Don't Cry

I feel hell

in my face -

burning in my nose

sparks in my throat

preasure in my head

from all this smoke. 

I could put out 

this fire by 

releasing my eyes

but I am bound 

to feel nothing

when this flame dies. 

I have mixed drinks about feelings

I'll sit at this bar 

and take shots

of thoughts

about everything. 

I'll mix spirits. 

Get white girl

wasted. 

Fuck that classy

wine sipping

and reasonable thinking. 

I am stood up 

by so many. 

What else can I do

but think

think think. 

Dirt

I want to be a leaf

with complex coloring

as it is on the verge

of falling. 

Even then, it momentarily

retains beauty

while I am instead 

the dirt on the bottom

of a man's boot; he

always wipes those shoes

before entering any place. 

His mother still tells

him that good boys

don't play in the mud. 

Subway Mice

Sometimes I think

about the mice

on the subway tracks

as they go back and forth

until they feel the rumble

that makes them run

away and isn't it crazy

that we create their

routine by having

one of our own

except I think they may

actually know where the hell

they want to be

and want to go. 

Postcards

It was under the repetitious

sunsets of cape cod

that I learned 

to not mail postcards 

to boys back home

because you'll be sitting 

on a large rock

with the tide again greeting

your toes 

and you're again

seeing blurred pinks and oranges

you realize that he

again sees ink 

where you're telling him how 

much you miss him

and at this point the sun

already set 

on all of those moments.