just another breakdown

it’s happening again
but what it is
i don’t know
what i’m feeling
like my best friend died
or worse yet
someone i’ve never met
the urge to be a part
of what i’m not
even though i know
the imitation will kill me
but so does being my own
that i want to share
with the nonexistent other
who is mother sister
lover bodhisattva
bereft on southern shorelines
or ice cream parlors
or off for jaunts to london
sending back postcards
to console the sorrow
‘but without the pain
you wouldn’t be you’ she said
so who would i be
and am i alive
my rhymes and lines
taken for madness
i’m beginning to agree
as a simple perfume
takes my mind on a kite
to be tangled in the trees
with the child crying
maybe i should see a doctor
maybe i should see a razor
maybe i should see an sunrise
i left the middle class
thinking of the boiler room
and went for a cigarette
walking without aim
to a nearby hotel
cheap beer in a fancy glass
imagined conversations
with bukowski and hemingway
they left me with the bill
the last of the can
drained into the glass
so silent i could hear
the foam head settle
over the television
and continued writing
on cocktail napkins
as i asked for another
the tab was four bucks
i dropped a five and left
went back to class
is that you friend
calling me back from death


Get a FREE copy of my poetry book for review

41HV7VWrnWL._SX322_BO1,204,203,200_If you would like a free (ebook) copy of my first published poetry book for review, please contact me at dwmetz (at) gmail dot com.

DISCOVERING DULUOZ is available in print from amazon and in ebook format from most ebook retailers.

A spoken word CD version is also available from amazon for your listening pleasure.




Poetry aficionado Michael David Saunders Hall had this to say about Discovering Duluoz…


After reading Discovering Duluoz, I sense an urgency within all of the insights and emotions simultaneously traveling in the same direction with no particular train of thought other than being a free soul. There is a definitive impulse of free association that becomes second nature to the prosody of your poetry and the poignancy of its meaning and message. Emily Dickinson once wrote, “Much madness is divinest sense, to a discerning eye.” As I read this collection, the way in which the words culminate by melding and meshing the mundane with the divine embodies this thought, creating a lonely fire of recollection utterly unique yet self- sustaining. It also reveals itself to be a progeny of Jack Kerouac’s influence and style. After a few reads, one might think that the author were him reincarnate, with perhaps even better poetic chops. But, though these musings carry the spirit of Kerouac along as a passenger, I know and realize that each of these pieces is a special spontaneous combustion of all the poetic inventions and dimensions that comprise the makings of him–mentally, physically and spiritually.

The Happiest Day by Edgar Allen Poe

The happiest day — the happiest hour
My sear’d and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish’d long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been-
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour’d on me
Be still, my spirit!

The happiest day — the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see — have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel- have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer’d with the pain
Even then I felt — that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter’d — fell
An essence — powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.