the words come better when the women don't.

it's been a long time in the making, this beautiful
chance at second chances
after years of training.
Nietzsche said something about hope
being a sign of defeat, but he died
with his tail between his legs a long time ago
and I'm still alive
still beatin'
the odds and laughing
hard, toasting stubbornly in Holy rebellion.

don't worry, no pressure, at least
not the kind you're expecting
knowing me so well, somehow
even better than myself.




she asked why I never describe the good things about them.
I'm not sure if I answered, but I knew what it was:
those lovely green eyes
were cold and heartless;
that luscious, flowing hair
was chopped off out of spite;
those skillful lips kissed
other men, less thankful;
the heartfelt gifts and snapshots
were tossed or burned or sold
not locked away in a shoebox in the back of a closet.
would you bother describing every decent page of a book
if, overall, the sum of its chapters
left a bad taste in your mouth?, or would
you just spew the Cliff's Notes?
I know, I know: you'd get the fuck over
it
and yourself
for long enough to tell everyone to read the damn book for himself.

maybe that's it, though;
most of us are attracted to bigger and better
since feeling lucky beats settling.
respect for being, for what is meant to be, with no judgment
for what was
or was and is no longer.



they've been listening to me rant and ramble
these past couple days, the good sports.
"already, man?"
"yeah, I think so. I've been working on it for awhile
in the background."
tripped over a brain, found a hell of a heart and body to boot, with
an outlook on death almost more beautiful and healthy than
that on life.
hey, you don't let just anyone help pick out new sheets
since you burned your old ones in the wood stove, literally.
it's a satisfying scenario when one knows enough
about the other's overanalysis of pseudo-symbolism
to laugh and appreciate it for what it is:
a boy trying to give meaning where there isn't any
attempting to put into words what he can't
because he's sober and happy
and that's just no state for him to try to vent in.

he gives up for tonight
with hopes of not coming down too soon
or alone
again.



maybe.

and hey, if not
at least he'll always know
where to find out
what to read next, and maybe
when it's that bad
what to write.
(see, I told you there's always a positive spin.)