STURM, DRANG

I’m not lightning or thunder,
but one storm at a time,
I word myself from disaster.
Black is the new—no, wait—
I was about to use cliche
in a way I’d regret later.
My sadness is the same as yours,
my happiness the same, too.
And if you should ever call
the suicide hotline
I’ll pick up and inform you
"I’m listening, I’ve been there,
but that’s all there is to give you,
besides the sound of falling rain. “

INVALUE

How much do you pay
when you pay attention,
if you’re staring into yourself?
I grieve for myself,
thinking I can do anything.
I set my mind to sinus pain,
excel at drudge and daymare.
They awarded me the Bronze Star
for irritable brain syndrome.
I’ve paid thirty two years
tending to my awkward garden,
planting panic daily,
over-watering migraines,
failing to yield daisies.

SOLD

Over and over I alter
absolutely most of me
but I swear I’ll never rewrite
my lack of motivation.
I type the word “Advancement”
then backspace eleven times,
while converting my resume
into vortex format.
I seek out the position
"Assistant Manager of the
Inferiority Complex.”
My skills include weight and gain.
My most sellable asset?
That my cage is a happy cage.

SOLD

Over and over I alter
absolutely most of me
but I swear I’ll never rewrite
my lack of motivation.
I type the word “Advancement”
then backspace eleven times,
while converting my resume
into vortex format.
I seek out the position
"Assistant Manager of the
Inferiority Complex.”
My skills include weight and gain.
My most sellable asset?
That my cage is a happy cage.SOLD

Over and over I alter
absolutely most of me
but I swear I’ll never rewrite
my lack of motivation.
I type the word “Advancement”
then backspace eleven times,
while converting my resume
into vortex format.
I seek out the position
"Assistant Manager of the
Inferiority Complex.”
My skills include weight and gain.
My most sellable asset?
That my cage is a happy cage.SOLD

Over and over I alter
absolutely most of me
but I swear I’ll never rewrite
my lack of motivation.
I type the word “Advancement”
then backspace eleven times,
while converting my resume
into vortex format.
I seek out the position
"Assistant Manager of the
Inferiority Complex.”
My skills include weight and gain.
My most sellable asset?
That my cage is a happy cage.

GRAND BUFFET

Some call my disorder
an attention deficit.
I prefer to diagnose it
as a forcefield for what bores me.
I forgo epiphany
to attain abyss and cola.
I buy to look less fat,
more with the time, more overjoyed.
My outsides surprise me
in the dressing room’s mirror.
Not only do I hate me,
I’m aware that I hate me.
My insides are worth nothing
but their weight in spirit junk.

UPDATE

I post a new update,
"Wow, I’ll never be young again."
I “Like” my own status.
Staring into the white space,
I almost glimpse the moment
I Google “natural painkillers”
while taking an awful bite
from a red delicious.
I left it on the windowsill.
Every day it dries more,
browns more, withers, weakens
while I choose to never move it.
Fill my grave not with my body
but with search terms never dreamed of.

SORRIEST

The power of positive thought
works great for corporations.
By applying the Secret
one’s parents buys one’s I-Phone.
I Tweet in the mirror:
"my soul looks on, poor."
Dr. says “Nevermind
ever overcoming
your expensive living habit.”
PayPal tries to hug me
with hungry, tiny arms.
I’m ordinary sad, like death
is ordinary truth
for the animals of God.

HAPPY HOUR

My white skull echoes hymns
down the corporate ladder.
"What’s the deal with bones?"
I joke beside liquid,
"why are they so hiding?"
I own infinite pens,
my friends are very computer.
"See that there, son?"
I say to my coroner,
"that there’s a woman
and contained in her cubicle
are the secret dreams of skin.”
Compensation: no pay
within the khaki graveyard.

Tragedy

I’m like Atlas, but my globe
is my education.
Listen to my broke tale:
better yet, why not
read my debt-paean,
not featured in Ploughshares.
I’m an expert in the field
of high sodium consumption,
a guru in the sector
of contemplating smoking.
I transcend the power of now,
chanting “Adderral, Facebook,”
kneeling within my cathedral
of the Immaculate Migraine.

Light Years

I’m trapped in a telescope.
If you look, then you’ll spy me
in my little sailboat
adrift through guilty stars.
My house is the warehouse
floating by Andromeda.
Meet me by the conveyor belt:
I’ll be the space cowboy
filling Amazon orders,
stuffing boxes with gravestones
covered in ghost glitter.
I am that working stranger,
yet I am light years apart
from that working stranger.

Skin

There is plenty of time to die
when we’re asleep.
I want to sleep with you.
The night is a wilderness.
Wild ponies of Assateague
of me loving you
as you float naked
beneath these bedsheets.
I think, “Quiet midnight,
melt a quiet icicle
from a shivering tree.”
Spring forgets us and that’s okay.
Please breathe with me, warmly,
with my quiet, hungry heart.