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2

3

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1

Pushing Up Daisies

I coughed up a bunch of daisies.

Not too bad except for

a bit of phlegm and spit on the petals,

nothing some time in the sun and a

few paper towels won’t fix.

You can put them in front of the far window.

The ugliness will soon fade as

water/care/light make them

grow tall and perfectly crooked.

Chest puffed out to the insects that

wriggle and buzz

through the pane glass.

Bright and pretty to show off

to unenthused house guests.

2

Two Weeks Notice

Will I still be a cashier when you sell out?

Scanning through kids clothes as your wife

chases the kids down the aisle.

Will the circles under my eyes recede?

Cynicism giving way to acceptance,

leaving her in the lurch because,

let’s face it,

I never quite stacked up and never would.

Dust collects on a framed diploma.

Spider web cracks

across the thin plastic

where all my frustration pressed against it.

Where will $50 dollars in wadded-up small bills

take me at 4 a.m.?

Down roads you traveled without me,

long ago,

when I thought

something better was around the corner.

3

Bygone Daze

I move happy in loose limbed nostalgia,

reds and oranges dancing

through VHS haze.

Weekends off the high dive

toes touching the bottom of the deep end,

slow motion heavy calm.

Riding on pegs and sipping Moon Mist,

Blink-182 reverberating through my thoughts.

Reality roots it all soon after,

weird nicknames and taunts,

unrequited love and bruised limbs

chatter eagerly,

drowning out everything else.

Happiness is the sound

of pavement whirring by under my feet.

Of the quiet the elementary school

by my house held just as the sun was setting.

When I could flip my skateboard under

my feet without anyone telling me I was

doing it wrong.

Happiness is a quiet parking lot mama.

4

Words

Language is open-ended

free-flowing love,

that every now and again

hacks up charcoal black idiocy.

It’s still worth it.

As malleable as fresh Play-Doh

or as rigid as a beam of steel,

skipping along

breaking concrete under footfalls.

It’s unfiltered rage let loose

in that letter you’ll never send,

it’s those first clammy,

apprehensive hands that lock

after too much thinking.

Strolling fancy,

knuckle dragging simple,

keeping us together

while tearing us apart.

5

Pure Applesauce

Black robbed reverence

that both sides of the political spectrum

take turns throwing rocks at.

The hinge on which the door of history

swings in reaction or revolution.

Where false secrecy and pretention

pomp and circumstance

play pick up football games.

Ones that end in bruised egos

and teary eyes.

History always has a losing side.

One that lumbers dumb and

oblivious through glossy torn pages

of future text books.

Stoic eyes that exert ridiculous

notions that fall over each other

down slick slopes of desperation.

Fuck off Antonin Scalia.

6

The Fourth

Some skin peeled back as I flicked the

yellow Bic.

My mother waited in the wings yelling

“be careful, oh god be careful.”

Once the sparks hissed out of the wick

I sprinted back to her side,

giggling to myself.

A shower of colorful sparks hissed out

yellows, reds, purples and blues;

hopping about like pagan gods

dancing some ancient jig

to a lost rhythm.

The sparks receded and a cloud of pale smoke

rolled out into the dark,

making its way through the pine needles above.

We hosed it down and moved to the next one.

Bottle rockets that shot up only to end

in an anti-climatic pop,

firecrackers under that old bucket in the garage,

rattling off like gunfire as the bucket jumped about.

Picked up and thrown about

as is custom for the youngest in the family,

bruised knees and grass stains.

Driving home late,

head thudding gently against the window

as we made our way back.

7

Imitation Woodgrain

I saw the ghosts of

fallen trees copied into

the laminate on the table

in the break room.

Pressed and sealed in

quiet inanimate death.

Miles from its commanding presence in

a forest of other trees.

At least a real wood table is

honest enough to give the

once tall trunk purpose.

This doesn’t even do that.

It just sits around until it

gets too shabby or wobbles too much.

