0

s.

you are the sun
warming my face
while i sit precariously
on the edge of some
far away tall place. 
and you are the
smell of rain in summer
musky and sweet and calm. 
you are a house - built with 
strong bones and a kitchen
that smells inevitably 
like coffee and warmth.
you are blue and green
and gray like the sea.
soothing and beautiful,
filled with mystery, still. 
you are laughter and safety,
a joke poised on pursed lips
and light so bright
the sun is only a dark smudge.
you are are music
and dancing
spinning in time with mother earth;
melodies that i hope
i hear forever. 
0

kitchen talks.

its 1 am and some change,
and you're dancing with me,
round and round and round,
we're spinning in slow motion
drunk on red wine and jager
and whatever the fuck this is -
this thing with you that has me so high,
i can see the ocean from the sky
and its the blue in your eyes
and i could drown, happily
suffocated by a sea of blue and gray.
i am interested. you are very pretty.
you say. 
youre so gorgeous.
i say.
this will always be ours, 
this laughter in the earliest 
parts of a new day and 
even if this is all there is. 
the things that have lived inside
my head tumble out in spirals
and you just let it flow over you
this waterfall of words and you take it
so easily like this wave is not too much.  
0

Clockwork

Razor blades? Or wine drunk?
Will 2009 percs get you high?
Instead of running,
I’m running from things.
Drowning in self pity?
Or is there something fucking wrong with me?
Googling,
—how much tramadol to get me high.
Google says,
—tramadol is considered an opiate narcotic drug.
Razor blades? Or wine drunk?
Are you an alcoholic if you
are too lazy to go to the store for whiskey?
Do you fucking love me?
He says he loves me.
My brain says shut the fuck up.
—no you don’t.
It always happens like this.
It’s like clockwork.
Elation.
I’m so fucking happy.
Restless.
Want to get in my car and never look back.
Depressed.
Sometimes I’m angry,
and that brings shame
and shame feels like shit.
So does angry.
I feel so much.
Razor blades. Or wine.
Fuck.
Like, I’ve been here before.
I know how it goes.
I know it fades,
but right now I don’t want to fucking feel shit.
Unless it’s someone telling me how goddamn beautiful I am.
Talking to you, Cameron.
Think that’s gonna happen?
Fuck no.
Razor blades? Or wine?
I’m drinking the wine.
I’m drinking the wine.
Hey Google,
—does this make me an alcoholic?
Do you know what the serving size is for alcohol?
—Take a sip.
Can I talk to you about your substance use?
—Take a sip.
There are other
—take a sip
coping skills you can use
—take a sip
like deep breathing
—take a sip.
Razor blades.
Or wine.
Wine.

1

1-800-273-8255

in my make believe world,
i like to pretend that veterans
live in two story homes
with white picket fences
with dogs and barbeques
and families that make them laugh;
fast cars and trucks,
farms and peace,
the kind Dick Winters spoke of.
in my make believe world,
i pretend they don’t sacrifice
their sanity for
xanax pills and vodka,
beer and smokes,
PTSD and walmart,
living on the fucking streets.
i pretend they come home
and it was just as they left it.
friends are still friends,
high fives, tailgate nights
such a world, where war
wasn’t fucking easier
than living and coming home.
i pretend they don’t come home
and blow their brains out
in the lobby of a va hospital.
i pretend 22 is just the number
that comes after 21,
not the number of lives ended.
for the ones not existing
in my perfect world,
call  1-800-273-8255.
press 1 to talk to someone.

0

blank words.

The feelings are there,
but the words aren’t.
How can you share understanding,
if you can’t put it in sound?
How can you share
the things inside your head,
if the words come out jumbled,
and plain;
when what is spinning
around inside your head,
is kind of like seeing the sunset,
on a soldiers folded flag,
while his widow weeps,
and the world comes together
to mourn him.
It’s like that.
it’s beauty and pain,
hope and rage,
and how do you put that into words,
because even this,
just isn’t enough.