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Pine Box

Pine Box You're wondering why I called/ Because this is all my right fault/ I might drawl/ Into the phone after the night finds prob-/ Lems with me, let's fight like all/ Those days we'd dive right off/ The platform, try light falls/ Ignite slight brawls/ And rise, life brought/ Us to this dry pine box/ You cant climb my balls/ To reach my coattails/ Bitch you know well/ Enough that the slow Hell/ You left me in is so pale/ Compared to the joke jail/ We both fell/ Into, oh, tell/ Me about the ghosts wail-/ Ing in the night that exposed trails/ Straight to the Devil I am, grow sails/ And drift away, but dont sell/ Me short as I post bail/ You'll eat crow, del-/ Icate little liar, my bones felt/ So frail/ As I awoke, held/ Prisoner in Death's own knell/ A poet quells/ His demons with prose, care-/ Ful words and a pen's stroke, delv-/ Ing deep into their hearts, alone paired/ With a light shone where/ Only they can go, stairs/ Creak ominous/ It seems all of this/ W
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Muse I'm back home/ So I try to act whole/ When the actual/ Facts throw/ Me for a loop, I'm damned, ghost-/ Ed by the past, so/ I ask jov-/ Ial people what they have more/ Of than me, that smoke/ Has to point to a fire, a vast snow/ Fall of ash coats/ My hands, soaked/ In the blood of my kin, I'm casual/ And that broke/ Me wide awake/ I can take/ The silence, strained/ Relationships and the time away/ As the straw that finally breaks/ The camel's back, the tidal wave/ I was splayed/ Out, righteous may-/ Be, but try to face/ This life I stake/ Like a raise/ At the poker table with every line I gave/ Breath to on this rhyming page/ No longer that minor slave/ That writhes in vain/ To fight, escape/ From this icy plain/ Of fiery pain/ But it's fine, I'll stay/ Because it's your lies I've slain/ Not with violent wag-/ Ing wars but because I would rise and pray/ For you, and will until my dying day/ So in solitude/ I walk anew/ Not entombed/ In parlor rooms/


Missing you/ Is facing a mission through/ Misconstrued/ Simple truths/ And acknowledging these vicious two/ Solipsistic views/ I'm a missle zoom-/ Ing right back into your hidden rooms/ And you're the billiard cue/ Knocking me/ Out, pocketing/ Me, getting me to stop the deep/ Hate and walk with me/ As I'm reintroduced/ To life in all its vivid hues/ I want to live with you/ And exist as proof/ Of the point these little clues/ God left wasnt a minuscule/ Attempt at a sinner's coup/ You and I werent an interlude/ But the main act, the distance moved/ Us apart, but we're not finished, soon/ Life will take these prison blues/ And you'll be flickering through/ The night sky, a film that drew/ My attention, I'll sit and rum-/ Inate over these blisters strewn/ All over my feet from sprinting through/ And over the bricks you threw/ At me just so I could get a kiss from you/

Distant Reveries vs. Disappointing Realities

Deified Reveries vs. Distant Realities I dreamed of you again. It was an odd, fantastical dream, but it was emotionally potent all the same.  It began with you and I in Old Town Sacramento.  We held hands and beamed whenever our eyes met and our gazes intertwined, which, believe me, was often enough to be more than occasionally.  We nearly skipped through the graffiti laced tunnel that intertwines Sacramento with it's Old West counterpart, propelled by clouds all the while.  Next, and bear with me here, I was immortal, in the vain of Blake Lively in Age Of Adaline.  You and I shared a weathered house marinated in history, and, inexplicably, 8 people lived with us.  Perhaps it was a boarding, or halfway, house.  I awoke in the middle of the night, aware that I was being tracked by the government for my hidden imperishability.  So, clad in boots, Levi's, and a black shirt, I began to silen

Crystal Lake

Crystal Lake I'm begging you to let me immolate/ This is straight/ From the heart because this inner pain/ Won't dissipate/ I'm lifting weights/ With every bitter day/ Because this hidden angst/ Fuck, it simply weighs/ Too much for me to mitigate/ What I'm feeling, to be alone, a risk to take/ I'm in a pickle late-/ Ly, as I sit and wait/ On a phone call from a certain little name/ That will never hit the stained/ Glass, so I rip and rage/ Against myself, against the strain/ Of this mistake/ And with that one, the ripples graze/ Across the surface of the crystal lake/ Of my mind, the crypt I lay/ In is of my own building, I fell in, tripped and splayed/ Out on the concrete/ All these/ Haunting/ Images come back to taunt me/ I'm wanting/ The past to arm me/ With calm things/ Palm me/ In your hand baby and stop me/ From washing/ Away these thoughts each/ Night with whiskey and oxy/ I'm falling/ Darkly/ Into the halls


Done 8 years ago today I spent the night at the Doubletree Hotel in Sacramento, CA, en route to RTC Great Lakes. I left behind a lucrative career at Wal-Mart unloading trucks, my pursuit of a degree in literally nothing at Solano Community College, and a girlfriend that would later hate me for not dressing like one of the little bitches so common in K-Pop videos (srs). Throughout my tenure in the Navy I fought, did Handstand Pushups, and had my personal space violated repeatedly by deranged, insane men and women that would become the best friends I'd ever known. In the Persian Gulf, I went to throw up in a toilet that was already backed up and filled to the brim with shit, causing me to spew forth twice the expected amount of vomit. I became known as Bitch Hands, a name I still answer to from San Diego, Califronia to Manama, Bahrain. I passed out drunk in public parks, on the shores of forgotten beaches, and the manicured lawns of the estranged friends of

Drunken Diary

Drunken Diary I remember reading about Dave Draper, the great bodybuilder from the fabled Muscle Beach era. After retiring from active competition in his mid-twenties, he settled in California, far from his native New Jersey. Considering that it's on the East Coast, I fully support his decision, since I've never known anyone who wasn't from there to relocate to the area permanently. He took to indulging his second passion. woodworking, with the same fervor he once employed to build his magnificent physique. It led to a profitable career that afforded him a prosperous life. He also, ignominiously enough, became an alcoholic. Getting through his days with a bottle of wine ever present by his side, he'd work at his adopted hobby turned vocation. Weed was also a constant companion. Still, he never gave up his training, which is what I admire about him chiefly, rivaled only by his command of English and the written word. He'd report t