry-maker.

But is that it? Is life merely hedonism:
the seeking of pleasure, the avoidance of pain?
And yet, pleasure and pain are but biochemical processes
of the body (which encompasses the mind).
"Thou art slave to Fate, Chance." We are imprisoned
by our corporeal forms, only to be released into
the Great Unknown. And if this is it, if we
only live to be turned to dust, to be buried
on earth that will be swallowed by fire,
and a fire that will itself turn to ash,
and ash that will decay into nothingness,
then what is the point? Merry-making can
only take us so far, it can only account
for good hours amongst friends in a universe
that ticks on eons.

Still, I yearn to create an eternal tavern,
in which to rest my weary soul with friends,
in which to share trophies and achievements
which, ultimately meaningless, somehow
enshrine life. Its as if we specks matter
only to each other, and by love, we endure,
yet in the end, we are merely specks floating
about a
gigantic
universe.
A universe that does not care
for our merry-making, our jovialities.

Another Cigarette, Another Tear

2011-11-18T10:34:00.001-07:00

Another cigarette, another tear,
another wish of gin,
another chord by Albeniz.
My grey soul lives in an
abandoned grove of dead oaks,
my heart lies at the bottom
of a frozen lake.
No fire in my core, though
there seems to be one behind
my eyes, sweating out tears
every day. The skies dark blue
do not wish for the sun,
they wish for further dark.

A Damned Captain

2011-11-17T20:54:00.001-07:00

The crash of
waves
upon the rocky shore,
torrential rainfall,
"Land Ahoy".
A lighthouse in the distance,
a dim beacon of hope,
but it is too late,
the ship smashes upon the rocks
and only the captain survives.
Left with guilt the rest of his life
for his shipmates,
he dives into a deep depression.
He looks to another beacon,
the Bible,
but it leads to further despair:
Hell for a gulity man.
Don't listen to what the priests say,
Jesus cannot save a damned Captain.

Damn Readers

2011-11-15T10:45:00.004-07:00

The cold bites at my toes and fingertips,
perhaps I should close this window,
but I need it as exhaust for my smoking
so the house doesn't reek and depreciate.
As I type, I wonder if the words I choose
are purely arbitrary, or if there's something
that actually matters in what I write.
I don't think so, the reader might,
but I question the readers taste in poetry.
Go read some Dickinson, some Bukowski, some Yeats,
some Shakespeare. My poetry doesn't even deserve
to be read. It is worthless. Damn you for even
thinking these words matter. They don't.

Should've

2011-11-15T10:41:00.002-07:00

I feel as if I should've never gone to college,
I met friends, I made connections, I learned a bit
about how to live on my own, about math, physics,
computer science, music, but I do not feel enlightened,
I feel indebted. I should've just chosen to flip burgers
all my life, even though my family would say its a waste
of my intellect, if I have one. At least then, I wouldn't
be in debt, I would have a job, I'd be helping my family,
and I'd be in burgers. I am not in burgers.

Me and the Bums

2011-11-15T10:38:00.002-07:00

Cars splash snow into the gutters
while the sky is grey and the
temperature is cold. The frozen
streets accompany them on their
journeys, though I do not know
where they are headed. The
homeless push their shopping carts
full of their bobbles, freezing
their asses off. Meanwhile,
I sit in a comfy, green, fringed
chair, with my feet up,
heater blasting on full,
eating a warn dinner roll my mother
made freshly, sipping a cup of tea,
wondering why I'm not where I thought I'd be,
wondering why I'm completely lost in depression.
But at least I have this warmth, this roll,
this cup of tea. The bum does not have that.

The Dogs are Howling at the Starlit Sky,

2011-11-15T10:35:00.005-07:00

The dogs are howling at the starlit sky,
the drunks are vomiting into the streets
adjacent to a church. The night people
are all about, sulking, stalking, surveying
the darkness. There is a man with a bell,
ringing. He says, "Everything will be alright,
just donate!" But I don't believe him,
maybe the drunks should hurl into his bucket,
that would be a proper donation to a church.

