A rugged-looking fella was stumbling from left to right while trying to keep his footing on the train. He'd smile almost longingly at every person he'd pass, and each one would either smile awkwardly, or look down at their phone in an attempt to avoid conversation.

As he was approaching, I noticed he had a Joy Division shirt on, so I smiled and chuckled a little as he drunkenly shuffled over. I guess he took this as a friendly invitation, as he immediately gravitated toward me and popped a squat in the seats next to mine.

We spent the next five minutes talking about his alcoholism and how he was in the process of quitting. We talked about his ginger cat Duncan and how he eats better than him. He never asked for money or tried to sell me a sob story; it was just a short, friendly exchange.

I shook his hand as he stood up to leave. Before he did he looked me in the eye, smiled and told me he wasn't ready to kill himself yet. Then he got off the train.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the ride a little traumatized. But that man really made me appreciate just how far a little kindness can go.

The Lacklustre Prince Dulling

Grazing through a field of family forgot
his mummy fed him scorn and pride
and then she left him there to rot

Without a kingdom to begot,
a throne of self-entitled shame,
and no one but his Lady Fortune
oh, Miss Fortune was her name

Locked away up in his tower
refusing to come down
he is safe within his head
and well guarded by his crown

Prince Dulling, on his hands and knees
ate shillings from the floor
by which, he swore his people would
adore their new king even more

For if he jingled as he walked
and clanked around the hips
they might not hear those silly words
that stumbled from his pretty lips

They called him mad, though he was sure
his frugal practice made him wiser
for when he needed legal aid
he'd be both bank and his advisor

the worst of us is truest

our shortcomings propel us

the loathsome find the love they don't deserve

and the innocent die first

this world is on its head, but I don't mind

can you find the filling?

by nature, words are evanescent

intangible and fleeting

so I sometimes ponder the morality

of tethering them to a page

lately,

I've been trying to understand

my relationship with words

what it means to write them down

from a to b, my mind to mouth

something in translation must be lost

I like to think it's

something divine

but if the best is missing

if these words have lost their meaning

are they not

like some empty Oreo,

futile?

I took a walk tonight

for the first time

without the intent

to alter my perception

the silence was unsettling

words were difficult enough

in theory, inside

let alone trying to

speak aloud

they attacked me

for not being around

for ignoring them

they swarmed my mind

and fought toward my tongue

they knew I had no smoke

to stop them now

though, with a cunning plan

I managed to

to cull the incessant savaging

I began to sing

I sang "I can sing this song so blue

that you will cry in spite of you. . ."

my mouth and mind occupied

by someone else's words

written to a sad,

someone else's rhythm

I was safe

from the stillness of night

with a mouthful of distraction

from sobriety

so I suppose I'll settle

for two chocolate halves

if I cannot find the filling

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

———————————— ∆

∆

It's starting to spit a bit ∆

I like the sound of it ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆

————————————

On sunny days, the green grass seems to breath

The leaves on trees giggle while they shimmy to a sleepy,

yawning wind.

A grumpy ever green is happy closest to the sky and

I think there's something to this nonsense.

And the man on the moon

satisfied with watching

bore still and silent witness to it's decay

He took no responsibility for the mess he'd made

and blamed the cook instead

He claimed group mentality for his failure to act

and pinned global warming on Big Foot.

Satan was the culprit, Scientology the evil.

There was guilt on the face of the man on the moon.
You might've seen it too, were it not for that great mushroom in the sky.

There's a mirror in your mind and it's broken; I broke it.

Tricky tears trace escape routes down cranky cheeks.
Your harddrive hemorrhages, confused

and you spit up what's left of your crooked cross

like broken teeth.

A soul surfaces and slows to a sloppy stop at your open mouth.

With your diet, who knows if it's your own.

a grinding halt says your mouth is mechanical

Fresh air meets fresh wound,first love, erosion in reverse
Now look at the monster I have made

speak no evil

It's been so long since I'd the urge to do it

I've forgotten where to go

when so suddenly these

weeks of silence overflow

But where are words to go?

(John Cleese): In the Box!

shut up John Cleese, I'm trying to be poetic.

Where does it all come from?

I haven't been writing, only editing aging posts, with no intention of actually posting. I sometimes think there is a build, and then a crescendo, or beer-head, and everything spills over, and into this white box.

My thoughts come out in bursts, characterized by short spurts of clicks and pops of keys. My fingers swoop over lines and squiggles I've come to understand, like something I don't have a poetic analogy for. But still, I find it amusing. Between machine gun duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duhs, I'm thinking. Most times it isn't of what's next.

where I live, but not so literally

* * *

I stare off too often, at places far away, in the sky and ground that don't exist. I stare at people who aren't there, undressing or kneeling in prayer; people mumbling things I know that I can hear, but never remember. These words that spill from faces I don't know are like the ones in dreams; the text you strain to read, some unimaginable truth, which slips away before we take it with us to the surface, awake. It settles by the lids of our eyes, to meet us on another night in another dream, maybe. But still, I remember the beat.

your life is my pastime

I told you I don't finish stuff often

Sometimes I think that where I am, when my eyes are open, these kinds of words run backwards, or not at all. But still, a beat is a beat, by which we dance regardless of its direction. The words of books in dreams always mean more than what they seem, when what they seem are nothing in the light of day, awake; it is the feeling of certainty that satisfies the solar plexus, trickles up toward the tongue, vibrating in the teeth. You hear the pitter patter and the rat tat tatter, and you know you're in the presence of something, but you couldn't say exactly what.

* * *