Bella Renee- for Ava

Today, next to you, in your hospital room, was the first time (out of all the days I can remember) that I truly wouldn't rather be somewhere else.

And the first time I didn't want to leave when it was time to. 

            I wasn’t counting the minutes, that usually seem so slow regardless of where I go, hoping for them to quickly pass- rather, I was keeping track of how many were in between each contraction.

            I know it seems like a pain in the knees to unplug the cables and cords to the squiggly-line machine every time you have to pee, but did you ever notice that those peaks and valleys sometimes spell out ‘Ava’?

            So with these few moments alone I’m going to try to hone in on the perfect words to complete this poem, but I bet all my pennies that’ll take a thousand years.

            No matter how she comes out, caramel, white or brown, we’re already all so damned proud and that only gets to grow (and never stop or slow down).

            And I think it’s safe to say that this will be your most memorable birthday, despite it not being technically yours and all the pain [that’s what that magical stuff on drip from your I.V. is for]

            And soon I’ll be scribbling down thoughts for your daughter instead of you- don’t get discouraged when fewer letters come together in your name. The prettiest muse I ever came across just brought something new into the atmosphere, and now it’s her turn for all my words, dear.

-be excited about getting poop under your fingernails, runny noses and vomit on your favorite clothes

-her finding sarcasm and dirty words and thoughts you find absurd

-her first bad grade in school and hundreds of messy rooms

-watching only “G” rated movies for so many years until all you want is to watch something rated “R” and when she’s finally old enough to handle adult themes, wanting to go back to the simpler and purer times

-cooking and cleaning never ending, all the fairy tales and playing, pretending

Her eyelashes tickling your neck and starting the morning with her first breath

            The sound of her voice when you’ve never heard it before

            (and then the hours of arguments when she discovers sentences)

Her first boyfriend (that you hate)

Her first boyfriend (that you love)

Staying up all night because she has the flu

Staying up all night just for fun

Learning her favorite food and favorite bands and holding her tiny hands while you slow dance to nothing at all

There’s nothing, nothing, nothing not to be excited about.

I know because I’ve been here before. The person that sparked that infinite wonder has the very same middle-name as Ava Renee.

And now I get to do it again.

“Grateful” seems remarkably inadequate. But it’ll have to do for tonight. I’ll spend the next thousand years trying to get it right.

spell check

i already know how this story goes,
but i'm addicted to relationship ghosts
something always gives in the end
sixty-three days to fix this mistake
too fulfilled by partisan hate
darling, let's not fucking pretend

another premature break-up,
never saw you without make-up

now i know, i know
i'm not worth my weight in stones
and now i beg
for the vultures to pick at my bones

if you were curious as to how i hoped this would go,
we'd be cave diving in the secret places in Mexico
and tickling our babies feet
instead we're separated by not only distance but time
a thousand bottles of cigarettes and empty packs of wine
dazzlingly incomplete

i made my choices, some were skewed
i made mistakes, and so did you
the rest is confusion floating between

but i still feel your eyelashes flutter against my neck
drinking vodka on the beach together dizzy and content
even on dull, overcast, rainy days
watching corny horror movies on rare nights of reprieve
watching your chest rise and fall while you're still asleep
the sun wasn't as bright with its rays


sixty-three days to fix this mistake,
come on, now, honey, there's no time to waste

personification is sexy

two acoustic guitars are making love on a bed
one has strings, the other is barren, so there's no need for contraception
cigarette butts made sure nothing foul was said
because gossip only leads to half-truths and violence and misconceptions

empty wine bottles litter the floor
one says 'forget me'
the other begs love forevermore

tears paint the face beautiful and proud
eyes turn from green to red
and ambience chokes the grieving sound

the ceiling fan overhead whirrs with robust potential
like gravity it spins around an orbit
the implications of its intentions seem so monumental
but are limited by true self-absorbance

there's something sad about the fact that once the expiration date has been sealed and made, nothing can stop it's inevitable decay
that we always throw out the waste
regardless of our intrinsic truths
to say that we, the strong and the free, would allow others to restrain the things that we need and nothing will stand in the way
of trading true happiness for shame
relegated to an existence obtuse

enamel gnawing on nails
stomachs now full of acid
cardiovascular systems failed
no clue what had ever happened

piles of clothes know that they're not the summer fashion
they plead with me to be given to the salvation army
but they concede that philanthropy never really happens

ostriches bury their head in the sand
not because they're afraid
but because no one ever understands

two guitars making love on a bed
forgetting societies pressures
but focusing on  real love instead

Seven Stages

This is an oldie, but a goodie. I'm trying to edit it for performance purposes, so feedback is always appreciated.

