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"Yes, we would like to buy everything you've written, and everything you've ever thought about writing. Mind you, we'll own every conceptual thought you will ever have, but we'll pay you 7% on the dollar. Now take notice that we don't actually have to ever publish you in reality. We would just like to buy your thoughts and possibly put them out in digital format at some point or another, but probably not. If you ever have a thought that may or may not coincide with a thought that we have previously purchased, you will not be legally able to express that thought or any other thoughts related to that aforementioned thought. . .
Now please sign on the dotted line, but no thinking because we own those and would hate for you to forfeit your rights under publication."

swim, fly, swim

i'm in the bath
watching a fly
on the wall
above me.

the steam
is coursing up
and i wonder
about the fly.

he's still pretty
small
and they only
have a life span
of a few days
at the most,
so i figure
this fly
must be in
midlife.

i wash
my face
and rinse
away the soap.

i slowly immerse
myself
all the way into
the tub
until the water
is almost
ready to bulge
over the sides.

the tension is
easing from
my back
and
shoulders,
but the fly
is still there.

"hello, fly,"
i say.

he doesn't answer.

i can tell
he is a he
because he's sporting
a bit
of a chub.

"yeah, midlife,"
i say.

he rubs
his front legs
together
quickly
and tilts
his little bug head
and stares at me.

i'm getting hot.
the bath is
making me sweat.

i wash
the more
crucial parts
of the anatomy
and
rinse away the rest.

the fly is still there.
he flicks a leg.
flicks another.
it looks like he's
pondering something.

i release the plug
from the tub,
stand,
grab the towel
from the rack,
and begin to
dry myself off.

the fly
is still there,
pondering.

i dry my face
and
look down at the drain
as the fly makes his final swirl
before being sucked up into the infinity
that is the california sewer system.

he raises
a single leg
as he's swallowed up.

i nod and say,
"yeah, midlife.
godspeed, you poor
fucker."

forgettable images

friends
come and go.
you meet some
that are just not
long for this world,
and they leave a hole
in the sky when they
depart.

some of them
know a type
of sensitivity
that the rest
of the world
will never quite
u n d e r s t a n d .

friendships
come and go
like the rain
on a stormy night
pushing
the clouds away
before they can cry.

and there are some
who aren't meant for
that type of
relationship.
they meet a few
good people
here and there,
but life takes them
away
swiftly
to places unknown.

this is the way
with such things,
it's how we truly know
loneliness.
but in that solitude,
we gather
the memories
like flakes of snow
about a hillside,
waiting for the wind
to drift
it all away.

in g major

running into the sun
as the flames
lick at the
lips of time
and part the mouth
so subtle,
the fangs of
pain
become but a myth
moving deep
into the light
of an unforgiving
god
high on its
own
reflection.

we live to breath
and die
in the throws
of living too long,
moaning screams
in deadly dreams
and hopeless traps
set by our own hands
continuing
martyrs of the cause
without pause,
our debt to remaining
defaming our trials
by the burden of guilt.

the end stumbles upon us
so slowly
that it quickens the pulse
as the blade dips further
and falls
as a razor arched
across the neck
of our own doing.

the shame of breathing,
our only sin
in the eyes
of sightless gods
bent on ambiguity.

and in this,
we are so alone
that the emptiness
weighs down
the stones upon our chests
quarried
from the empty
dreams from which
we will never
awaken.

     Love
is a Monster
      that will
   tear out
your throat.

Don't succumb
           to its
      allure
until you
           find
the only person
you would ever
       die for.

take back your prophecy

the lie is murder
the gun is murder
murder happens by the blade
murder happens through the mouth

explosions in the streets
ballistics beneath my feet

       a few days
     give or take
   and we could
end everything
with a puff
                       of
                              smoke

one minute
      too late
   and some
      asshole
with his
       finger
on the trigger
 could render
                      us
                             nil


another second
                 like we are
             and we could
           lose our heads
    for no other reason
than some fucker's
      view of dusty
shit reading material

    no matter
where you look,
there's always
   somebody
    believing
  in a new way
         to kill you,
   a new way
                    to
      interpret
old words
                by
        dead
     prophets
that never really had anything to say
                        in the first place

Write a poem about what we tell you to write a poem about, or face rejection.

With all the
different places
to publish
your art
it is funny that they
still get
so caught up
on themselves
to require
that your work
fit
into guidelines
they invent
off the cuff.

Give us your
best poem
about tomatoes.
We are a Christian
magazine
so no crude language,
please.
If your poem
is accepted
you will be required
to promote
our ezine
on your website,
blog,
social network
so we don't
have to do
the work
ourselves.

I don't know about you,
but when I read poetry,
I'm looking for grit,
for the blood
and sweat
of the piece,
for the artist
to remain
an artist
and create
the art
they so desire.

It would be nice
if everything
fit
into a nice
little box,
wrapped up
in pretty paper,
and tied with a bow.
But the harsh reality is
that art takes place
when it takes place,
under the particular idea
which it was created,
for the nurturing
of the poets soul.

It's no wonder
these silly publications
don't actually
sell anything.
Who the fuck
wants to read
an entire
book of poetry
dedicated to
pigeon sex,
or enemas,
or flicking piss
into the wind,
or ripe tomatoes
thrown in anger
at a shitty publication?