Blowing Cigarette Smoke out the Window

2011-11-15T10:35:00.001-07:00

Blowing cigarette smoke out the window,
I ponder the coldness of winter
and the coldness of my soul.
I take another drag,
accompanied by Chopin,
to fuel my dysphoria.
I feel as if I will never
reach euphoria again.
I am stuck in a trough,
a tunnel of depression.
Though there is no beacon
that I can see, my family
tells me it's there, waiting.

These

2011-11-13T13:38:00.001-07:00

These
words
just
flow
out of me.
There is no planning,
there is just a stream
of conciousness
which I somehow
tap
into.
I feel as if
that makes my writing
lazy, half-baked,
and meaningless.
But still, I write,
but still, I write,
but still, I write,
writing to shave
this numbness
from my soul,
from my frozen mind.

What is it About Chopin

2011-11-13T13:36:00.001-07:00

What is it about Chopin
and chain smoking
that gives me comfort?
Is it the soft melodies,
the soft harmonies,
contrasted with the
roughness of smoke
being sucked down my
windpipe? I suppose
it does not really
matter, what with
checks about to bounce,
and a credit rating
about to nose dive.
I should get a job
to help my father
with his financial woes,
but I am too much of a loser:
I have no ambition,
or motivation,
I don't even really want money,
besides, I'd spend it on
useless things like tobacco,
games, and booze. God,
what's the point?
It's hard to see one
with this torrential misery.
So much evil in the world,
starvation, drought,
floods, viruses, fucked up
genetics. You probably
don't exist, even though
I wouldn't mind an all
powerful being caring
about my meager existence.
Chopin, play another arpeggio,
another chord, another soft melody,
let me feel like I belong with your
music. Let me feel like I belong
on this Earth.

After Weeks of Smoking Inside

2011-11-11T17:05:00.001-07:00

After weeks of smoking inside,
my room finally stinks of cigarette smoke.

Slow strums of a Guitar

2011-11-11T17:04:00.002-07:00

Slow strums of a guitar,
a soothing voice of a singing woman.
She is a real troubadour,
sing to me, sing to me,
singing troubadour,
sing me a song
to coddle my heart,
to warm my freezing mind.

I Have a New Cigarette Making Machine

2011-11-11T17:01:00.004-07:00

I have a new cigarette making machine,
and tubes to put my new leaf tobacco in.
Making cigarettes is my new profession,
gently push the tube on the nozzle,
gingerly sprinkle in some tobacco,
close the lock, and sliding the cover close,
welcoming a new cigarette into the world.

I am sucking on a spearmint hard candy

2011-11-11T17:01:00.001-07:00

I am sucking on a spearmint hard candy,
wondering where my life will go,
I really have no idea.
I've been suicidal for days now,
knives hidden away in cupboards,
I can't die. I won't do it,
my family loves me too much.
To put them through my death
would be the most evil thing
I could possibly do. But still,
these thoughts meander through my head
nearly every day. Tears come,
nearly every day. I am not strong,
I am weak. My mind is jelly.
Overdosed on Effexor-
screwing with my mood,
with my emotions,
all I can do is wait it out,
wait for the pain to stop,
but I fear, the pain won't stop,
it will keep coming.
Knives hidden away in cupboards,
but it seems there's an invisible one
in my hand, calling to me,
"Ross, you're so sad,
not even Skyrim cheered you up,
maybe you should take me,
and do yourself in.
You know how to do the cuts,
on your wrists and neck,
do it". But I reply,
"Fuck you, knife,
I have to stay alive for my
family. I have to keep holding
onto hope, even though I am
in a torrential misery".

Tuesday Morning at My Desk

2011-11-08T09:07:00.002-07:00

Rocking back and forth,
two cigarettes in the ash tray,
two American Spirit boxes in the garbage
with some q-tips,
my blue lighter waiting for the next drag,
an empty cup sitting alone,
a friend in Camp Dwyer, waiting
to hit his position,
Chopin playing on
Windows Media Player,
idling in #suicidewatch on freenode,
I wonder who I am, and how
I got
here.
I wonder
why
I am-
a combination of bits of matter
that somehow became self-aware.
Who
am I?
Why
am I here?
Where
am I going?
How will I get there?
Why will I be there?
Who knows.
I'd say God might,
but I don't believe.