Heaped into landfills

where it’ll never quite break down

and taunting it’s distant wooden relatives

who will.

Returning to an Earth that nurtured them,

returning to quiet oblivion.

8

Swipe Left

Modern love is perfect love.

One where slight differences are huge differences

a wisp of cigarette smoke or

lame interest means rejection.

‘They’re perfect but they like cats…”

Compromise mingles with

ancient reptile bones in museums

with appropriate reverent signs.

Ones that’ll soon be covered in

lost love proclamations,

carved in deep by bored kids

on a field trip.

9

Balance

Remember to give equal weight.

Give those barons of exceptional

thought and brawn,

the same say as the vast majority.

Those job creators that give us

a wonderful existence.

Be careful of the lazy.

The ones who wait to

pull out the rug from under

polished Italian leathers,

waving high

flags of uncertainty.

Be careful of words like

“change,” “progress” and “equality.”

Make peace look so absurd

that no thinking person

would ever utter it.

Do these things and

the bright red, white and blue graphics

will never fade a bit on

America’s #1 news network.

10

CryMeaBeardHipsterPoetLoser

Unkempt beards

from block to block

on briefcase-wielding elites

and hippie punk kids.

Hell, there’s even one on my face.

I grew one back in high school

because, let’s face it, girls don’t

typically go for dudes with

pimples and acne scars

dotting and crisscrossing their face.

At 24, it’s served its purpose,

but it’s still there.

I still have

plenty of awkward contours to

hide.

I have self-conscious excuses

like you have bad tattoos.

11

+/-

Fall together into pieces.

Across the great expanse

of anything.

Fences are always planned to be built

but never are.

Who needs em'.

Pack up and move when things

get too slow.

Did I daydream a bit too long again?

Pressed against the heavens

in some sort of immortal

completeness that

always manages to

slips between my fingers.

Lullabies to the leaves and bark

sound out through fields of wire

and mechanical om.

Fill your lungs with smog

and say goodnight to

the orange moon

that lumbers heavy.

12

Daytona Beach

I want to strut:

sand between my toes,

radioactive pink flesh,

too much body hair and a little flabby.

Happy,

free from the snickers

and stares.

Speedo clad and beaming

ear-to-ear.

My bald spot peeling

and flaking.

I see slender movie star looks

self-consciously checking themselves

in bathroom mirrors,

prepping only for it all to fall apart

in a strong breeze.

13

Day Drunk

Red wine dripping down my chin

sun-baked and still fading.

My thoughts stretch and yawn,

moving through conversations a bit

too relaxed.

Shaking hands with awkward small talk,

dancing cheek to cheek with pleasantries.

Tomato-red pride

talking way too audibly

and stumbling way too much.

Dream of swimming through

cool covers

far away from all of it.

Wake up with a kinked neck at

6 a.m. legs hanging over

the edge of the loveseat.

Not enough time to go back to sleep,

coffee grounds on my tongue

watching the minutes lurch by

until my shift ends.

14

Listen to Otis

Guilt bounces around like

a bouncy ball thrown real hard

in a tiny room.

Thrown by a bratty kid

who isn’t going to look for it,

but somewhere deep down

wonders where it is.

Remember laughing when someone was different?

When a perfectly nice and

thoughtful human being was

reduced to a heap of ash before your tiny eyes?

You don’t get those moments back.

You can only add weight to that

heaviness on your shoulders.

Try a little tenderness

for once

you selfish prick.

15

Mr. or Ms.?

Why should it matter if

Bill wants to be Barbra or

if Barbra wants to be Bill?

You can see the tension

fill the room.

That typical hate,

radiating through the chain restaurant

off the interstate.

Land of the limited and

home of the “normal.”

Where flag waving inclusion

draws a line

that only time and education

can help erase.

It couldn’t come any sooner.

16

Flag Pin Guy

The red-faced shouter

that graces all the billboards around town.