So unable these days to analyze subtleties or shades of gray are we that organized lists are developed for things such as grief and are handed out to those experiencing it like candies to wayward children.
The Seven Stages of Grief, as experienced by many, but through the eyes of me:

1) Shock and Denial- no no no, that's not me, I just know that if I give it a month or two I can have her  back. Her new boyfriend isn't me, he doesn't know her favorite foods and shit. I know, I know, I know she needs me. I can feel it like hot led in my mouth, her kisses -mini wishes of tongues lashing and teeth clinking, drinking a Merlot of spilled ambitions... 
I know! I'll cut my hair and quit smoking and sing words prettier than before. I'll get a job and a car and a cellular telephone. I'll get that college degree that's been escaping me for all these failed years in between.
I'll buy her a pornographic DVD and send her pictures of me in her bras and panties she left behind.

I can't feel my left arm anymore. The proverbial mammal of mammoth proportions is sitting on my chest.
Systems performing in backwards fashion, regression is my new tomorrow, and my spine got it's switches and cables and cords all mixed up.

2) Pain and Guilt- not for me, not this morning, not this evening- I've got cheap bottles of acetaldehyde- a cousin of formaldehyde- to make sure I'm fuzzy in this head of mine. Is it ironic or just funny coincidence that within the same family, one chemical makes people look good dead and the other makes people look good while they're still alive?

Mmm, the smoke that wisps around my throat coats me in everything I wish I could be. I'm loving the dirty smells that sink into the sweat-shop woven fabrics I wrap my itchy skin in. It's not quite gasoline, it's not quite evergreen-pine, but it's carcinogenic for sure.

Mix the two, booze and cheap drugs, like I do, and you can skip the second step altogether. 

3) Anger and Bargaining- This is fucking stupid goddamn bullshit, I tell you. If I promise to quit fucking every pair of legs that come my way to forget her name, do you think she'll want me back? It's worth a shot, whaddaya say?

I promised, I begged and swore true, that I would give up my anger, my oldest mistress, for her. It was a trade that at the time I would have gladly made, if only it would have helped our insides shine. I know her, my piss and vinegar, better than I've known the taste of iron and bubbles in my mouth. I've let her settle into my limbic system and she's a tough bitch to get out once you've let her in. Kind of like pulling my hair out while chewing my nails and the way my old loved one used to caress me after sex, it's hard to give up.

But that failed transaction left me with my currency, my bargaining chip, still in place. The fractured remnants of antiquated hate are my birthright, I'll always hold them tight like a stuffed animal when I try to find ways to close my eyes and stop dreaming of you leaving everything we built behind. 

Fucking hell, fucking shit, I can't believe how motherfucking pissed I am that I can't sell my hands on the black market to buy a ring for her.

4) "Depression", Reflection, Loneliness-  The mirror I use to get through this step is just a little bit dingy. It only shows sepia tones and I really don't feel all that vibrant in its gaze. (you see)
I've been surrounding myself with all the faces I can find, shoving new ones deep into my life, it's been a thrill. But when the noise all dies down and the people fade out, the blank notes that drop on the floor nearly rip me into little pieces of bitter cigarettes, lit and falling back into the bosom of the planet in the form of ash. 

I'm writing the thirty-seven-thousand-six-hundred and twelfth poem about her. What does that say about my affinity for this step? It could be argued that it embodies what a savage who plays a wordsmith would derive most of their inspiration from. 
-simplification is fun, isn't it?-

It is my belief that the coffee and nicotine built up by now inside of me are the only companions I'll need. We'll call that 'bullshit' for now and move on.

5) The Upward Turn- dear god, I've seen blazing wreaths of light change from shades of amber to blue in new eyes I've met since she left. I never needed more, but these experiences still leave me weak in the knees, in all sorts of good ways.
The winter's growing near, and I'm excited for all the rain. I plan on building a movie scene  and kissing a pretty dame right on the lips and hold her by the hips and not let go until the rain turns to snow, that's a promise, I hope she knows just how fucking much gratitude and care my heart can hold. I know, that sounds a little bit cheesy, believe me, I wrote the motherfucking line, hopefully you'll indulge me cliche and pardon the crime.

Nothing can be everything all of the time, and I'm starting to believe that beyond just knowing it. I'm feeling the hope start to ring in the key of c in my ears so goddamn loud that it wakes me up in the mornings without weight on my chest. Goddamnit all, maybe after all, this is for the best.