A Beer Shit

2011-11-07T16:04:00.002-07:00

I don't have a girl,
I have a loving family,
sometimes I want to kill myself
because of my existential despair.
But I have a roof over my head,
clean water, a full belly,
and my father keeps me in
cigarettes. I bet there
are a million people
who'd love to be in my position,
minus the depression.
No responsibility except
to stay alive, meals
freshly made every day,
no booze, but thats manageable,
lonely, but two loving parents
to keep me company and
to give me a shoulder to cry on.
A computer to access whatever
the hell I want. Music. Games.
Porn. Facebook for some
long distance interaction.
It's really not a bad way to live,
but I am bored. And I wonder
about the reason for existing.
My sister told me maybe
beginnings and ends
are just arbitrary human
constructs- that the universe
has always been, will always be.
But I have a feeling that
there should never have been anything.
Nothingness. So how did anything
come to be? Did God light a match,
and bam, there was the universe?
Or maybe the universe did this all
on its own. Big bang.

But still,
even with all these creature comforts,
I am sad because the chemicals in my brain
are round dancing to jazz. They're jerking
off into Bibles. They're making no sense.
Maybe Bukowski was right. Maybe I just
need a good beer shit.

Downtown at Night

2011-11-07T15:52:00.005-07:00

Damp streets, dim lamp light,
cars and people going nowhere
in particular. Cigarette butts
strewn across the avenues,
a man holding a newspaper
over his head to keep dry.
A bum begging for quarters
so he can buy another beer.
And me, pacing, in a blue
raincoat, struggling to
not kill myself with a
sharpened pocket knife.

Chopin & Suicide

2011-11-07T15:52:00.001-07:00

Chopin accompanies the smell
of stinking cigarette butts
on the way to a caravan
of suicidal ideation.

Steam Rising From a Cup of Tea

2011-11-07T15:28:00.001-07:00

Steam rising from a cup of tea,
smoke rising from a cigarette,
the tea is sweet,
and the cigarette is bitter.

The Morning Cigarette

2011-11-06T07:26:00.002-07:00

Still groggy from dreams,
I see the sun shining through
the window and the frost
that has grown overnight.
A bird chirps to bring
in the new day. Milk
heating in the microwave
for hot chocolate,
eggs cooking, a hello
from mother and father.
And it is time
for the morning cigarette.

I'm Slowly Filling a Glass

2011-11-04T17:50:00.003-06:00

I'm slowly filling a glass
ash tray. My belly is full,
and I have clean water.
That's a lot more than some people
have. I consider myself lucky
to live in a first word nation,
but I've read that there are
fewer depressed people
in the third world.
I guess when you're working
to find clean water and
the next meal,
you don't have time
to wonder about
the point of things.
The meaninglessness
of existence.
Right now the point
of my existence is,
seemingly,
to fill up this ash tray,
to empty this pack of cigarettes,
to down this bottle of water,
to listen to Satie.
It's not a bad way to spend an evening,
but I wish I had friends with me
to share it. I am pretty
lonely
in Great Falls.
I have my parents,
but I can't really shoot
the shit
with them,
or enjoy a good brew.
They aren't really the drinking types.
I'd probably be an alcoholic
if I could afford it.
Drown my sorrows in booze.
My liver could use a good swim.
But it's not 'good' for me,
well,
neither is smoking,
but I do it anyway.
It passes time.
I find pleasure in each drag,
and each sip,
And these days, I don't find
much pleasure at all.
Video games aren't what they
used to be for me.
I just don't find as much
joy in them.
Another spire
into the ash tray,
smoldering.
Another drink
from my
water
bottle.
Another
chord
from Schubert.