The “us against them” guy,

who builds his foundation on fear

and the rest of the house on empty political promises.

He stands at the side of stage

tired features and caked on makeup

to make a 60 year old shell look 25 again.

The hall filled with hushed, eager chatter

until he hops up on stage as spry as

a cheerleader with the smile to match,

walking to the microphone and

flipping on the autopilot switch.

Immigrants, jobs, American exceptionalism, regular folks, God’s will

hold for applause

guns, military might, the private sector, the economy, joke at other candidate’s expense

hold for laughter

empty closing part replicating Saint Reagan’s “are you better off speech”

that leveled Carter in the debates.

They still love stuff like that.

Walk off stage and wave a few times,

holding smile until out of sight.

17

Nostalgia Parlor Trick

Drag me through the streets,

skinned limbs and shirt sleeves,

heavy with rain water.

Chunks of moon rocks

lodged between my teeth,

blood on my collar.

Bulging trash water veins

carry out earnest

nothings.

Warm lamp light

glows out gentle from

the passing windows.

Our fingers don’t lace

together

like they used to.

Eagerly

and a bit too tight,

kind of like a kid who just

learned how to tie their shoes

for the very first time.

18

Etc.

I have a notebook filled

with uncrossed lists.

A thin layer of dust covers its

light green cover,

water damage warped,

curlicue wire spine

unraveling a bit,

but still pretty much (like) new.

It sits in a shoe box,

patiently

waiting

on me to get back in shape again

or to record that album of field recordings

I never quite go to.

I won't ever throw it away.

Those dreams still thudding around in

my cranium like wet clothes

in the dryer.

One day I'll take them out

and they'll be crisp and warm,

slightly smaller,

but generally okay.

19

Suburbanites in the City

A brightly lit haze

of social graces,

zig-zags through

drunk back slapping good nature.

A saxophone bleats out from the corner

as rain drops scatter,

then pour,

drenching sports jerseys

and haggard well-meaning beards.

A night on the town caves into soggy ruin.

Back to SUVs where you can

alter the temperature from

deep chill to sauna swelter with the flick of a wrist.

Careful to not make eye contact

with cardboard carrying freaks.

Their Sharpied pleas for help

running together in the down-pour.

Anxious wheels inch forward

against a tide of red lights

back to the expressway.

20

Re-Living

I gulped down razor blades

to cut away

the cobwebs in my throat.

NEW VOICE:

Confident and slurred

howling at the fingernail moon

that hangs fragile.

Do you want to skip class with me tomorrow?

Eyes red and glassy twins

holding hands

as we fall in place.

I want to fall asleep

next to you again,

still not knowing you’d

decide to leave me the next day.

Scratchy-throated longing

and bullshit whining yet to happen.

I wish I didn’t have to be

embarrassed about being 18 again.

But you don’t get to do that

and what a relief it is.

It’s certainly better to figure it out then

than to live it out at 24.

21

Tossing and Turning

I thought my nose was whistling,

but it was only the birds

outside my window.

I remember when my thoughts

used to open up veins like

red apples tumbling fresh

from the crate.

When things seemed a whole lot bleaker,

hinging on whether

you were in my arms

instead of his.

Imitation gold

wishes floating away

into oblivion.

I remember what it was like to

think people would never let me down

and that I’d never do the same to them.

22

$45.00

Placed neatly under

my driver's side windshield wiper,

erasing one day's worth of pay.

Moving my legs back to the car

and my car back down the street,

back down the interstate.

Rewinding farther,

back to comfort.

Back to my room with my records.

The ones I got in the mail today,

having just enough time to

break them free of their cellophane,

but not enough time to

listen to them without being

late.

Back to the sounds

of rain dancing on the rooftop,

making conga lines down through

the gutter.

$45 flowing with the water

through the sewer grate

off to do other things.

23

Zzzzzzz

I want to disappear,

stoned and lonesome

to that shack

everyone forgets about.

Stout rats everywhere,

still better than

anywhere

I can think of.

