Don’t Think Too Hard

Sometimes I wonder

 

if his eyes had been

as wide as his smile

then maybe he would have seen

how much he meant to me

 

and if his words beat

as loud as his heart screamed

then maybe I would have heard

what he meant to say.

 

In the end, I’m sure

that we never could have know

the potency of the passion

that had broken our hearts

 

but healed our bones.

 

A Revolving Door Is As Merciful As It Is Repetitious

 

Tiverton, Rhode Island– Martin Brennan, 34, died Monday

May 16, 2013, when he was caught in the rush of a revolving door

A door he’d stepped through everyday since he was 24.
He leaves his wife, Jane, and his son, William, but they

will hold in their hearts his memory and always adore

Martin Brennan, 34, dead Monday in Tiverton, Rhode Island.
Martin Brennan wrote statistical analysis reports for decent pay,

in a building where time was money and the only thing that mattered more

was a door he’d stepped through everyday since he was 24.
His wife and his family have said they’ll always respect the way

Martin did the same job everyday and sometimes more

in Tiverton, Rhode Island–Martin Brennan, 34, died Monday.
All his co-workers and anyone who knew him would say

that Martin Brennan did everything twice as well as he did the day before,

when he’d passed through a door he’d stepped through everyday since he was 24.

 

His life was a revolution of the same thing each day,

the seemingly endless cycles never ceasing for

Martin Brennan, 34, dead Monday, in Tiverton, Rhode Island,

in a door he’d stepped through everyday since he was 24.

To Be Continued…

I’ve stayed awake all night writing letters that I’ll never sign

filling cup after cup with bitter coffee even though I never reach the bottom

before the fluid hurt gets cold, and loses its appeal

listening to 3 minutes of every song before skipping to the next

to avoid the bridge that I don’t know the lyrics to

never sitting down long enough to see the end of the film

I was watching just to procrastinate

I’ve only read half, maybe less, of just about every one of Bukowski’s books

and never have the heart to read until the last page

leaving unfinished poems strewn about the room from one corner to other

they are accompanied by cigarettes that saw 2 drags

before my lungs decided enough was enough

flowers far past the point of living that I had planted but never watered

they’re a melancholic sort of decoration that were given a purpose

but were never given a clear direction

and like us

I could bring all of these things to a close if I wanted to

for now, I think that this book in particular

is better left open

Slightly Sharper Much Less Sweet

His tongue is sharper and quicker

than any edge I have ever used

to lighten the mood

and he knows exactly where to cut the deepest

so that an intoxicating sort of resentment

pours from wounds so thin

I don’t even see them at first

cuts so deep rarely heal cleanly

but leave handsome scars

from one corner of my chest

to the other

and as ugly as the world may think they are

they remind me of him

every raised line is like a poignant remark

and every shallow crater another kiss goodbye

not too long and just bitter enough

to leave me alone in a wake of my own indignation

as I grope through the contents of our previous exchanges

like a blind man

looking through a drawer he’d never opened before

and when he returns I’ll still be looking

empty-handed, defeated

but I’ll stand up and laugh in his face anyway

as I straighten just enough to hold in front of him

my mock victory and he’ll say to me once more

let’s begin again