Sometimes the hardest part
about recollection,
the memory of what it is
you wanted to say
when you did not have the opportunity
to say it
is remembering,
not all of the good things,
but the choice few
worth saying twice.
Once to yourself and
twice to the people
who could have used a smile
when you had one to gift.
original works of parts
Log Out
When we say goodbye
you don't have to log out of the internet
immediately. I know
you aren't running off
to tend to tend to your puppy
baying at your door to pee
or are so gripped by sleep
that if you don't lie down
you'll pass out and fall
face first to your desk.
It's all asynchronous
still. So feel free
to say goodbye
for whatever reason.
I'm not going to hold it against you.
People got things to do
and last I looked
the universe isn't all me and
that span of stars and
destinations ain't all you.
you don't have to log out of the internet
immediately. I know
you aren't running off
to tend to tend to your puppy
baying at your door to pee
or are so gripped by sleep
that if you don't lie down
you'll pass out and fall
face first to your desk.
It's all asynchronous
still. So feel free
to say goodbye
for whatever reason.
I'm not going to hold it against you.
People got things to do
and last I looked
the universe isn't all me and
that span of stars and
destinations ain't all you.
Death Star
Wake up late for work on a night off
and there ain't shit been rested.
Head spinning like cloud cars
drunk driven over Bespin.
Rollin' high and deep like Lando
with no cape to impress heads.
Just a gambler out of time
with no chips to grease hands,
but many words to make promises.
Double suns and dueling stars,
long waited nights and sunsets.
Trading blows with an empire crush
that's taking any and all long and last bets.
That's no moon in the sky
it's the eye of final dooms
dawning like a bad dream two hours
before waking clears
its throat in your bedroom.
Ain't shit changed about a god damn thing,
you're still one slip away from obliteration.
One nod, one switch, one arbitrary
move of a gloved hand in arbitration.
One sneeze, one blink, one pair of pants
pissed in before the sword of legend
makes land fall in your skull and grants
release to the agony of dreams wished in.
The death star is Polaric and you're just a puzzle piece,
an eyelash for the wiping
before a finger of unrelenting justice
you don't believe in or ascribe to,
but that doesn't matter because
it ain't your universe and you're not the master,
you're just a table owning number
running asshole trying to make disaster
into something other people can invest in
trying to make the most of your exile
to a fucking cloud city casino
in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant
to which you weren't called,
that shit was destined.
It's not your galaxy, but is your world
and on the planet that never sleeps
the dice is still in your hand tight curled
and making something like a fist,
remembering the stars undead
on which you used to wish.
There is no rest to be had
no pain small enough to be lessened,
so hold the sharp edged six faced
dream machines and make a wish
against all reason, chance, and the empire's rule
because the mechanics are quantum
so even the all knowing
are educated guessin'.
and there ain't shit been rested.
Head spinning like cloud cars
drunk driven over Bespin.
Rollin' high and deep like Lando
with no cape to impress heads.
Just a gambler out of time
with no chips to grease hands,
but many words to make promises.
Double suns and dueling stars,
long waited nights and sunsets.
Trading blows with an empire crush
that's taking any and all long and last bets.
That's no moon in the sky
it's the eye of final dooms
dawning like a bad dream two hours
before waking clears
its throat in your bedroom.
Ain't shit changed about a god damn thing,
you're still one slip away from obliteration.
One nod, one switch, one arbitrary
move of a gloved hand in arbitration.
One sneeze, one blink, one pair of pants
pissed in before the sword of legend
makes land fall in your skull and grants
release to the agony of dreams wished in.
The death star is Polaric and you're just a puzzle piece,
an eyelash for the wiping
before a finger of unrelenting justice
you don't believe in or ascribe to,
but that doesn't matter because
it ain't your universe and you're not the master,
you're just a table owning number
running asshole trying to make disaster
into something other people can invest in
trying to make the most of your exile
to a fucking cloud city casino
in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant
to which you weren't called,
that shit was destined.
It's not your galaxy, but is your world
and on the planet that never sleeps
the dice is still in your hand tight curled
and making something like a fist,
remembering the stars undead
on which you used to wish.
There is no rest to be had
no pain small enough to be lessened,
so hold the sharp edged six faced
dream machines and make a wish
against all reason, chance, and the empire's rule
because the mechanics are quantum
so even the all knowing
are educated guessin'.
Talking to You
Talking to you has been
like the moment when
I get out of the shower
and tip still hot water from my ear
and it runs down my neck
across my collar bone
from left to right
and sinks down the hairs on my chest
and I stick my little finger
in the hole
and scratch the air
between nail and drum
and, for the life of me,
if I were a few genes more
in common with a pup
my foot would drum out
something fantastic
against the bathroom tiles
in Morse coded
nonsensical
thank yous.
like the moment when
I get out of the shower
and tip still hot water from my ear
and it runs down my neck
across my collar bone
from left to right
and sinks down the hairs on my chest
and I stick my little finger
in the hole
and scratch the air
between nail and drum
and, for the life of me,
if I were a few genes more
in common with a pup
my foot would drum out
something fantastic
against the bathroom tiles
in Morse coded
nonsensical
thank yous.
Stock Boys
Lock, stock, and two
smoking barrels where eyes
were once used.
Max is an ex-marine,
Desert Storm vintage and still
sleepless for days
at a stretch..
Kel's got two kids
by two different mothers and
he keeps coming to work
as though the police
cannot arrest him
for warrants related to child support
when the customers leave,
though only flirting
with twenty three.
Georgie's a bastard,
but so are we all,
in one way or another. I heard
his uncle owned fifteen dogs and
they all shit in the house
while he was away
in elementary school.
