some, for her. some, for me.

these are the things
my heart beats for.
this is the child
i was made to make.
these are the dandelions
poking through the lawn.
some, for her.
some, for me.

these are the nights
i contemplate suicide.
these are the days
i spend drunk.
this is what some call art
and others call shit.
some, for her.
some, for me.

this is what’s stolen,
plagiarized and prophesied.
this is what they think about
when they masturbate.
this is what they tattoo
and tell their lovers to do.
some, for her.
some, for me.

these are the photographs
of crime scenes i’ve investigated.
these are glimpses
of a deteriorating mind.
these are the songs
that songbirds sing.
some, for her.
some, for me.

these are smiles painted
and hours wasted.
this is why i left
and why i never returned.
these are the things
my mother doesn’t understand.
some, for her.
some, for me.

(click here to hear to me read this poem)

tiny men

a hundred tiny men
in suspenders
smoking pipes
inside my head

shuffling inspiration
under their feet
like papers on the floor
of the stock exchange

they’re on strike
& i can’t write.


In the Rough is a chapbook containing 15 original poems by Doc Marek. Signed hard copies are available at a price of your choosing (PWYW - pay what you want). Click here for more information or to purchase.


In the Rough is a chapbook containing 15 original poems by Doc Marek. Signed hard copies are available at a price of your choosing (PWYW - pay what you want). Click here for more information or to purchase.

(via docmarek)

while watching withered plants react to water

i let the plants wither
& give them only water
when i remember, yes,
only water, no food -
pizza or pasta, no
cigarettes or sex, no
thing but water.

& after just a few minutes
they perk right up and are
ready to go, wide awake
& alive, god dammit, they’re
not dragging ass down deep
in the gutter like me, like any
of my friends, like you who
take time to read this shit
some call ‘poetry’ no, no,
they wake up and breathe
and sit in the sun and wait
for me to remember again, they
wait for something to remind
me that they need just one
thing that i couldn’t go long
without either, yeah or else
i would die, or else they would
die, & they depend on me like
a child i didn’t want to have.

so i water them when i
remember, & i sit by the window
and watch them come alive.


i opened my eyes to a
world of decay

babies born in trash bags
without instructions on
how to raise them,

& so we set their tiny bodies
in front of televisions in
times square and computers
in our basements

learn to live, honey,
learn to love.

& i did.

Mount Shuksan

Mount Shuksan

the dogs are pinned down with fear

your smile was a disease & it
got the best of us, thirty or forty
of us, i’m sure, but the summer,

the summer pulled out like a
sharp sword & killed us &

i’ve been drinking coffee from a mug
with an old carousel painted on it,
white horses with magnificent
saddles fit for tiny child kings and

my cigarettes haven’t been lasting
as long as they used to and my
fingers are bloody from cutting my
nails too short, and i’m not drinking
as much beer as i used to & my
mother thinks that’s good.

it’s the fourth of july and the dogs
are pinned down with fear.

two boys

two boys stand outside
waiting to be abducted
by something sacred,
something porous,
like skin, formed with
bone, veins, arteries,
anatomy - a woman.

and i lie on the floor
listening to the planes
take off and land, i’m
meshing into the tile
the same way roots
permeate the soil
just beneath the foundation,
buckling eventually, i can
feel the earth whine like
an old door, open to change, i’m
waiting to be evaporated
up into the clouds with death,
up toward the sun where
i can burn with those boys
and be abducted by
and kidnapped by
the season,

filled with frail hearts and fickle
minds, forming faces in the clouds
i step outside and and see the plants
are withering under that same sun,
that same star i hope to be made of,
i water them because the clouds

and soon enough, she comes,
and they stop their lives for a
second, hearts thumping,
pulsing out of their chests and
they can’t understand, they’re all
but ten or maybe twelve and she’s
a supermodel to them, ripped
from one of their fathers magazines
but she’s just the neighbor, the same
one they see in coats and sweaters
in the winter, the same one they
don’t think twice about, and society
says what’s sexy and we all
belong to the cult of culture
but it’s summer,

and the sun dances on my face
as i finish my beer and go inside.

i write poetry

yesterday, a
woman told me
that we all think
we’re invincible
until we die.

she didn’t know that i
write poetry.

don’t write about love

or the blindness it causes
or the pain
or the death
that cancer causes or
the guns you’ve put
under your chin or the fist
full of medicine you swallowed or
the uncertainty it causes our hearts
to feel, like a crumbled piece
of paper in the hand of a god
i stopped believing in but
you still do
& here it is again - love
knocking on doors and throwing
stones at windows in the wee hours
of dawn, and it’s dawn and it’s
raining, and since i’ve written this
poem, it’s stopped.

Handwritten Series No. 17

Handwritten Series No. 17

swimming lessons

when my parents were still married,
before i started smoking cigarettes
to be cool, before i started drinking
and writing and drawing and fucking,
they made me take swimming lessons

& i would ask if i could jump into
the deep end, not for permission but
more so to inquire if i was physically
able to float and not drown to death
because to be honest, i was scared

so young in the high school pool, before the years of showering naked with classmates and glancing at the fruit between our legs, judging our own - did we measure up? we didn’t know what to do with them anyway.

it would be years before
some of us would fuck the girls
we went to school with, some even getting them pregnant, and now
i’m twenty-two years old and
feeling half dead and dying for a
beer in the summer sun.

i live near the ocean now.
i sleep at a decent hour.
my mother lives in alaska, my
father in my old hometown.
van morrison comes on the radio when i turn it on,
singing about a brown eyed girl
i swear i used to know
& i change the station before i
even think about singing along.



got a big check
bought a big wallet
put it in my big pants
drove in my big car
cut the roof off
caught bugs in
my big smile
with my big teeth
sang along with
my big voice

wasn’t happy at

I wrote this poem in January of 2013.

atlas baby

mending fences & flutter
went your heart dripping
with pitch, your lips dusted

with the moonlight & your
teeth chattering like a music
box, you were/are a tiny

angel turning and turning, &
the lines on your hands have
became dry riverbeds, your

knees buckling underneath
the weight of the world
on your shoulders slipping

disks as i whisper words into
your ears that rattle your
bones like wind chimes.

before time washed you away

i found an old picture of you,
one where you were smiling.

& so i closed my eyes
and tried to remember

exactly what it was like to feel
your skin against mine, tried to

imagine you against me again
before time washed you away