I've been reading quotes all day
Under tags of adventure and passion and purpose
Wondering if they're perhaps too pretentious
In their declarations.
Am I to believe
They're so much wiser than me[sic]?
It is not a word less
Than what I have traced on my pillow sheet
with drool in my sleep.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
When we form a microcosm
Underneath the sheets
I am your peasant people
You give me the word kind
Little thing
I do not give you the word tyrant
Although
You were already wearing
Blindly
The crown I had given you
Kissing the brow
Granting mute fealty
Under an unrelenting sun
Out in a wheat field
Heart blistered
But a king's got to eat
Even if he doesn't know where the bread comes from
Do you still
Not understand love?
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
Write,
this time...
detached.
portion prepositions
punctuation
camels.
back to the sternum bone
where
colors like
blue
don't mean nothing,
don't feel nothing,
but a thing.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
hangover strawberries
on new year's morning
from the hand of a boy
whose name
I don't recall
but who
held my hair
with recognition.
the sugars
rubied
on the toilet seat
I've never had to do anything I didn't want to.
I've never had to do anything.
hesitant tenderness
when strangers kiss goodbye
testing the flutter when name passes through threshold lips
this was all
years ago.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
I still get my news from my hometown.
And I do not respond to my new friends.
And I cursed November when he came.
And I told myself my existence was feeble.
And I got all the movie quotes wrong.
And I was coughing all the **** time, craggy inhales and spittle in my tea.
They were all phonies then.
Except the boy
I met who
ended every sentence with
"I don't really know,"
so
everything he said could be true.
And I was running all the time in my sleep, then.
And ******* too.
And the same boy was always in my dreams - but not the right boy - the boy who was important to me only ever in sleep.
But dreams seemed important then, too.
Oh, I remember!
5 a.m.
when I yanked you out of bed, come, I am going
MAD!
(you were going mad, too,
just last week.)
The fog was not rising at all
chain smoking in respect to my lungs
and their strike on air
my strike on a way of living whose sole purpose was
to stay alive longer
what's all the yap about?
I was not sure I wanted to live
you kept on talking about dogs.
I do not want to live
you started talking about cars!
I have death in my fingertips, you fool!
You supposed heaven was real
and I thought over what I had heard:
heaven is all around us
(yes, we were in a cloud.)
And I supposed you were right
but I kept silent,
I could not put my world on you
and its godlessness.
There was a green flashing light
on the other side of Cincinnati
but you did not understand that reference yet.
But we counted all the
churches and rainy cars
They couldn't grasp at God either.
Godlessness!
it will make us all mad, then.
but it was science who spelt of protons and electrons;
and when I am GOOD
he shows me his twisted, gnarled little black heart.
and when he, angelic, comes--
I am the Darkness.
We supposed this was how God talks, anyways.
And the sun curled up again
we drank coffee
in bad lighting
over silence
the insanity
soggy waffles
night shakes leaving me and...
It took you hours to respond!
Grappling with insanity for hours!
the kinds in wavelengths
static
feeble
hours
glowering hunched electric clock in the corner
cracked windows
pane
I could not stop thinking over forgiveness
and if I forgave my father for forgetting my birthday
nine years ago
so mundane.
And if it mattered anymore
And if I forgave God
And if I would ever apologize to Him
there was a green flashing light in my baptismal basin, too.
I do not call myself Gatsby anymore.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
In a basement
There are nine people
-hands in pockets
-eyes on skies
-on the backs of eyelids reminding them their tries at ordinary, are lies nonetheless.
And I am the tenth.
I do not know where to put my hands,
so I cut them off.
And everyone else out.
And pay mind just to breath, teeth at a reality that is not ordinary.
And college kids getting ****** up
Is not a rebellion.
And college kids getting ******
Is not substantial enough for a love poem.
But I'm still waiting on rebellions and love poems,
hoping I can be a part of either.
My fists are on the ground
beating on the corning
--every **** thing I say mumbled or ignored
--"that's me in the spotlight"
Puppets and puppies, both
strings and kicking at things
I've staggered off in my thoughts again
drunk rumbles through the trash
And you've staggered off in your mind again
I'm trailing far enough behind that
you don't think I'm following.
But the smears
of
red
and silver
and light;
Magnetic, baby.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
Wobble, wobble
The boy's in trouble
Again.
Trouble, trouble
The icy way of December has heartbreak on his lips
(Again?)
Put this
On your tongue
And catch the snowflakes too.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC