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

The Malemute and Me

I hide my heart
when it rains
and even when it shines,
for reasons known only
behind my eyes.
ive wasted many years reliving my past,
of what i have no memory,
but the aftermath has
and will last a lifetime.
blanketing my mind
with a grotesque fog
hindered solely by
self-doubt when stepping onto
these city streets.

Hank once said that he
felt alone,
suicidal and near death
but never lonely.
i must agree,
especially when skeletons of debauchery
seep into my skin and
drain out onto my
machine gun,
where doubt dies.

only in silence,
where words arent spoken from
open mouths but broken hearts,
can one raise the most hell.