This Whiskey Bottle Feels Like a Gun in My Hand.

I wonder why there are things that keep surfacing within my sight:

lonely particles floating in the fluid of my eyeball.  

If I outstretch my hand to touch whatever they are, 

I come back with nothing but phantom pains.  

Give it up already.  

You aren't who you want to be.  

The world that you live in keeps hoisting up a ragged ball of flame to let you see.  

The ex-president doesn't remember tearing any walls down.

The encircled family keeps the media away so as not to ruin the legacy.  

Of ideas.  Of intangible things.  Of wanting it all to be different.  

It won't make you happy.  

If you lined the world's inhabitants 

in a straight arrow 

and let them walk past you single file 

the procession would never end 

because the rate of birth is too high.  

Each time there is a new person put at the end of the line

you see that history is the autobiography of a madman.  

It isn't me doing it.  

It must be something else.  

Risk strolls up to danger and winks a lusty smile.

And there is no crowd in front of the stage.

This won't end but you can choose to think of it differently.

Get out of that head of yours and see for once.

Feel Gone.

There was a whistle he built,
by the foundation of a house yet constructed,
made of green wood with the bark as a slip.
And that house that we lived in
he would soon move out of.
Because no one was happy
after so many changes.
The tones that mingled with the brush and wind
made his pocket knife teem with shine.
And the previous mother he loved
had been shot fifteen years earlier.
The same model of knife lay in his pocket that day.
Yet in the pouring rain there was no shine.
And now here it is,
all leaping up and getting music done.
The summer that was before and after
the bad thing that happened
left us with souvenirs
from a far place.
Because what surrounds the thing
is what makes it remembered.
The story unfolds without heed to those involved.
And we all moved out of the house after he did.