On The Heights

Oh, no. There’s no depression anymore.
All that despair, it’s really so jejune —
I have a lot to do, and I’m content.
There’s work enough for even a buffoon
To rise before the sun, and tame the moon.
Don’t look into my eyes, there’s nothing there;
There’s no depression anymore — I swear.

Oh, yes. I still hear voices, that’s just me.
But what I never talk about’s not real —
I am contented with my lot in life,
What isn’t mine to ever have, or feel,
Is just, you know, a thing, a minor deal.
A mortal starts whatever, then it ends;
I still hear voices, but — they say they’re friends.

I dreamed I saw a ribbon by the sea;
A highway full of peaceful, distant lights —
It’s rare I dream these days, or even sleep.
I’ve lost, I think, my battle with the nights;
But for that moment, I was on the heights.
I know that dreams are trivial. I do.
But somehow, what’s not real can still be true.

I wake to darkness, check my phone for time,
And lumber up, where no one sees or knows —
I cast a fishing line out on the ‘net,
But all is silent, as the river flows.
And day by day, a nameless something grows
Outside this room, in people’s thoughtless taunt:
That I have everything a soul could want.

But all of that is silliness. I move
Into the gears that grind throughout my day,
And show up at the place they pay me to,
And serve my minor truths up on a tray.
I stop to throw some words down, just for play:
They echo in my head, these little posts —
And all of it is silliness,
And ghosts

for once there was

a darkness fell upon the room;
the sound of crickets all around —
the sweat that poured into his eyes
he wiped away, amid the gloom

he heard the distant rumble small
of trucks upon the highway near;
and checked the time – again, again –
to see if it had moved at all

for once there was a pyramid
of cans and bottles on a shelf;
for once there was another man,
a different guy, another self

who looked a lot like younger me;
but that could not have been, somehow —
for i had nothing, nothing then:
and i have all the answers
now

Made of Life

The ache that is we couldn’t know
Our eyes could not foresee
It’s everywhere we look it’s part
Of our humanity

Anxiety and panic
Futility and strife
For life is made of failure
And we are made of life

We reach out to the lonely ones
We cast our vision wide
As others too reach out to us
Though left or cast aside

Cacophony and discord
The gun the noose the knife
For life is made of sorrow
And we are made of life

The heartbeat borne in stillness
The pleasure dead and gone
The memory of wonder
That all this still goes on

In secrecy or public
And withal we are rife
The journey each alike is on

What must be made

Of life

unraveling

they do not notice
everyday
the gradual unraveling

behind the smile
and the warmth
incessant worries traveling 

they’ll ask her some days
how she is
is that fatigue or is she bored

they can’t tell she’s
unraveling 
until the day she comes

unmoored

Disconsolate Nights

Alone and wand’ring in the dark,
Out on the beach ’til very late;
With only beer to comfort him
And mem’ries streaming in a wake

The moon hangs low, disconsolate,
The waves are muffled, nearly still;
Like waiting for a morning star
That never comes
And never will


(Back when I would go three days or so between sleeping. – Owen)

The Creative Type

I always wanted to be the creative type,
Although I can’t say why now, looking back —
You think of it as building sort of worlds,
Instead of filling in some void, or lack —

But what is it but random muscle play,
Or telling jokes in giant empty halls,
Recounting stories no one thinks of twice,
Or crying to the ceiling or the walls?

And yet, when I was six years old, I drew,
And added in the colors: green, red, blue –
And though there was no crowd, no audience,
I knew, at least, that that one page

Made sense

The Constant Battle

Her back hurts, so she cannot rest,
And work is suffering these days;
She’s daily there, within a haze
Travailing, tired and depressed

But when she can, she breaks away;
She sits alone somewhere offsite,
And for one moment, doesn’t fight
The constant battle that’s today