A Dull Evening

2011-11-04T17:42:00.001-06:00

Flogging Molly is playing
and I'm smoking a cigarette.
Mom's gone off to the art walk
to showcase her new painting
"Chirp House of Mystery".
I wish I had a cold beer in front of me,
but I suppose something else will do.
I head to the kitchen to fill my water bottle.
Some nice company would do me good as well,
Justin or Zack.
Justin's off on his next tour,
good luck to him.
We're most worried about his sanity,
I'm afraid he tries to ignore the past
and that might bite him in the ass.
Ah well. Life goes on, I suppose.
And Zack's a bum in Missoula.
I wish that kid would get back into school,
but it's Friday, so he's probably in the
process of getting drunk, or shortly will
be.

Dad's home, we both scream out, "Wah!"
He notices that I'm smoking up a storm,
as usual. I put on some Tchaikovsky to
see how it fits my mood. It doesn't really.
But I can handle a song or two,
I put the entire 25 disc piano collection
on shuffle. So hopefully something
will mesh with me at some point.

My sister called. She directed me
to some pictures of bunnies.
That distracted me from my depression
for about 2 minutes. I hope
this extra Effexor helps.
It'd be nice to not cry,
even though I enjoy the hugs
a good cry brings.
I chug some more water,
and light up another cigarette.
Franz Liszt plays.
Am I supposed to feel high brow
while listening to pianos?
I just feel like a bum.
I'm not in school,
I don't work,
I just sort of hang out
and get coddled by my parents.

It's a nice thing to smoke indoors,
especially with winter outside.
It's just below freezing.
Satie plays a melancholy tune now,
it fits my mood.
I cough up some phlegm. Yum.
Oh, a minor chord. Perfect.
Some slow arpeggios. More chords.
Satie.

Waiting For Some Bacon

2011-11-03T09:34:00.001-06:00

Waiting for some bacon
to cook,
that crispy
succulent
pig's flesh.
Wondering about
the future,
who knows
what's to come.
Jonsi singing
into my ear,
I wish Sigur Ros
was still together.
But he's good.

The day has just begun,
and it is already dull.
It is overcast and cold,
my fingers being bitten
by the freeze.
I type away at the keyboard,
waiting for some inspiration.
There is none.

I wet my finger,
picking up some cinnamon sugar,
stick it into my mouth.
Yummy sweetness.

A Dull Afternoon

2011-11-02T16:09:00.004-06:00

Chain smoking:
another cigarette in the ash tray,
two spires of butts.
Listening to Sexy Sadie,
some water to cool my throat,
some highschool kids are walking home.
Three spires.
A frozen donut is in the microwave,
and I'm devouring it
as soon as it's out.
I lick the glaze from my fingertips,
and light up another cigarette.
I'm listening to Jeremy Soule now,
I remember playing Morrowind,
watching a wizard fall from the sky.
And in Oblivion I saved some
giant rats
from a mountain lion.
Well, that was the second time.
Initially, I ran into this woman's basement,
not having read the quest text,
and slaughtered all the rats.
Quest failed.

Coughing up some mucus,
I still have a cold,
I know the cigarettes don't
help
my symptoms
but I don't care,
I'm still smoking this one.
What to put on next?
I'm getting bored of Soule.
Maybe some Eve Online music
or some Dylan or Marley,
or Chopin.
I go with Green Nebula
by CCP's Jon Hallur.
It starts with a slow,
droning synthesized bassline,
which is soon accompanied by
a melody, floating high.
A third bit comes in,
harmonizing with the bass
and melody. It's nice.

I check Reddit.
The front page may as well
be pictures of cats.

A drumbeat comes in on
Green Nebula.

My mother comes in,
gooey faces all around,
"I love you Ross",
"Holy crap, f-ing long".
"Yeah, this poem is
a bit
on the lengthy side".

I hold the cigarette between my lips,
staring at the blinking cursor.
I take a nice long drag,
some smoke stings my nostrils,
some bites my eyes.
I knock some ash onto my crotch,
shit.
I gingerly use my forefingers to
pick up the bit of stray ash.
It almost makes it to the ash tray.
Scooping it off the table,
I throw it into the ash tray:
a little dance with the ash
of a cigarette.
More smoke in my eye,
more up my nose, stinging,
my left eye is tearing up now.
Jeez. At least I haven't cried today.
Yet.
My mood loves to take random dives.

