The Cutter was sharp. He was handsome and bright,
and he was a criminal, workin’ by night.
He was known far and wide for his devious capers;
he cut up girls’ hearts like he was cuttin’ up papers.

Now, Paster McSticky, a man twice his size,
had fooled many men with his terrible lies,
and he liked stickin’ things where they didn’t belong.
Not a crime, I suppose, but still definitely wrong.

As their fortunes would have it, these men of the West
met up in the desert and thought it’d be best
if they joined up together to form one bad crew
and terrorize people with scissors and glue.

So Cutter and Paster rode all through the land,
stealin’ with cutters and paste in their hands.
After three months, the sheriff of town took ‘em in.
He asked, “where’s yer loot?” but they didn’t give in.

So he hung ‘em next day in the square, but it’s said
that there’s no way that Cutter and Paster are dead.
They’re still robbin’ today, ridin’ wild and free…
just press Ctrl+X and then hit Ctrl+V.

–Clouds (#1)–

When it rains,
the clouds commit mass suicide.
They become their tears,
wasting themselves on the earth
and leaving their wet juices all over it.
When they’re gone, the air is fresh and clear
and everyone is happy…

but the sky is still blue.

–Matches (#2)–

Our love is like a book of matches.
Look, it catches! Watch it burn!
But no match that’s based on matches
can resist Time’s cold, wet snatches.

–The Exhaler (#3)–

I heard of an oxygen panic
and took it upon myself
to maintain the balance of the atmosphere.
After I carefully exhale, I shout
“Ah, Breath! I have freed you!”
and admire my own fantastic resourcefulness!

–Being in Love (#4)–

Being with you feels like being alone,
only never so lonely.
When I am with you,
I am you,
you are me,
and we are not “we” at all.

–a list of things my father gave to me (#5)–

a cold name
half of a face
grab-bag genes
a simplified old tree
right-brained eyes
hand-eye coordination
nightmares
a handful of childhood
and a phoenix sore

–dust (#6)–

stay still too long,
and it will gather on you.
tiny weights, little pressures,
light at first, but slowly heavy
heavier
heaviest
splintering your knees like wood
busting your back like cardboard
until you crumple in a cloud
and can move no more.

–The Blame (#7)–

When the summer gets old
and the weather gets cold
and the leaves start to fall,
Blame the sun! we are told.
But there’s no sense at all
in that scientist’s call,
for the sun is not cold;
how could it cause the fall?

–Some Roads Not Taken (#8)–

While making a choice concerning two roads and a yellow wood,
I tripped on you and fell in love.
We left both roads and hiked into the trees to make out,
and that’s what really made all the difference.

–Adults (#9)–

Adults complain a lot
about headaches and heartaches,
mortgages and marriages,
and they think they’ve got it bad.

What they forget
is that they sleep the same sleep
and breathe the same breath
as another human being
with the same heart,
the same mind,
and the same spirit.

And still they act like
spoiled children
who can’t make up their minds.

–pointless (#10)–

you think

just because
you’ve left no clues,
you’re being clever.

just because
you’ve got us stumped,
you’re being subtle.

just because
you have created,
you’re being creative.

just because
you’ve made a mess,
you’ve got it made.

a poem
without a point
might be a poem,

but it’s still pointless.

If you but take one dreadful look
into the pages of this book,
you’ll find that what is written here
will play upon your darkest fear.

It’s to the weak of heart I say
just close it now and turn away.
But if your course you choose to keep,
don’t read before you fall asleep.

When solving quarrels, some prefer the light;
Some stay in the dark.
If talking seems to stop the fight
then let those people choose the light.
But as for me, I must remark
that distance and a lack of speech
can shade the issue in the dark
to let it sleep
and snuff the spark.

Hello, best friend, it’s been a while
since I have seen that stupid smile.
Your teeth are stained, your breath is rank.
Please, won’t you close that smelly tank?

Have you put on a few more pounds?
I know how awful this must sound,
but honey, you can’t wear those jeans;
If you bend down, you’ll rip the seams.

Your hair looks kind of strange today,
in an “I’m trying to look ugly” way.
You should have taken one look more
before you walked out your front door.

So guess what Jenny did with Dean?
That’s more action than you’ve seen.
Oh, now you have something to say?
Well, tell it to me another day;

No matter what, it can’t be great
it’s not like you had a hot date
or ever think important thoughts.
I think it’s best if I just talk.

