inconsistencies.

how do normal people cope with a sense of being?

my car's been rattling for over a year since we jumped the curb who knows what could happen so I turn up the radio and drive 9-4-15

it's never been this cold March lasts forever the seasons are sick mangy and helpless stupid and selfish keep close to me but August burns red and this heat ain't helping so keep the vultures at bay while I navigate this treacherous landscape of contagious apathy don't let me down. 8-1-15

You said that if you ever got to be like them, I'd know what to do. "Don't let me down." I hope you know that you were my St. Jude. A hazard on I-35. A leap from the high dive. I never learned to swim. I read the note you left, like a proclamation and a confession: "I wouldn't like me." Wake up, baby. It's donation day. When you find the answer, please let me know. 7-31-15

shoot up, baby foreign ink and setting smoke sinking below the incline fueling the fires of misconception and interpretation in a feeble attempt to pledge allegiance or forget the pearly gates are padlocked for a fox in hiding with empty sockets and a growling stomach 4-19-15

When I was a little boy, I was terrified of thunder. I would shout at the thunder, bury my head under my pillow, and turn up the TV as loud as I could. Thunder and I never saw eye to eye. But, sometimes thunder would bring hail. It was the most perplexing thing to watch ice fall from the sky in the middle of July. The constant pounding on the rooftop (years later my car would learn about hail the hard way). When all was said and done, I would sneak outside when the air was still, petrichor, and grab a handful of impossible ice. Quick as I could, I would pile the hailstones into our freezer, right next to last year's birthday cake, doing my best to make them last as long as possible. Our freezer became a preserve for my childhood memories. Before they melted. Before they spoiled. They usually lasted months before being thrown out and replaced with frozen pizza and TV dinners. 3-28-15

This house was built on a hillside suburb hot summer night I'm sleeping on an incline I can't help but feel like I'm slipping As the cicadas are buzzing Passing through a hole in the screen door Flying blindly in darkness Striking anything in its path It isn't until that cicada hits you right in the face that you wonder, "what the hell am I doing?" 12-28-14