Monthly Archives: August 2013

Dear Bandmate


“Can’t this weekend.
Best friend
In a shooting.”
Was the text that shifted my gears.
Was it anyone I knew?
Big, yet small town, you know.
My newsfeed told me.
I knew her. We knew her.
We marched together
For countless hours
If nothing else
We knights were bound
By the tempo
That we so painstakingly
Kept together
We were prepared for
Subjective scores and titles
Bated breath in bleachers
Constructive and sometimes cynical
But nothing could have prepared us
For gunshots
We only knew rimshots
So it hit us harder
Than any sudden accented
There was no use
In covering our ears
Because when we take in sound
We take in sound
And it digs deep
So when we got the news
Each and everyone of us knew
That the music had changed
And heartbeats scattered
For your lost voice
Already out of reach
Dissonance speaks
Terrifying truths
But there is always
A definite resolve
To one
As one
We would play
Beyond box five
And to the high heavens
For you to listen
We all go through evolutions
This is clear
From the darkest of nights
Where we fall and endure nightmares
We have all been there
But we can’t stay there
You wouldn’t want it
So we move on
Up and out of the inferno
To give you our greatest show



I like you too much
To be frank, it sucks
Because I never talk enough
I speak most at ballpoint
The paper understands my point
Of keeping my mouth shut
I am incoherent
To daytime ears
And far too emotional
For late night seers
The shots of espresso
Don’t help my expression either
I am numb
For months
Before I decide to cry
Over what everyone immediately
Tears up over
By the time everyone is sober
I am drunk
From sad saltwater
Self-induced anxiety
I am crying
In the most serious sense
Of the word
Sarcasm is my forte
Humour is not
But you’re laughing
At my half-hearted remarks
Reserved for what’s wronged
Me and my heart
I guess laughing’s a start


Weight limit: 10 tons
As though the concrete
Would crumble underneath
A 10 wheeler truck
Stuck on drive
Straight into fiery pits
I knew weight wasn’t
The real issue
Because numbers are only
A relative measurement
We use to stay in check
We make the mistake
Of holding onto it
‘Til skin and bones are left
When all of the weight
To be lost
Lied not on our skin
But on our shoulders
And inside our hearts
Where everything is deemed heaviest
How do you deal
When they say what’s best
Is an unattainable gap
And unrealistic proportion
To hell with it
Throw away society’s shit
We love to create
Our own personal hell
But it takes being wise
To avoid utter demise

I sympathize with your having to empathize.

long lines
longing for good times
as I painstakingly write
what time is it?
time to type
look at this tripe
don’t patronize my words
upon words of a fallen beast
as I stand here engaged in the least
most interesting things I could be doing
right now
but I don’t know how
the haze of horses’ hooves
lets twilight allow
a night of nerves unsettled
we will ride without a saddle
for now
I just
a drink
I don’t want to think
about stitches or clasps
I’m far past those tasks
so let me take my flask
and I swear to help the hunter


Where is the soap? Where is the damn soap? If only there was a soap that could clean the mess he was. If only standing under a current of cold water could wash away the biological tendencies cast unto him by a matter of chromosomal arrangement. How unfortunate. To bleed monthly, much as a werewolf transforms without will every full moon. How troublesome to be handicapped in such a way for a few days. He wanted none of it. He wanted to move without worry of watching himself and what lay between his legs every month. He wanted to breathe without wrapping bandages taut around his chest for days on end. How suffocating it all was. No one should have had to go through the shit that he and countless others had to. His hands were growing numb. The cloth between his fingers was clean already. He decided to run it through again because the cold water was just oh-so-therapeutic.

I. petals

I threw up pink petals
For every day I missed you
But it all came up at once
As I walked out the door
To my white wall tire’d
Sports vehicle
How alternative could it get
I held a little black book
In my studded denim vest
Ready to give every coffee house
My Friday night best
Behind the mic
I lock eyes with the queers and dykes
I can tell who’re the local bikes
But I don’t buy rides like that
I am a Ducati prince
Not some Harley bitch
I may be switch but I don’t swing
I know how to make ties
Like a rope work king
So read my chops
Every petal I drop
Is meant for those I keep up top

Wings and leaves alike.

This little line happened when I woke up on a September morning last year, getting ready to go to class. I am looking forward to this upcoming fall semester. Actually, I’m looking forward to the autumn weather more so. It’s crispy.

I saw butterfly wings falling outside my window, until I pulled the blinds up and saw that they were only autumn leaves.