Traveler

One million shards of glass lodged in time,

I can feel the diamonds embedded in my mind.

Take me higher,

higher still,

past the heavens, past the stars.

Lay me down on the moon,

let her craters cradle me.

I am a traveler

Crossing over distant lands.

I’ve been grounded there too long,

Singin’ those old songs.

I want to write you a letter, but my well has run dry.

Take the blood from my veins just to fill my quill.

I’m an astronaut now, I’m a hero now.

I’m a vagabond now, I’m someone’s villain now.

Tell me you’re alright. Just blink your light

from the ground. I’ll spot you from above,

let your beam reflect off my eye,

glassy,

and blue yonder.

I’ll know you’re still there.

Doesn’t seem there’s an end to this road,

but it’s taking me somewhere,

maybe far away from you.

I want to write you a letter, but these veins have run dry.

Take the darkness from space just to fill my quill. 

One hundred million shards of me lodged in you,

can you see my diamonds in your eyes?

I can see yours in mine. 

I Give Up

What does it matter
anymore
anyways?
I could run off
to that gas station down the street
and meet all those
annoying faces
I’ve always seen
in a thousand other places.

I could take myself a state over
and past that one
the other
and they’ll all
be the same
there’s no
escape
from this same
-ness.

I don’t want to be sane
I do not wish to make
rational decisions
they scare me
because I’m worried if
I make a right one
it’ll turn out
all wrong
many years
down the proverbial road.

And so maybe I could run to Mexico
if their food didn’t make me
so goddamn sick
and I could say: “just one night please,”
in Spanish.

No…and Canada’s too cold.
Europe would be too redundant
and plus they’re all so full
of themselves anyways.

Australia might be nice but
it’s kind of far
and I prefer my piss
to flush clockwise…
or was it counter-clockwise?
Does it even matter?
Wherever you want to
go,
or for your piss to swirl,
it will be a dull facsimile of
boring people,
menial jobs,
strange ugly faces,
pay-phones,
kleenex,
corner stores,
lottery tickets,
dirty salt-stained cars,
and kids that cry because
they’re so
damn
lethargic.

The reason why we haven’t died is
because we’re already zombies.
Our tedium
is an exploitation
of the nothing
we’ve become—
the hollowness
that we pile on our brain,
and our ennui is product
to our imagination’s decay.

And still we crave more.