Point and click games are a fun tree of decisions.

Relish in regret. 

Be your own bad habit.

The coffee pot is on.

The corner store is closed.

The bar will be open.

Next week is already tomorrow. 

LA was a dream.

The biker stole my comfort

Though he left the dirty sheets.

Flowers sprout from bone. 

The ghost gives up.

Getting to the 9th underworld is the comforting part. 

On a burned CD in the den

Black eyes in search of a willing host. 

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,

But it isn’t the smell that kills you. 

A weighted blanket of miasma

sedates the state.

Don’t fall asleep.

Choking on expectations, walking on eggshells,

Contacting abandoned minds keeps them conscious for the animal return.

Through the belly of the beach it slouches.

Paradise lost.

In its place, a phoenix of unknown pedigree

not to be trusted,

Holding a swingline stapler it had all along.

Tell Milton we rang. 

There’s no such thing as San Francisco. 

The City Lights are long dead. 

There’s no such thing as San Francisco. 

The women who dress up to go downtown moved to the Sequoias and the Redwood forest. 

There’s no such thing as San Francisco. 

The Bohemians sold their style to the world and complained the whole way home. 

There’s no such thing as San Francisco. 

Love is a premium service; you have to bundle it with a million dollar loan.

 There’s no such thing as San Francisco. 

The tales are true, but they can only be read. 

There’s no such thing as San Francisco. 

Don’t forget the best realities: the memories in your head.

I’ll see you at the Great American. 

You’ll find me at my father’s house. 

I will meet you in Rocklin. 

You’ll find me where the gold no longer rushes. 

I’ll see you tomorrow. 

The hot water isn’t running today, and the rent is due. 

I still hear the Howl of the wailer in the distance.

Park Presidio remembers you. 

Zero

If I could sleep tonight,

I’d dream a whole new life.

A new body and mind,

A new person to be disappointed by.

My dreams are never good.

I give my fantasies the student credit limit

Because I’m in love

With being short-changed.

I get off being sabotaged.

I’m waiting for my close up

I’m ready to blush and bolt.

If you were waiting for some sort of revelation

I’m to blame

It never came.

Where’s the easy part?

Here it comes.

You never came.

Home Stretch

Blessed be the fruit, a respite from below.

A moment without pain,

A moment of unknowing.

From complacent daily performance comes the pleasure of breaking character

The best part of waking up.

Release me from my paradigm.

Ending the tally of every dissolving thing,

I’d like to solve the puzzle.

Save me from time.

This is me taking the reins

This is me taking control

Floating in the ether has gotten me farther from home. 

This is where I draw the line. 

I used a hotel pen because I’ve misplaced my art supplies.

I used what I had because talent and feeling are paramount. 

Keep those goals or what were they worth? 

A project unfinished, a waste of time. 

A dream deferred.

I prefer a course grind so I can taste the work. 

You can have a sip

If you’re willing

To wait

A bit. 

What do I do with my hands? 

They have enough restless energy to accomplish nothing but petty destruction.

My mind is exhausted.

I can’t see you,

I won’t see you.

I hope Thom Yorke is right. 

This Motion Picture Soundtrack is my life. 

Back here again, Stockholm Syndrome kicks in. 

I’ll be the last one, with my memory of an elephant.

Encrypted from an old device,

A heart with no home.

Petrichor, petrichor,

You’re a smell which I adore,

You announce our lifeblood before it hits the forest floor. 

Rain brings freshness to the ground and makes rainbows in the street

The smell queues one to expect drops on one’s glasses

And damp socks on one’s feet. 

Petrichor, you remind me of affection.

Anticipation, follicle erection,

Frustration.

Dejection.

I reminisce and dread this moment at once.

I remember you and feel precious pangs

And raindrops, some of which come from the last time

I saw your face. 

Happiness is the perennial Monarch

I’ve touched him several times. 

But even as he lands, the compass calibrates a winter of uncertain length. 

My hands, reminded each time, and each time more cautious with my conditioned rewards. 

The Monarch dislikes the icy flashbacks, and each time, earlier he leaves.

Leftover nectar.

Waiting in the garden, I feel like a fool.

He’s out there somewhere. 

It’s getting colder.

I’m going inside.