6) okay, I'm getting a bit tired of this list. I apologize, a real quick intermission...
other than making it extremely easy for a guy like me to write a piece, what are these guidelines good for? really?
 Reconstruction and Working Through-  If I had a clue what I was supposed to do with myself, maybe I'd be less of a drunken buffoon.
 I'm rebuilding my circadian rhythm and forming new habits, singing songs of destruction all the while, drinking mushroom tea to induce a smile, guzzling WD40 to repair my knees, scrubbing off bruises in the shower, finding pennies tails-side-up, reading obituaries on the backs of cereal boxes and stealing lunches from the government. 
I'm bathing in kerosene and playing with already struck matches, finding the reverence in swear words and the chaos in prayer. I'm holding sermons in my garage with a congregation that was never there, and I say amen to the speech I never gave, my eyes cave in and swell, we might as well be lunatics. 

So here is the construction site- a plot of land to be developed. Only, maybe this time around, I'll build with bricks, not sticks, so your huffs and puffs won't knock it down.

7) Acceptance and Hope-
I'll let you know when I get to or through the last stage. It's not today, but maybe tomorrow...

sleeping with the lights on

my body and my mind can't decide what I miss the most
can't sleep on a bed because there's too much room for you
can't sleep with the lights off 'cause i'm scared of ghosts
the leftover pieces of something once true dead in this room

I really tried not to drink wine but time was being a real motherfucker
all I ate was an eighth of hate in oder to try to find my lungs and smother
all of the pieces of you I had left

I'm havin' a blast with balloons filled with gasoline fumes and broken glass
suckin' on 'em like a young partygoer gobbles down helium
I'm havin' a ball twisting and breaking my ankles so I fall down the stairs
flipping the axis of the planet upside down, killing religion

it's too easy to see you
when I close my eyes
so I keep them open all night
it's too tough to feed myself with venom and bullshit as my only salary
so I down bubbly bronze and brown, liquid breads are my only calories

while you were trying to decide the best way to leave me behind
I was busy trying to keep my insides alive
but you've just dried them out today
my pressing concern is that you still haven't realistically learned
that this bridge is forever broken and burned
the remnants being left to rot and decay
I had no say in the matter

you know I might as well have sewn the tips of my lips closed
it would have gotten the same result in the end
I think by now I just might know what it is that I miss the most
goddamnit, I will always fucking miss my friend

preferences in the morning

my favorite breakfast is cigarettes and coffee, maybe a little wine
my favorite time to write is then, when the sun peaks it's radiative head out and makes the screen on my laptop dark
i don't know the physics behind it, but it's fucking cool
the best movie ever made was The Princess Bride
the best writer is Vonnegut- he beats Shakespeare in my mind

my favorite emotion is empathy
and money's only good if you're giving it away
i'm happiest when I'm in the forest
Home's only good if that's where your heart stays

i prefer my religious affiliations remain open
so i don't get stuck dating the same old god every night of the week
but i do pray to one god- the god of the everliving trees
they always bless me with whatever energy i might be lacking that particular day
they're nice like that

my favorite day of the week is whatever one i'm currently standing on
and sharks are my favorite species
my preference forces me to lean towards the color of green
and pickles are my favorite taste
(every culinary creation i come up with tries to hit the same satisfactory sensors that i'm rewarded with as the mighty pickled cucumber)
mustard's pretty damned good, too

i can't pick my favorite person, but i'd rather keep it that way. they're all so damned important, i suppose that way they'll stay.
in an unorganized list of personalities and faces, asterisked with different impacts they've had
experiences we had, and all of the sappy-happy stuff in between

i'm unplugging myself from the computerbox now, 'cause my coffee and stogey are dead.
i'll probably try to breathe new life into those ideas again in an hour.
light up some smoke and drink a cuppa' joe, thinkin' bout the shit that i like.
bests the alternatives. yeah?

I'll Leave them Blank if I Please

today's the day i use capitol letters
and quit smoking and drinking
'cause money's tight and everything in between tastes the same
today's the day i find something to say
and forget rhyming schemes 'cause they don't mean a goddamn thing
today i quit swearing and blaspheming
and learn how to play the capitalists game

i'm gonna' learn how to write poetry right
and quit redundant phrasing

stop pretending like juxtapositions are clever
give a break to my broken liver
and trade nine dollar words for thrift shop verses
and stop searching for the perfect things to type

gonna' cease staring at blank pages as if they're full of potential
and leave them blank just in case
i'll find something funny to put in their place

exchange hope for truth and understand despondence isn't relatable
that giving up hope is hardly commendable
that anyone can hate their state of mind
but finally learn that only a few people can live in their skull
without trying to break it open
and spill its contents on the world's floor

give me more, give me less
a penny or a shot glass
embrace the similarities therein
cheap chemical thought isn't glamorous
whiskey romance isn't amorous
and drinking isn't really a sin

but today's the day i use capitol letters
and use punctuation the way the ancients intended
today's the day i find something worth saying
and stop praying for my life to be mended

i'll quit using rhyming schemes to tell these pages what i mean
and leave them blank if i please