Magnet to Crazy

Drunks already flood starbucks.

this specific one is like a dive bar. 

patrons order coffee to stay high until 

they fall back down once the time comes 

to start spreading the sauce. 
It is neither a full moon 

or high noon quite yet

but the demons have started talking 

and have no plans on stopping. 
Speaking in tongues:
liquid minds 

slowly dying 

in front of children 

who know nothing but forgiveness 

and capturing their own faces. 
until the moment we slide further down,

the opportunity to make a mark has past,



when we sleep 

or dance 

all alone in day dreams. 
I try to help 

but this is their heart,

pushing against the fire and brimstone

when the only one who listens 

is the devil inside. 


The Stool Poet

I stand on the precipice of infamy.
watching a cold soul sit on a stool outside bleeding,
leaving a flood of blood…
wishing i were as lucky as he.
I watch as he pounds the keys with as much force and fervor
as a boulder falling on concrete. with no pause in site,
he must be desperate,
hungry and
or suicidal.
his ribbed protruding bones
hide underneath his overcoat
and his hands,
cratered, rough and raw,
shake from the willowed wind
with each motion.
His face is as still as stone,
yet the black ink overflows
from his heart and
onto the dilapidated ground
he sits on–
eager for that next word
to lead him to the next drink.
I envy him.
With the same ferocity,
i turn out an orgy of words,
yet, i confine my heart to a prison
and drink it all away
until there is nothing left
but black ash from
an arson fire.

— JMT 2.20.15