in the fluid
we pushed our fingers

against the wall,
forming tiny ridges;

one of a kind prints
which last forever;

evidence of our
attempts to escape.


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)

on liberty drive

when i was living on my own
i’d drink beer all day long,
as much as i wanted,
just like i’d done in college.

i finished a bottle of champagne
& told her, get me another one
of these fucking bottles,
and she took my debit card.

i shot the cork into the parking lot
and hit a car but nobody was awake
except us, lit up like the moon
and the ends of our cigarettes.

and he keeps playing

you were a child, once
& now you’re much younger;
now you shed the seasons
like a coat and put on time
like make-up, paying special
attention to your eyes and
your cheek bones, to your ears
and your nose which never
stop growing, which can never
quite resist gravity’s pull, the same
as the oceans, ebb and flow &
your heart is barely but
a leaf in the wind,
now, a sliver of sunlight
through a morning window,
beating in your chest like a drummer
boy on the front line, taking bullet
after bullet
after bullet
after bullet
to his chest
and his legs
and his arms
and his head
and he twists and he turns
and he keeps playing
that drum,
keeps laying that beat
nice and steady
through all of the chaos
until finally, thank god, finally
he stops, drops dead
and someone drops their rifle
and pulls the sticks from his hands,
picks up his drum
and keeps the battalion
marching forward
toward death,
right next to the flag boy,
forward to uncertainty
because certainly
there’s something at the end
but nobody has a clue
why they’re alive
or why they keep

sometimes it’s hard to tell

i hear two birds fighting or
& sometimes it’s hard
to tell which, even with people
it can be hard to tell,
but the other day
two flies landed on a book
i was reading, and they fucked
quietly and then flew into
a spider web, both of them,
and it made me
want to vomit.

but as i was writing,
i heard the neighbor’s baby
start crying
while they were fighting
about something that
probably didn’t matter
& i knew that they had the
best of both worlds.

for robin

when i heard that
robin williams died
i got drunk and walked
to the beach and got
blisters on my feet.

i watched the sun
set into the ocean,
watched the waves
rush up on to the shore
as the tide was receding.

i watched that old star
go down into the

I can’t believe Robin Williams is dead.

on being an artist

i get asked a lot
of questions
about this & that
writing and

first off,
they don’t know
(even me)

but they all
think they
(even me)

and they all
say rules
will guide you
but they’ll
only bind you
& blind you from
what art really is:

and so
the only thing
you should
really do

tell the truth
and try real hard
not to try too hard
at all

and disregard
everything you
hear people
tell you - all the ways
you could make your
art better
and all the things you
could do to

all the shit
people spew
but can’t bear
to hear,

even this.

i can hear them


as i

in the room
of a hotel
off 196th

the canaries

i’d lay down on my belly
in the grass and the summer sun,
& line up the green dot
at the end of the barrel
with the body of the little
yellow canaries.
i’d hold my breath and squeeze
the trigger;
plumes of yellow feathers
spotted with blood
covered the grass.
the tomcat would lie with me
and pounce the dying birds.
i was young.
we were a team.
but now i’m older
and the tomcat is dead
and i don’t kill,

the poet

i pour my heart out
on these pages,
these pieces of paper
that don’t talk back,
that don’t drink with me,
to these people i don’t know
who feel my heart
in their hands,
tens of thousands of them
who see through my eyes
as if they were their own,
who die with me

worster lake

i breathe now, & if you
didn’t decide to go to the park,
i wouldn’t.

yes, remember, the park you met at,
that you took me to.
the one with the beach, the filthy
water we all swam and pissed in
and some even fished in (& ate
those fish, too).

yes, oh yes, remember a tiny yellow
house off the highway where the
tornado ripped and cut,
now we all fuck different people,
and i now am trying to find my own
park with my own meeting by

i get and got drunk,
absolutely fucking trashed, so much
so that i can’t remember, but i
know it happened, yes, oh yes, and
gave myself to women who gave
themselves to me, but i’ve yet to
know but forever desire to know
what fate really is.

praise your jesus and your television
now, none of us chose to be born,
none of us knew this would happen
and now you’re on two sides of this
fucking country with me in the
middle, figuratively and literally,
residing by the ocean, breathing in
its fog, with one on one arm and
the other on the other arm, pulling,
tugging, & i now take longer to
get dressed and longer to get ready
to delay the chance of meeting
someone i wish i never did.


the rain woke me,
falling on the broad
leaves of the hostas;

when suddenly,
a rumble of thunder
like a low flying jet,

the marine layer
for more.

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.