reflections on the lower half.

i'm going home to see the life
spring back into my face
in the mirror
the wretch justifies
existance with proof undeniable
so home i go
to scoff and laugh
and forget what's become of me.

armchair sleep

the future has become some joke,
some little giggle for someone-
who is not me-
to have.
when certainty is completely discarded
and this imflammation takes hold
the knuckles in my back,
the healthy young man
that i somehow lost,
i'll travel home
and ask how,
how did this young man
come to be so goddamned old.

waking nightmares

i'm hardly a man
or what one's supposed to be.
all you'll gets
what's left of me.
the jargon-filled soliloquy.
a hermit full of infamy.
inward notoriety.

it's not that i can't stand-
but god has played a trick on me.
broken my spine beautifully.

but someday soon,
i promise you.
i will wake up.

the last march.

every day more a cripple then the one before.
more insatiable.
more inevitable.
he cannot fix what the gods have broken.
a back,
a heart,
words once written.
steady hands turned convulsive and rheumatic
no longer head held high
no more stand salute the sky.
just sit there
comfortable armchair
a prison for his everywhere.

so approaches realism's aside

you came to visit
left me little thoughts to read
little parts i cannot see
and i wonder
where is our beautiful sara?
with her R drawn out and wonderful,
a missing piece to the puzzle
whose words filled with wit
made our flannel plaid
was the best sara we ever had.

insider resistance

his eyes washed 'til empty
full of his inept things
an earnest smile
turned crazy
(but only slightly)

his brow furrowed nicely
decieved most of his lonely
while he slept
through the world burning.

not opening minor assumptive glances

all the breath you swallowed
broad shouldered bellows
inhaling your pride
insinuating life
and grasping
coming up empty handed
the expectations
that never landed.

(flew around and made you dizzy
skimmed the ground before you lost me)