I want to be lucid

as my consciousness is shook loose,

tumbling down some

dark staircase in

the shack.

My last thoughts hopping and

skipping through the tall grass

and rotted wood.

24

The Intergalactic Church of Eternal Happiness Inc.

Laugh at death like it’s

a wacky cult knocking at

your door at 8 a.m.

‘No thank you,

please,

I’d really rather not.’

Keep the pamphlet,

the one Brother Dean made

because his parent’s

computer had Photoshop.

The one featuring stock photos of happy

families skipping into

unending complete happiness.

That one.

There’s no need to worry about it

and no sense planning for it

because it’s going to happen either way.

That is, unless you call the

24 hour toll free number.

25

Beer

Don’t be so glum,

it’s only a passing feeling

tiptoeing in the dark.

It’ll be gone by morning,

leaving only footprints across your back.

It visits from time to time

never staying up to talk things through.

It just sits there,

lurking in the corner

awkwardly

pretending to check for new messages.

You kind of wonder if

there’s any enjoyment in this.

If there’s something you’re not quite getting.

Maybe it only exists to write

poems about it at 2 am or

to keep you honest,

keep you humble in some uncomfortable way.

Either way,

it doesn’t get any easier to keep around.

26

Daydreaming Past Third

Hold onto that stare.

That one that can flag down cabs in

the pouring rain.

The one that still turns my kneecaps

into uneasy wobble, even if

I haven’t seen you in a few years.

Don’t lose it to age

or disenchanted bitching,

to sore joints and

sagging skin.

Hold onto it like a nervous

high-schooler gripping

the baton in track.

I hope that stare lands on me again,

when we’re older

and able to look past everything.

When we’re able to be friends

without all the complicated things

that being in love and fucking up

drags across subsequent years.

27

#

The ongoing discussion is always cut a bit short,

fads fade out as quickly as they leap in.

Deep, complex social unrest

compacted into the news cycle

doesn’t hold interest or sway

like it once did.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth working at.

Hold up those signs on street corners

even when your shoes are heavy with water

and your dripping snot is mixing with the downpour.

Although that’s easy to say

if you’re an armchair quarterback like me.

One who’s only been to a handful of protests,

who makes excuses like you make stands.

Whose selfish bitching about

the drag of this wonderful existence

eclipses unmet potential.

Where looking cool nudges aside

actually doing something.

28

Fresh Paint

Like opening an escape hatch

and falling for hours.

Where quotas fade into the background

like the music your

dentist cleans your teeth to.

Bushes swirl in murky water

and breathe life into the canvas

you sunk part of your paycheck into.

Carve out the empty space,

little by little,

as someone arranges some household objects

in a New York art gallery.

They net twice your income.

They don’t have day jobs.

They eat all the most organic and

healthy things available,

making sure to chastise anyone who eats

McDonald’s and uses the extra money on

their daughter’s dance lessons

and cheap art supplies.

29

Eviction Notice

They tried to carve out some

of your grandfather’s front lawn

for a right turn lane.

Bull-headed determination

and some angrily worded letters

held sway with the city council,

but didn’t last.

Soon they’ll be propping up a highway right

through our little community.

Faceless concrete drone

snuffing out block parties

and pick-up football games.

Packing us into sardine cans

where boredom and desperation

breed like rabbits.

Where a zero tolerance policy

can mean a hollow Christmas.

Track marks and pipe burns accelerating

despair housed in the quieter moments,

kids moving in with their grandma just for now.

But there’s still life here.

There’s still a sense of community

no matter how dislocated or

misplaced it has become.

It’s just hidden from the affluent gawkers

who stare out of rolled-up windows,

driving through, quick as can be.

30

A Vote is a Voice

A suggestion box

doesn’t make your workplace

a democracy.

It doesn’t give you a seat at the table

or a say in the conversation.

A suggestion is a suggestion.

It isn’t a vote.