I put my entire library on and
I shuffle through a few songs,
randomly,
"When You Gonna Wake Up"
comes on by Dylan.
Fitting.
I've been a bum all this year
since I smoked pot
and had my psychosis.
I'm not in school this semester, either,
my parents and doctor tell me
I'm still
recovering.
When will I wake up?
Fuck if I know.

I skip to the next song,
"Secret Agent Man" by Devo.
This sounds so unlike the original,
but who cares,
it's groovy.

This poem would probably do better
as a fucking
Twitter
feed.
"Here's what I'm doing right now".
"Here's what I'm doing ten seconds from then."
Oh well.

I look up through the grating in the window,
blue skies. Cold. Leafless branches.

"Secret agent man, secret agent man".

I really screwed up when I was a
habitual
pot smoker for about 2 weeks.
It's thrown about a year of my life
into the gutters.
I cough up more mucus.
I mean, I could've been studying physics
all this time.
I suppose it hasn't all been bad,
I've been reading,
doing some calculus,
hanging with my folks,
but really,
it's rather dull.

"A designer knows he has achieved
perfection
not when there is nothing left
to add,
but
when there is nothing left
to take away."
I suppose I could start deleting lines,
here,
but the monotony of my writing
adds to the dullness
of this afternoon.
I'll let the Jazz Messengers
play the outro.
"Sweet 'N' Sour".

Grey Horizon

2011-10-30T10:38:00.001-06:00

Grey horizon,
dark clouds,
a frozen mind,
an unseen paycheck,
an invisible woman,

Snow is
falling:
an
endless winter
has come,
each day
darker
than the last.
There is
no solstice.
There is
no spring.

Mackenzie

2011-10-29T09:05:00.003-06:00

I still
remember
the hand holding
and hugs
in Germany.
I still
remember
passing notes
to each other
in the Frau's class.
I still
remember
the day I taught you
to merp.
Merp.

Every time
I see you on Facebook
I get a little happier
because I know
your cuteness
will overflow
into me. But
every word
I send
fills me with anxiety,
am I being cute,
or awkward
or creepy-
Am I putting you off
when I compliment you
or mention how cute you are?
I hope not.
I hope I just make you smile,
and make your day
seem a bit brighter.

Merp.

My Motivation

2011-10-29T08:56:00.003-06:00

My motivation
to get up in the morning
is a cigarette.
There's hot chocolate,
and breakfast,
but those are less immediate
than a nicotine-laced
infusion of tobacco,
which I desperately need.
There's always Mom and Dad,
those loving folks,
they're good motivation too,
but the first thing
is a cigarette.
Every day when the
dawn peeks through my window,
it's the cigarette that calls me.
I don't even piss first thing,
I smoke.

Moustache

2011-10-29T08:52:00.003-06:00

I stopped doing
calculus
to doodle in my notebook.
I drew a 'dapper' man,
with a top hat
and a moustache.
He has a sort of stare
to the left.
He's wondering why his
wife left him,
but he doesn't care
all that much.
He has a fucking moustache.

It's getting dark

2011-10-28T18:10:00.001-06:00

It's getting dark
and colder,
but I need a cigarette,
I put on my flip flops
and my black wind breaker
and venture outside
onto the old porch out back.
It's still early enough that there
are no stars. None. I wouldn't
mind the company of a star,
or maybe a planet,
or the moon.
I suppose this cigarette
will serve as company enough.

Chopin

2011-10-28T18:01:00.004-06:00

Here I am
listening to Chopin
drinking a ginger ale
(that I wish was a PBR),
taking in the light of this
acer monitor,
my brain saying to my hands,
"Type you bastard!"
So I do.
Oh, there's Chopin again.
If only I could flourish with words
like he does with chords,
maybe my poetry would be more than
little vignettes,
hell,
it'd be great if I could even call
one poem a vignette.
That would mean it evokes something
(I'm pretty sure mine evoke yawns).
Oh well, time to cough up some more phlegm.
The song ended, now there's this dark brooding tune,
he pounds away on his wonderful ivories,
is this a mazurka? Probably.
It has the rhythm of one.

