Open Mic

i went to an open mic at MY bar,

and i recite some Bukowski,

the bar stools all ask if i can’t recite one of my own,

so while i load it up,

some putz comes to the mic and says

can i do one of mine?

“Of course.”

he moans,

nobody says anything,

 

then i give them one of mine,

the putz picks up his microphone,

“Are you alright dude? That’s kinda dark.”

“Yeah, i’m fine. How about you.”

“That’s kinda dark.”

 

well fuck you mate,

i don’t need you talking into my brain

while i’m naked for my whole bar to see,

 

tomorrow is Friday night,

i will return to my bar and play it off.

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In that Fucking Frame

i took our picture from the frame,

it had been sitting in my nightstand drawer

face down for weeks now,

i emptied that frame and tossed us in the candle

i had lit, sitting by the pillow,

 

the whole thing went up damn fast,

stank like hell,

burned hotter than candles are supposed to,

i don’t know what was in that picture,

besides us,

but it was volatile,

nearly lit the whole room,

i threw the lid back on and it melted the plastic seal,

scorched the glass,

 

i had tried to be dignified about folding and burning it,

so that i wouldn’t have to tear our faces,

but i had to dump the ashes and wax out in the garbage,

 

none of this is what i wanted at all

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Assembly Required

every few days

 

i disassemble myself on the bed,

clean and oil all the pieces with rag and q-tip,

then i put on a blind fold,

and try to put it all back together without looking,

piece by piece,

 

i seem to loose as many pieces as i find

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In Jars

My thoughts all poured out in mason jars on my desk,

mixed in with borrowed lives,

and there’s no way to separate me from them anymore,

but would I even fill these jars on my own?

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So Very Weary

i get so very weary

being a revelation,

a stepping stone,

an emotional development

in someone else’s personal growth,

i’m not really worthy of all that anyway,

 

i’m just a lonely man with open ears,

on the stool at your local anti-establishment,

melting into my Guinness

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Soundly

I could sleep soundly

if I could only convince myself

I wasn’t funny,
but I shouldn’t need much convincing

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Lasting Damage

I’m going to be 26,

and I still very much

want people to like me

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