Regardless of the Consequences

.

At approximately 11 o’clock, the man decided

that he would no longer pretend to be something

he wasn’t, and from now on he would do whatever

he wanted: Firstly, he would stop trying to please

everyone and when he went back to work on

Monday morning, he would stop hiding behind

small talk. From now on, he would stop saying

what he thought people wanted to hear and simply

give his opinion—regardless of the consequences.

He also determined he should never get married

and would only sleep with other men’s wives—like

the French. He told himself to move to France.

He decided that he would become more brooding

and mysterious—and that he would listen to

Leonard Cohen. He would grow a beard and go

to the gym. He would become a Buddhist.

Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. He would find meaning

in his life. He would get a dog. He would start

writing. He would just….be.

Excited at the prospect of the new life that awaited

him—but aware that he had made similar promises

to himself before—he asked the bartender if he might

borrow a pen to write down his private manifesto;

then he promised himself that he would go home,

get an early night; and wake up with the sunrise.

That’s when she walked in.

thejournalofbisonjack:

Of Course
I wish I knew nowwhat I thought I would know by nowback then; but of course, back thenI thoughtI knew it all.

thejournalofbisonjack:

Of Course

I wish
I knew now
what I thought
I would know
by now
back then;
but of course,
back then
I thought
I knew it all.

Of Course
I wish I knew nowwhat I thought I would know by nowback then; but of course, back thenI thoughtI knew it all.

Of Course

I wish
I knew now
what I thought
I would know
by now
back then;
but of course,
back then
I thought
I knew it all.

Beer Clam

Beer Clam

The  AlmostI sitat this desk,slightly bent,trying to writea poem toright myself.

The  Almost
I sit
at this desk,
slightly bent,
trying to write
a poem to
right myself.

Here #34

Here #34

Drying Selfie

Drying Selfie

The Cradle
There is a small box of love letters under my bed; evidence of my youth and a time when our hearts were all that mattered.I am not nostalgic, although naturally like most I sometimes dwell on the whys and what ifs,and I am certainly not going to pretend that I have no regrets, but as I sit here on the edge of my bed—in the silence that comes with evening and cradles reflection—I think I am ready to answer them.

The Cradle

There is a small box
of love letters under my bed;
evidence of my youth and
a time when our hearts were
all that mattered.
I am not nostalgic, although
naturally like most I sometimes
dwell on the whys and what ifs,
and I am certainly not going to
pretend that I have no regrets,
but as I sit here on the edge of
my bed—in the silence that
comes with evening and cradles
reflection—I think I am ready
to answer them.

Murder by Popsicle

Murder by Popsicle

For Those of UsThis is for those of us on our knees.
This is for those of us unable to standfor fear of falling.
This is for those of us defeated by time,and bowed by age.
This is for those of us who somewherealong the way got lost and can’t find our way home.
This is for those of us on window ledgesand bridges, and in overflowing bathtubs.
This is for those of us who can’t changewho we are because we don’t know howto forgive.
This is for those of us who have replacedhope with blame, and point a finger atthose who care the most.
This is for those of us without love,because we ask too much of others, andnot of ourselves.
This is for those of us who think this poemis about someone else.

For Those of Us


This is for those of us on our knees.

This is for those of us unable to stand
for fear of falling.

This is for those of us defeated by time,
and bowed by age.

This is for those of us who somewhere
along the way got lost and can’t find
our way home.

This is for those of us on window ledges
and bridges, and in overflowing bathtubs.

This is for those of us who can’t change
who we are because we don’t know how
to forgive.

This is for those of us who have replaced
hope with blame, and point a finger at
those who care the most.

This is for those of us without love,
because we ask too much of others, and
not of ourselves.

This is for those of us who think this poem
is about someone else.

thejournalofbisonjack:
Bison Jack-Type A -“Proof”

thejournalofbisonjack:

Bison Jack-Type A -“Proof”

The Splintered Moon
I found the words from a late-night poem laying on the floor this morning.In the ruins of an ending, the limp limbs of metaphors lay scattered across the rubble of breathless verbs and adjectives—and what remained of what mighthave been was soon tangled in the shadow of a broom— but, briefly, in the shards of a splintered moon, I thought I saw me and you as we might have been—a kingdom, swept up in a moment.

The Splintered Moon


I found the words from
a late-night poem laying
on the floor this morning.
In the ruins of an ending,
the limp limbs of metaphors
lay scattered across the
rubble of breathless verbs
and adjectives—and what
remained of what might
have been was soon tangled
in the shadow of a broom—
but, briefly, in the shards of
a splintered moon, I thought
I saw me and you as we
might have been—a kingdom,
swept up in a moment.

Re: Evolution
This thing we call society. This war. This porn.This cancer. This celebrity.This thing we call society. This religion. This politic.This punishment. This profit.This thing we call society.This violence.This inhumanity.This suffering.This indifference.This thing we call society.This greed.This poverty.This human and environmental catastrophe.This thing we call society.This ignorance. This stupidity.This broken democracy.This thing we call society. This you. This me. This opportunity.

Re: Evolution


This thing we call society.
This war.
This porn.
This cancer.
This celebrity.
This thing we call society.
This religion.
This politic.
This punishment.
This profit.
This thing we call society.
This violence.
This inhumanity.
This suffering.
This indifference.
This thing we call society.
This greed.
This poverty.
This human and
environmental
catastrophe.
This thing we call society.
This ignorance.
This stupidity.
This broken democracy.
This thing we call society.
This you. This me.
This opportunity.

Or So He Thought

He was his own manor so he thought,but reallyhe was madefrom the rib of her first love,and a manshe fantasized about.

Or So He Thought

He was his own man
or so he thought,
but really
he was made
from the rib
of her first love,
and a man
she fantasized about.