Sick

2011-10-28T17:59:00.001-06:00

Mmmm,
phlegm.
Swallow it hard.
Cough and hack it up some more,
spit it out,
smoke a cigarette
despite your
wheezing.
Who cares about these
damned lungs.
Turn them black,
I say,
then they'll at least
have some
character.

The Rat

2011-10-28T17:58:00.002-06:00

This cursor is blinking at me
like the eyes of rat who's just finished
his dinner of poison. These
are his last seconds before it all
fades to black.
It twitches and dies.

Pacing

2011-10-28T17:44:00.002-06:00

Pacing
around the
back porch,
cigarette
in hand,
looking at the
rusty leaves
on the ground,
there is a
slight chill.

As I sit here smoking this cigarette

2011-10-28T17:43:00.001-06:00

As I sit here smoking this cigarette,
typing away at this old keyboard,
I wonder what use it is.
What use is anything.
Is this really it?

Pete Seeger

2011-10-22T09:18:00.002-06:00

Banks of marble with a guard at every door,
and the flowers have all been plucked by young girls-
these flowers, now filling graveyards full of soldiers,
When will we ever learn?

The seamen sit idly by the shores,in uniform
they do not have jobs anymore,
And so they fought for those silver stuffed vaults,
and so did the sweaty farmers and miners.
When will we ever learn?

Take a hammer to those vaults,
and give the silver to those who sweated and fought.
The time for bankers is up, but they still sleep with silver.
When will we ever learn?

Shall we overcome?
We shall someday, hand in hand.
Solidarity forever.

Anthony Bourdain

2011-10-22T09:07:00.000-06:00

Sweden, Peru, Miami,
smoking a cigarette,
learning new things
about
old cultures.
Eating food,
Commenting on life,
he travels the world
and is skeptical of God.
He is not a believer,
and neither am I.
He is a smoker,
and so am I.

Pine Creek

2011-10-22T08:54:00.000-06:00

After climbing up the mountain,
snow at my feet,
waterfalls all about me,
Prince Albert in my hand
and the hands of my friends.
There are some
Pabst Blue Ribbons
to go around.
I love this nature.
I love this company.

Rocking back and forth

2011-10-12T10:56:00.000-06:00

Rocking back and forth,
hands on my head,
I stare at a crumb in my keyboard.
I look up.
There's my mother's painting
hanging on the wall. I am in it.
I scratch my forehead.
I wonder about having another cigarette.
Outside, there's the swaying green of a tree,
and a blue sky all about it.
I ponder. What does it all mean?
I read some William Carlos Williams
and Emily Dickinson for some inspiration.
I find none.

Moonlit Midnight Minglers

2011-10-09T20:33:00.001-06:00

Tonight I will go out
and bask in the moonlight.
I will mingle with the
pondering denizens of the night.
We will have conversations
about God and existentialism:
what it is
to be,
or maybe merely manifest
thoughts about the best beer,
or the cutest bartender.
But it is where we
channel Kierkegaard
that I find the most enjoyment:
these intellectual
discourses with the
disciples of darkness
under lamplight
and enveloped in the
murk of cigarette smoke.

Cigarette

2011-10-09T13:51:00.000-06:00

Cigarette,
I love you,
Cigarette,
keep my lips warm,
Cigarette,
fill my lungs,
Cigarette,
half gone,
where did you go?
Cigarette,
don't leave,
Cigarette,
don't leave.

All the happy people

2011-10-09T11:06:00.000-06:00

All the happy people
in their happy cars
and happy worlds,
why do I suffer?
The sun shines,
and I am still sad.
The warmth
embraces
my skin,
but not my mind.
It is winter there,
and sorrow has frozen
into every crack.

How can I

2011-10-08T09:33:00.000-06:00

How can I
be up to
life's challenges?
Do I have the
determination,
the willpower,
to pull through?
I focus on
how meaningless
all this world is,
but that gets me nowhere.
I should
embrace
the endless possibilities
of life
with a full heart,
but I do not.
It is cold,
and the sun
does not shine.