It rubs shoulders with an opinion

but it doesn’t mean change.

It can mean things are taken into consideration,

sure.

But considerations aren’t commands

and aren’t beholden to anything.

31

Open 24 Hours

I don’t want to come back,

but I probably will.

Vegetables and air filters,

lawn gnomes and dish soap;

everything under one roof,

stepping in time under

heavy buzzing light.

Low low prices

and no questions asked.

Just sunken in eyes and

and never ending pressure.

Hours that never shorten

by a supervisor who never seems to

have a good day.

But here everything is at my fingertips

perfect shiny clean

in neat rows

before bloodshot eyes.

32

Neon Exoskeleton

I’m letting it all overflow,

dripping over the top of the glass

on the good carpet.

The stupid concerns and the valid ones.

Typing things out and sending them out

gives some immediate honesty,

but that fades quickly.

It soon gives way to overexposure

and a strange desire to point

the car West and never come back.

Where the idealism of open howling

empty is replaced by

identical rest stop towns.

Golden arches reaching high

into the vast hazy morning.

Try to sleep it off and float through

the warm and inviting vibes,

a future where we balance everything out

and slow down for a bit.

33

Skate Park Hierarchy

10 years old and terrified,

head to toe covered in padding

that I really wish I could take off.

Covered in sweat and self-consciousness

I wait at the top of the ramp

for my turn.

Older kids talk about exaggerated

sexual encounters and drunken weekends,

waking up oblivious to their surroundings.

Slapping me on the back to punctuate plot twists.

There was a bizarre sense of community to it all.

We were all stigmatized kids that

sipped soda accented by vodka

and waxed up curb sides.

Ones that sprayed graffiti on

the walls of your corporate parks

and snuck out late with your daughter.

The caricature that

played out in after school specials

that never really showed the

difficulty of the actual sport.

One that never had the prestige of throwing a spear

or running in a circle.

Never held a candle to giving a kid a concussion on the

way to a line on a field,

throwing a ball through a hoop

or kicking one into a net.

34

Snake Oil Blues

I found some dinosaur bones

in my backyard that turned out to be

remnants from a 1972 cookout.

I had already told everybody

that they were a long lost

link to a reptilian wonderland.

The website was paid for and

laid out in an easy-to-use format.

Scientific inquiry about my findings has

been met with drawn curtains.

I’ve even been parking across the street

more and more,

digital and actual mail box

filled to the brim.

A dedicated few defend my findings

and give impassioned defenses

about my sudden disappearance.

I feel for them.

I wish I could keep stitching together

those crazy dreams

that would make our small town

a bit more lively.

But I’m hiding in the back room because

a car is in my driveway.

Curtains drawn, lights out,

hoping this will all be over soon.

35

Try a Little Harder

“Try a little harder”

they might say after they

kick you in ribs.

When they foreclose on your house,

making you wonder where you’ll go next.

Maybe it’ll be with a relative,

putting more stress on their overstressed household.

Make something of yourself they might say

when you’re trying to figure out how you’ll

pay for food this month.

When it’s making the decision of

whether you get to eat or your kids.

Show some initiative they might say

as they throw you in prison

on a third strike because

you stole some VHSs to feed

you’re addiction to heroin.

If you only tried a little harder

to escape these social ills

you could be the next Donald Trump.

The owner of brash glitzy real estate, assuming

of course you were born into the Trump family.

Good luck kid.

36

Mellow Apparition #5

He doesn’t care about your bills

or your new sedan.

He only wants to talk about

his energy that hovers through your attic.

He doesn’t speak words

and isn’t exactly intimidating.

No bloody rags and rattling chains.

He just wants that last cup of coffee

that sat in the pot before he banged his head

cleaning the attic.

He’s the creaks and phantom footfalls above your head

the distant moans that make you toss and turn.

37

Funeral Luncheon

I was late for work,

not enough coffee and a snooze button

that was way too close.

