alex-p-gara
American
I identify myself as no more than a body of myths. I hum to a thinning sky and ask for safety in distance. I, a body of myths, reach out to said sky from time to time and and listen for a revisit. The sky stays with me, always. And that's how I know. How I believe.
Werewolf stood in front of a puddle.
Four inches deep. Maybe.
Werewolf looked away.
Stickers. Graffiti.
Flem’s Revenge Live Tonight!
The Nifty Nymphos April 24th.
Ballz Deep featuring **** Matikz and Tremaine The Truest.
I’m a long way from Cologne, he thought.
Werewolf knelt towards the puddle.
The wet filth smelled of hot blood.
Exceptionally hot blood, rather.
He spat in the puddle and turned.
One thousand drunk humans.
Ten thousand more, asleep, above.
Not misunderstood.
Cursed.
It’s a very different sadness.
Alexander’s Feast ended.
Rounding out his latest playlist -
Bashfully Baroque.
Werewolf checked the time.
Less than an hour.
He buzzed a buzzer.
I’m here for the Devil’s Cherries.
The What?
The, ahem, Devil’s Cherries.
He’s cool. Let him in.
And just like that, he was let out.
A line was forming for Flem’s Revenge.
While a bright moon reflected in Werewolf’s puddle.
Werewolf shouldered through.
Cursed.
Clutching his score.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
Remind me, please
Write me one more letter
One like letters 16 through 53
The golden ages
Write the last paragraph
Like you don’t want it to end
Squeeze out the lines
You were planning on holding back
Like you did
For those 37
Teach me how to fall asleep before midnight
Again
Teach me how to wake up without hangovers
How to wake up with ideas
Show me everything
Like our poetry collections
Volumes 1 through 3
When we alternated days
And submissions
For 188 straight days
Minus the 14 days
We wrote four-letter poems
Remind me, please
When the bar was a date
And 1.75 liters was a dinner party
Not a Tuesday
Make me pay you back
The $65.00 in make-up
That I used to paint
“You’re too beautiful for make-up”
On the bedroom wall
Make me buy your little brother beer
For painting over it
Put 7,640 new songs on my itunes
Because these 7,640 are played out
Make sure we see every movie
Nominated for best picture
Before your cheesy award show party
It’s up to ten now, you know
Stay with me
For nine more minutes
While I hit snooze
Awake and right at it
Like ’04
Baby snores and blanket wars
Like ’05
Up before the alarm
Like ’06
Or at least in my dreams
Like ’07
And ’08
Rub it in my face
For the umpteenth time
By taking extra good care of me
When I’m sick
Even though
I never get sick
Pose for me
While I paint
And stare
Like that one time
When you were feeling so brave
Let’s spend our last $8.00
On yellow tail
Our last $18.00
On Sebastiani
Our last $38
On Veuve Cliquot
Because every day is a celebration
*******
Let’s reminisce on the 414 times
Our bodies became one
And the 671 times
They were at least in the same bed
Inspire me
Call attention to my capabilities
And caution to my chaos
Instigate that ******* in me
That made a jealous appearance or two
At christmas parties and night clubs
Hum me all 162 times I teared up in ’06
At the exact same time
Like a drumline
Of being lost
Because baby i’m lost
Point me
Point me in the right direction
Send me on the right path
You know, the one with you at the end of it
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 10:26 PM UTC
Shiiit
Maybe it’s just us
Maybe we’re not playing the game right
But every time we use the ouija board
It spells out
“everything is going to be ok”
And the spirits smile
And the weather aint that bad
These demons
These spirits
This darkness
I don’t know man
Lately our resilience
Seems to overshadow
The Shadows
See,
When it gets dark
We teach ourselves echo vision
And use our beating hearts for flashlights
Or, or
We reincarnate with night goggles
Perfect lighting
For messages in bottle rockets to the moon
When it gets dark
We dream under Zodiacal light
Writing sonnets
On supernovas
And shooting stars
On less inspired days
We wait for evil to combust…
Spontaneously
And light a torch
When it gets dark
When they toss us in black vines
And black flames
We’ll shoot out smoke signals
To our soul mates
When it gets dark
We turn on the **** lights
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
back in the day
when our heads were rocks
and our hearts were origami
we shot arrows through moleskins
and used wanderlust
as our compass
heatwaves
to sweat out
sadness and fuss
chest echoes
to drown out doubt
and reinforce it
today,
my boy downloaded manhood
through his contact lenses
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 12:11 PM UTC
fragile cloud streaks
stroked by summer's dried brush
sunlight is September
sky - sauce unmixed
the damage that was
back in tornado alley
can not be fixed
but will always be missed
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:53 PM UTC
fragile cloud streaks
stroked by summer's dried brush
sunlight is September
sky - sauce unmixed
the damage that was
back in tornado alley
can not be fixed
but will always be missed
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:52 PM UTC
my type breathes ink
pressing said ink against sky
holds it, sticks it, stains it
each letter pushes
and stays
every mistake she makes is crinkled
and college-lined
freethrown in and around
an endless waste basket
later,
we'll call it her greatest work
because my type
type: writer
alphabet ingester
idea inventor
stainer of sky
believes in a world
where the world believes
she dots her eye-contact
and crosses her teachings
she sees old folks as encyclopedias
and children as ear to ear echoes
of all of this beautiful ****
that makes us shout
out loud
she sees fairytales
as tomorrow's scientific law
and travels this crazy world
via lopsided butterfly
whom by nature
always take the scenic route
because my type
type: writer
freelance flower grower
with watercolor wordplay
breathes, believes
and redrafts
breathes, believes
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC
jigger blood
pumping neatly
only an ounce
and a quarter
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
My old man used to take me to the track
Showed me how to key the top horse
Sprinkle in some long shots, he’d say
Oh, and son, it takes money to make money
He’d smoke his stoag’, pound his beers
Imploring me with his simple wisdom
Life is way too short not to...
Not to what dad? Just not to
He never played the favorites
Even money is like kissin’ your sister
And win bets?
Well those are for *******
My formula was simple
Name + color + number
Times the square root of lifetime wins
Divided by the odds, plus two
We studied the programs in silence
A father and son crack team
And usually not on purpose
We’d make the same ********* face
I was eleven when I hit my first big one
Trifecta box, because I wasn’t a *****
Paid almost two large
Never made dad more proud
Steak and lobster on my son!
We went to Ruth’s to celebrate
I tipped the waiter a hundred
And fell asleep on the drive home
It’s been over a decade since
And about a dozen girls
Always done after they go down twenty
Always win, place, and show
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 11:40 PM UTC
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose life partner is beauty
Who makes more sense in a minute of listening
Then we do in a lifetime of talking
Who paints olive trees and cypresses
And now knows it's not called crazy
It's called pain, and it will pass
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who wakes up an hour before he falls asleep
And yet, never stops dreaming
Who rewrites morality with every fraction of information intake
And remixes truth until we're left bobbing our heads
With no other choice than to just feel it
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose children are freedom
Who walks in the rain while we plain get wet
Who wants nothing more than to want nothing more
Who only makes routine out of celebration
And love
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who ties masterpieces to rogue kites
And whispers nonsense into researcher's ears
Who knows that nobody is perfect
And takes the words "meant to be" very very seriously
Who exists
And is **** proud of that
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who revises his rewrites of morality
When information intake is remixed by reality
Until we're left shaking our heads
With no other choice than to think
Wait for me
And save me a glass
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 11:05 PM UTC