One Magazine

2011-10-07T17:18:00.001-06:00

I push the magazine in,
I turn the safety off,
I aim, putting my elbows up,
I squeeze the trigger
and unleash a flurry of bangs.
Bang bang bang bang.
I smell the gunpowder and hesitate.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
I look at the sky.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
I think about
putting the gun
to my head.
I don't.
Bang.
Bang.

My cigarettes are my companions

2011-10-07T17:09:00.003-06:00

My cigarattes are
my companions.
I kiss them for 5 minutes,
between my lips,
and then,
I am sad when I
toss them into the
ash
tray.
They lie there
dying, embers glowing
out to death.
Then, they go in the
garbage.
Good bye, cigarette.
See you on the other
side.

The Endless Cigarette

2011-10-07T17:09:00.001-06:00

This cigarette
will hold me over
for 5 minutes.
1 hour.
1 week.
1 month.
6 months.
1 year.
This cigarette willl
hold me over for
20 years.
40 years.
60 years.

The sky is gray

2011-10-07T16:33:00.001-06:00

The sky is gray
and it is
raining.
The chill bites
at my fingers
and my toes.
The sun
and the warmth
have long since
gone away.
All that's left
is
endless gray.

I have been

2011-10-07T16:28:00.001-06:00

I have been
trudging
through these woods for
ages.
It is
dark,
and I cannot see
my path.
A bird calls,
but the blackness
hides him.
I hear the wind
in the trees
but the night
stills all images.
My own feet are
mired
in the mud.
I do not remember
who I am.
I do not know
where I am.
I have lost
my way.

In spite of all the beauty

2011-10-02T14:33:00.003-06:00

In spite of all the
beauty
in the world,
I am still sad.
My color is dark blue,
and the world is bright yellow.
My key is F minor,
and the world is played in
G major. I am a nocturne:
evocative of the night.
I am weeping
and the world is
happy go lucky.
I do not mean to say
it is all good out there.
It just seems to me
that my glasses are
tinted dark,
though the world
has so much in roses.

My poetry is prosaic

2011-10-01T10:35:00.002-06:00

My poetry is prosaic,
it is trivial,
it is not
worth
reading.
But I write
to itch this scratch
of writing.

My poetry really is
crap. The only point of it
is to make me happier.
And that is not what
a poet
should do.

Thirteen poems in as many minutes

2011-10-01T10:33:00.004-06:00

Thirteen poems in as many minutes,
thirteen terrible poems
that mean
nothing to anyone.
Their only purpose
is to make me high
with completion.

My poetry is

2011-10-01T10:33:00.002-06:00

My poetry is
not
poetry.
It has no meter,
or rhyme.
It has no point
except to express
my fleeting feelings.

The hills

2011-10-01T10:32:00.002-06:00

The hills,
the skies,
the sun and moon.
The magpies,
the squirrels,
the son and boon.

What is worth

2011-10-01T10:31:00.001-06:00

What is worth
a single
tear?

To write is to live

2011-10-01T10:30:00.000-06:00

To write is to live,
to live is to be,
to be is not enough.
To write is not enough.

I live for my mother's eyes

2011-10-01T10:29:00.001-06:00

I live for my mother's eyes
who greet me every morning.
I live for my father's sighs
who leave me every night.

To exist

2011-10-01T10:26:00.001-06:00

To exist
or to die,
to no longer live.
To live,
or live longer,
to still a wretched
emotion.

I long to cease my existence

2011-10-01T10:21:00.006-06:00

I long to cease my existence,
though I've been told
this world will
grow
on me.
But I do not care.
I will leave when I want.
But there are people here
I cannot leave behind.
They keep me anchored
to this place.
Still, I long
to cease
my existence
in spite of love.
Maybe if I had God,
I would long to stay,
but I do not.
There is no God,
There is only the
temporary here.
But is that enough?
Is this temporary
existence
enough to live for?
Maybe. I must stay.
I cannot leave.
Even though I long for
scarlet to seep from my neck
and wrists, I cannot
go that far.
I will not.
I see nothing for my future
but further pain and struggling,
but I cannot leave.

Go on with your writing

2011-10-01T10:21:00.002-06:00

Go on with your writing,
just keep writing,
write more,
keep writing,
write more.