I sat at an intersection

where a funeral procession took longer

than a tyrant appointed by god.

Once the last hiccupping sedan waved it’s

orange flag through I jammed the pedal down

like someone who was afraid of being fired,

gunning it to beat to the next red.

I barely made it only to see an

ambulance careening toward me,

barely missing

horn and siren tumbling down the road,

hollering in unison

“WHAT THE HELL MAN.”

I punched in a minute late

and slinked out to my register

throwing on the best face I could.

I stood in place for thirty minutes

moving back and forth once it

got too painful to stand still.

Watching over a ghost town of

clothes racks and tables,

cardboard signs hanging for no one in particular.

Employees shuffling everything quietly

into place.

38

Vary Superstition

I am the skeptic who

leaves tails-up pennies where

they lie.

The secularist who

says “God bless you”

whenever aunt Carol sneezes,

bowing my head

at weddings and funerals.

Neat and productive,

tense, but complete

whenever I cave for tradition.

But when it’s just me I’m

all unhinged bad luck.

I open umbrellas indoors

when no one’s around,

smashing mirrors next

to the dumpster when no one

is looking.

All tightly bottled up

anxiety coming loose and

ricocheting across the room

like a newly opened bottle of Champagne.

39

Copasetic

I want all the dents to

magically rise to their

original state.

The original hub caps

firmly in place.

Scrapes, chips and wear

like they never happened.

Free of rust.

It’ll be sitting in my

driveway like it was 1999.

I want my bank account to be

a little less depleted,

my nerves a little less strained.

But decay sets in from day one,

accelerating through repair bills

and sleepless nights.

Until it’s with the other

identical scrap metal cubes,

hoisted and moved shifted,

moved to the bottom.

40

Lush/Green

Stumble drunk through

full moon painted

uneven pavement.

Air doused in bonfire perfume

mingles with voices and beer bottle clink,

rising up through

cool empty pitch black.

Dog nails scrape across concrete,

bike tires clack at rest.

The world is all

happy bends and

awkward foot falls

as I make my way home.

41

Goodbye Weekend

I’ve got a heavy feeling

in my stomach.

One propped up by

buzzing cell phones and

missed calls.

I’ve got some lonely in my limbs,

heavy agitated,

spilling drinks and losing food

in the couch.

I’ve got some clutter in my skull

that makes simpler tasks

fall by the wayside.

I’ve got a lot of nothing without you.

42

Much Better

We swam in water that

felt like it was imported from

the arctic.

Me all awkward flailing

and you graceful strokes,

like you had just arrived home.

After I tired myself out,

I stayed on the shore and shivered

it out under a blanket against

overcast skies and a cool breeze.

The beach was empty except for

the Vampire Weekend song clanging

out bright through the speakers.

I watched you from the shore

moving effortlessly through the waves,

not jealous or lonely

only happy and complete.

Happy that at least one of

us knew what they were doing.

43

Born Under a Flickering Sign

I was born in the house next to the Citco

and the expressway.

Our curtains always drawn,

making the best of it.

It was a nice place,

new siding and fresh coats of paint.

The country struck me as eerie.

I moved out there with

a job that suited the degree pinned up

on my wall.

Way too quiet.

You could almost hear the lonely

howling out through the fields.

This big house

with its constant creaks

and moans.

Matching this strange empty

that rattles on through my frame.

44

The Scenic Route

There are cuts on the inside

of my mouth again.

Ones I accumulated

when I was sleeping.

Roadmaps to unease with finally being okay.

The frantic five minutes of ironing

a crooked collar before I leave,

deadlock madness as

I make my way in.

The fifteen minutes that

I try to stretch in my consciousness

for a lifetime.

It’s much better than where I was.

It’s not perfect,

but I wouldn’t really want perfect either.

All I want is for things to be steady

for a bit.

To slow things down and

get a little comfortable.

45

Invisible Cage Welders

Tension hangs heavy,

ingrained deep into social routine.

