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Oct 2012 · 1.8k
Into the Net
Alex T Oct 2012
Ordinary people
carry action figures
on their dashboard
and stop in still traffic
on their way to work
to stare at the circus billboard
wishing they could be
the incredible flying man
who soars above the Ferris wheel
and disappears beyond the horizon.

The human cannonball lives
with his mother
in a musty basement
filled with old baseball cards,
beer can memorabilia,
an ash stained billiards table,
Chicago Bulls jerseys,
and pictures of Goldie Hawn
and Evil Knievel.

The human cannonball has
high blood pressure,
frequent anxiety,
a wheat allergy,
a jaw that pops
when opened too wide,
a crick in his neck,
a bruised shoulder
from falling
into the net
over and over.
Sep 2010 · 1.1k
everything you miss:
Alex T Sep 2010
kicking lonely through the autumn leaves
you wondering how life came to this.

but we're all still here,
like everything you miss:

the moment, the moon, the mirthful child's bliss.

staring like strangers who swear they knew,  
sitting on benches while shadows grew,
rising up towards the night's debut,
moving like moths near the light of you.
Sep 2010 · 599
Wishful Thinking
Alex T Sep 2010
Time will tell what you let it steal

Then your hopes and dreams will never be real

The sun will soon forget to stand

And you’ll miss your chance to hold her hand

All this can happen while you’re blinking

When you forget about wishful thinking.
Sep 2010 · 844
The Sleeper of Five Hours
Alex T Sep 2010
I killed the calendar on the wall,

Skipped the glorified ceremony and all.

Pieces of plans soared through the air,

Nearly brushing my cowlicked hair.

To the Disrupter of my Dreams,
The Screaming Sleep Waker,
The Insolent Sun Beams:
You are punctual and I am ******.


Why must we only meet like this?

I’m staying here all day long.

You can’t stop me.

Unless you bring me a hot cup of coffee…*

                                   *Sincerely,

                                                
                                             **The Sleeper of Five Hours
Sep 2010 · 1.1k
Answers
Alex T Sep 2010
I throw all my questions to the midnight sky.

They rise and ricochet off the crooked constellation
And slowly sink back down,
Spinning silently 'til they reach their destination,
A pothole in the ground.

Buried beneath dust and dirt
Lay the answering words,
Tucked away like coffins
Hiding from the birds.

— The End —