Hey, where did you go buy those shoes?
Oh, that place is yesterday’s news.
The fashions there are so uncool.
I can’t believe you wore those to school!

Oh, there’s my boyfriend walking past,
and don’t you have to go to class?
Don’t mope; you’re ugly when you sigh.
I’ll see you later, best friend! Bye!

Seven o’clock
is coming around;
meanwhile, my stomach
continues to growl.
It needs some food,
and needs it fast!
Or else I simply
may not last!
So trudge upstairs
toward the smell
of a freshly cooked
taco shell.

It’s taco night.

My sis comes in
with stomp and scowl,
and thus, we have
tomatoes now.
She picks them fresh
from our back yard,
a job she’d rather
disregard,
but still she’s forced
to pick those things.
I’m glad for the
reward it brings.

It’s taco night.

We all sit down
when things are chopped.
Before we eat,
we all must stop
and bow our heads
and thank the Lord
for all the blessings,
room and board.
And even though
the smell is strong,
my stomach aches,
the wait is long…

It’s taco night.

Amen.

Yum.

A little ghost who loved her toast
and loved to boast upon the coast
began to boast her love of toast
to a coastal post whose name was Froast.

“Sir Froast the post,” said the little ghost
as she sat on the coast and roasted toast,
“I love this toast the very most.
I’d love to have a large toast roast.”

“Dear little ghost,” said Froast the post,
“I see that you love toast the most,
but also that you love to boast
as you roast toast upon the coast.

you cannot host a roasting toast,
for you’re a ghost who mostly boasts,
and other ghosts who love toast most
would not have fun with a boasting host.”

“Oh, Froast the post,” laughed the little ghost,
“the other ghosts would love to roast
some toast with ghosts who love to boast,
for on the coast, while roasting toast,

the way this ghostly host can boast
is not the thing that I love most.
No, at the coastal roasting toast,
our love of toast becomes foremost!”

The first time you heard
the boys screaming out,
it scared you.

Then you stopped once to listen,
and though it was loud,
it pleased you.

Their plastic and steel
you started to love;
it raised you.

Your head fit those sounds
like a hand fits a glove;
it suited you.

Now it tightens your clothes
and puts dye in your hair;
it shifts you.

In your mind there’s a buzz,
in your eyes a blank stare;
it blinds you.

It crawls in your ear
from the headphones you wear;
it uses you.

And you feel in your brain
as it multiplies there;
it consumes you.

Your mouth is not yours
and your heart pumps with fear;
it controls you.

And the boys screaming out
is the last thing you hear as
it takes you.

If there was a way
to reach back through the lens,
to reverse to that day
and return to those friends

with the things I know now
and converse with my past
and explain to him how
all he loves will not last,

he would not want to hear,
and he’d tell me I’m wrong.
He would chuckle and sneer,
and he’d tell me he’s strong,

that it’s not an affair,
and that he can’t mistake
the sweet smile that she wears
for a fabulous fake.

He’d not want to believe
what his future would find.
It’s my past that I see.
To his future he’s blind.

*

Now I look at my life
and at how it has changed,
and at once I realize:
it’s exactly the same.

I’ve a girl in my arms
who assures me she cares,
but our long-lasting bonds,
others say, are not there.

I still don’t want to hear,
and I think they are wrong.
I deny all my fear,
and I lie that I’m strong,

that it’s not an affair,
and that I can’t mistake
the sweet smile that she wears
for a fabulous fake.

I can’t tell what will come;
all I know is behind.
To my past I am dumb.
To my future I’m blind.

Keep your eyes wide open, if you can.
This show’s the last that you will ever see.
The shadows: wide enough to hide a man
and perfect depth to swallow one like me.

The voices quiet, ‘hush!’ and soften.
Lights dim low; act three begins.
You always tried to live like Lincoln;
now your soul will rest with him.

Keep your eyes wide open.
Fingers, please don’t slip.
My breath is harsh and broken
as I’m reaching for the grip.

And with a true
and sudden jab,
this knife into
your back I stab.

Your chest, it catches, hangs,
and you slump into your seat.
I veil the bloodied fang
and I hasten my retreat.

No one sees until I slip away,
and then begins the shouting and unrest.
And oh, how much I wish that I could stay
and keep my eyes wide open for the rest!