That neatly pressed uniform,

the glow of sirens in the rearview.

The ones that scolds unkempt hair

and baggy jeans,

the one that tells you to

please step out of the car.

Yes, that dented-to-hell thing that sputters

down the road.

The one that was flagged down miles away

by a shiny new cruiser.

Shivers down the spine.

Time slips through fingers

that are then clenched and slammed

against cold concrete.

Years spent for that one joint that

fell between the seats.

Years without friends or family,

years that won’t let you get another job,

years you don’t get back.

46

Don’t Be a Stranger

Where excited talk

about where you were going to go on vacation next

flaked away to whispered voices

and resumes left in the printer again.

Weeds grow up tall through the now cracked

and ragged asphalt.

Remember when it was all smooth pitch black?

When we had to park a block away while they

worked on it?

It was during the hottest part of the year,

yellow sweat stains that served as the excuse

for not asking Amy out that weekend.

The smell of fresh carpet when we first moved in

and the coffee stains that soon multiplied

were now the roaches problem now.

Brown cardboard boxes overflowing with knick-knacks

as we, one by one,

made our way out during downsizing.

We all knew the hammer was about to fall

on the last nail,

sealing away this strange little shared experience.

Goodnight to office parties

and dumb pranks.

To themed days and making fun of

team building exercises.

Goodnight to our lips locking together at the Christmas party.

I’m going to miss it all.

47

Old

Making lists is a comforting

kind of insanity.

Itemizing your life

between lined margins,

reaching out into the unfulfilled future.

Goodnight happy abandon,

I’ve got to slip out for a

couple of drinks.

Take care and rock yourself

to sleep with the old hymns.

I’ll be back in the morning,

sandpaper voice and five o’clock shadow.

I’ll see you less and less

as the years run together.

My spine heavy and irrelevant

filed to the back of the cabinet.

I’ll see you when I can,

for the hastily planned weekend getaway

that is more of a headache than a relief.

Impending responsibility looming

overhead like some phantom

that doesn’t get social cues.

One day I hope you understand.

48

Getting in Shape Again

My gut is beginning to

show more again.

Weeks of running only do

so much if you fall back

too far into comfort.

Packs of cookies start not to last

as long.

Three cookies a day snowballs

into eating the whole row.

Rewards for not messing up too bad

easily slip

into amazing routines.

It’s weird being stuck on this

ridiculous balance beam

that never quite seems to end.

49

Scattered Daydreams

The microscopic moments

where thoughts give way to

unfiltered imaginary bliss.

Everyone from the Fortune 500 CEO

to the single parent who works three jobs

experiences it at some point

in their day.

Daydreams that are typically forgotten

once we’re jarred back into reality.

The overbearing responsibility and

ever slipping minutes

that crashes through,

making you feel helpless

all over again.

But for those odd little moments

none of that matters.

You’re free.

You’re able to live out whatever crazy notion

you can sculpt out of your thoughts.

There’s something kind of wonderful about that.

50

ALL HAIL LORD XENU

All hail criticism that

keeps things interesting and

pushes us forward.

Thoughts and ideas not

boxed up and placed in neat lines

for fickle customers.

Allowing for growth and thought,

for dissent and disapproval,

making the first amendment

everything it could be.

It gives credit to everyone

who made that once hypocritical amendment

into a reality for the marginalized.

A voice that could echo

through impoverished rural communities

and bustling urban decay.

A voice that’s been muffled by

Citizen’s United, but not extinguished

all together.

A voice that high-powered lawyers

have trouble stamping out.

All hail criticism

and all it could be.

51

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About

Nicholas Arthur is 24 years old and currently

lives in one of the many lake towns in

Michigan. He is a Wayne State University

graduate. Along with poetry he dabbles in

music, writing and art.

When he is not writing he can be found

looking in the bargain bin at the record

store, drinking coffee far too late at night,

and eating breakfast any time he pleases.

He has a cat named Simba.