Around the office
they tip us off
as night stalkers. Owls
out and hard up
for a buck.
Mel's pushing
her mid forties and
Daunte simply pushes.
Chrystal comes in tired
every damn day and
who could blame her
with two kids of her own and
a mother half dead, but alive
enough to demand
constant monitoring
but nothing close
to the daily morning film review of
what we all got up to
on the overnight shift.
I am a bastard too,
by way of a Bible and
poor programming and shiftless
in sleep
for the weight of history and
the blows of time, and
enough neurosis to make some
pharma-chiatrist dream wet.
Some of us are
still young enough
to be boys, but by and large
we are men and women,
some too soon of age and
others too late
to do what we do.
Some of us remember
when the plot was a school and
some of us remember
21st birthdays and feel
the hangover still.
Some of us remember
second marriages and
nurse broken wings and
some of us remember
when every night off
was exactly that.
Sure, we are stock boys,
but boys we are not.
Grown up skewed and
screwed, at times much too soon,
to a head, the lot.
Stock boys we are,
but boys we are not.
smoking barrels where eyes
were once used.
Max is an ex-marine,
Desert Storm vintage and still
sleepless for days
at a stretch..
Kel's got two kids
by two different mothers and
he keeps coming to work
as though the police
cannot arrest him
for warrants related to child support
when the customers leave,
though only flirting
with twenty three.
Georgie's a bastard,
but so are we all,
in one way or another. I heard
his uncle owned fifteen dogs and
they all shit in the house
while he was away
in elementary school.
Around the office
they tip us off
as night stalkers. Owls
out and hard up
for a buck.
Mel's pushing
her mid forties and
Daunte simply pushes.
Chrystal comes in tired
every damn day and
who could blame her
with two kids of her own and
a mother half dead, but alive
enough to demand
constant monitoring
but nothing close
to the daily morning film review of
what we all got up to
on the overnight shift.
I am a bastard too,
by way of a Bible and
poor programming and shiftless
in sleep
for the weight of history and
the blows of time, and
enough neurosis to make some
pharma-chiatrist dream wet.
Some of us are
still young enough
to be boys, but by and large
we are men and women,
some too soon of age and
others too late
to do what we do.
Some of us remember
when the plot was a school and
some of us remember
21st birthdays and feel
the hangover still.
Some of us remember
second marriages and
nurse broken wings and
some of us remember
when every night off
was exactly that.
Sure, we are stock boys,
but boys we are not.
Grown up skewed and
screwed, at times much too soon,
to a head, the lot.
Stock boys we are,
but boys we are not.
Cloud Life
What did you listen to, Daddy,
when you were my age?
I listened to pretty much
everything I could get my hands on.
Did you have any favorites?
I starred and favorited a lot of things,
but I never had a particular one
above the others.
The music scene is always developing and you have to
stay abreast.
Why?
So you don't grow stagnant.
Why?
So you don't get stuck
listening to the same things
for the rest of your life.
Why?
If you listen to the same things, and
other people hear those things enough times
those things begin to define who you are.
So you are undefined?
No, I just don't want you to see who I am
and forever link that person
to an artist and then
never be able to appreciate or realize
who that artist could've been
to you.
So you hate your parents?
Yes. Yes I do.
when you were my age?
I listened to pretty much
everything I could get my hands on.
Did you have any favorites?
I starred and favorited a lot of things,
but I never had a particular one
above the others.
The music scene is always developing and you have to
stay abreast.
Why?
So you don't grow stagnant.
Why?
So you don't get stuck
listening to the same things
for the rest of your life.
Why?
If you listen to the same things, and
other people hear those things enough times
those things begin to define who you are.
So you are undefined?
No, I just don't want you to see who I am
and forever link that person
to an artist and then
never be able to appreciate or realize
who that artist could've been
to you.
So you hate your parents?
Yes. Yes I do.
Turn Out
I went to a beach and found
a radio whose battery compartment was full of sand
besides a piece of sea glass.
Maybe there was another person
who slept there the night before
on a towel, black and blue striped,
sunning through the afternoon and
too in love with the sea
to be with anyone else.
Their radio played
a cassette for a bit,
play button depressed, and then
the tuner to see what was wrong
and right with everyone else inland
until the air falling away
to points cold and wet and lonelier,
cloud sized sighs and yawn saws,
pressed them gentle to their door.
The batteries were
beneath the waves by now,
chucked like stones perfect enough
to hold for a minute only, turn over, and release.
I had my own from a radio set in my bag.
I shook the black box, careful, and
plugged them in.
Nothing happened.
I sat in the sand
where my foot stumbled upon it and dug a little hole
so it could sit too and we talked for a while
about capacitors and
resistors and broken transistors
until the sun came up.
a radio whose battery compartment was full of sand
besides a piece of sea glass.
Maybe there was another person
who slept there the night before
on a towel, black and blue striped,
sunning through the afternoon and
too in love with the sea
to be with anyone else.
Their radio played
a cassette for a bit,
play button depressed, and then
the tuner to see what was wrong
and right with everyone else inland
until the air falling away
to points cold and wet and lonelier,
cloud sized sighs and yawn saws,
pressed them gentle to their door.
The batteries were
beneath the waves by now,
chucked like stones perfect enough
to hold for a minute only, turn over, and release.
I had my own from a radio set in my bag.
I shook the black box, careful, and
plugged them in.
Nothing happened.
I sat in the sand
where my foot stumbled upon it and dug a little hole
so it could sit too and we talked for a while
about capacitors and
resistors and broken transistors
until the sun came up.
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