Surfing on the waves of the apocalypse,
our hero dives deep to grab the wings of angel fish
then spins with hands full 'til he's at the center of a whirlpool capable of drowning the world.

The reaper appears in the eye of a storm,
and as our hero peers into the depth of his cowl,
he's surprised to find a smiling caricature of his own face.

(This is the part where the main character blasts off into outer space.)

Armed with a bottle full of light,
he slays the wicked worms boring holes through his brain.
With the combined might of all the stars that remain,
he smites the dark matter beast before it can retreat to the unseen place between all things.

But victory is bittersweet,
as our hero soon discovers that he can no longer breathe.
For lack of the existence of gaps,
his lungs collapse beneath the crushing weight of everything as it condenses into one solid mass with an atomic number quickly approaching infinity.

Everything goes black,
then suddenly . . .
BANG!

Just because you're deep in thought,
doesn't mean your thoughts are deep.

Just because you're lost in dreams,
doesn't mean you're losing sleep.

Things are always what they seem,
except for when they aren't.
Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear to be,
if you know what I mean;
clearly blurry and vaguely crystalline.

Anyway, I'm hungry.
Let's go get a cheeseburger or something.

Life culminates and dissipates;
I remember to remember,
Then run out of space.
Your distant face in retrospect,
Crystallized by neurology,
Leaves me longing for an apology
Some respite for what you did.
The clouds come rolling in,
And you stay gone.
The wild runs within my skin,
And you're still gone.
I've learned a lot since then,
I've learned how to be me,
Taught by the moon's apogee,
Experience distilling my being
Into something that I hope isn't like you.

Stay gone, Steve,
Stay away from me,
Rot alone in your empty home.
One day you'll hear about me,
And realize I did everything I've done
Regardless of you.

By: Forrest Jorgensen ©

Float it down the river;
a bottle with a note
full of fragile words and folded without hope:

"To whom it may concern,
I've grown weary of the worries -
worn down by the constant sound of thoughts spilling out of my head -
burnt out on turning down every opportunity to be saved.
One day, I'll get away,
but I'm in no hurry.
By the time you read this, I may already be dead,
but I might not be."

Standing in the sand with toes dug in deep;
watching the sun gleam off a bottle as it shrinks into the distance.
Goodbye to all the worst parts of me.

Hello horizon.

MY CHILDHOOD ROOM
FEELS LIKE A MUSEUM
no matter how many times
I dust the shelves.
The trophies look more plastic than ever
and the cat collection is a little out of hand.
The books are still my pride and joy
but their covers haven’t been caressed in
years?

Has it really been
years?

I light a candle and cradle my thoughts in my cranium
tapping my toes in tandem with
THE TERRIBLE SQUEAK in my ceiling fan
I asked my mom to get that fixed
does she forget everything when I’m not home
do the doors go unlocked when I’m not home
do the cats go unfed
does the truth go unsaid
WHY DO I NO LONGER FIT MY CHILDHOOD BED.

In the silence I can hear her.
I hear the little girl with the long braided hair
ask her mom for a book
For Christmas.
I envy her.

This Christmas  my list consisted of things
I know my mom can’t buy.
This year I asked for peace, for a stable career after college,
for a meaningful relationship that doesn’t
breed in the dark cracks of insecurity and small talk.
I asked for love, I asked for bathroom mirrors to stop insulting me,
and for people at grocery stores to smile more.
I asked for patience, I asked for the sun to show her face a little longer
so  I could finish everything I promised I would do.
I asked for joy, I asked for rainfall I could dance in, for a snowstorm where I can make snow angels and not care about the ice
that slides down my sleeve
I asked for knowledge, I asked for the stories of the unheard to be shouted from the skyscrapers
and for politicians TO STOP SCREAMING.
I asked for trust, I asked for lying to be illegal
and for people to feel safe when they hold out their hearts
in front of them.

I asked for someone to listen.
Because I know I can’t do this by myself.
It’s okay that we don’t fit out childhood beds
and growing up means growing out
of our once-favorite things.

We can stop asking
for books for Christmas–
as long as we write a new one
together.

The only way to smooth the edges is to keep them tumbling constantly.

The Squares lived happily,
in their square houses,
in their square yards,
in their square town.

One day, a family of Circles
moved in from the west.

"Get out of here, roundies!" shouted one of the Squares.
"Why?" asked one of the Circles.
"Because this is a metaphor for racism!"

Supercilious satirists sipping scotch with seriousness
while discussing super silly stories
in a state of semi-deliriousness.