dorian-green - Hello Poetry

jesus and judas kissed in the garden moments before the world caved in. the gospel of judas says that the betrayer was the most loved of all disciples, that jesus took him aside and taught him touched him laughed. there are two sides to canon, history, myth: someone somewhere at sometime wanted a better story, where the betrayer was held close and favored, forgiven— but the gospels all end the same. the son is strung up for someone else's sins as judas wastes alone in the garden. intention is a matter of interpretation but what is silver worth, really? metaphor disintegrates and you come to me in my dreams. to love you after all of this is apocryphal— tempting yet untrustworthy. you're not judas, i'm just a mortal man, and there is no gnosis, no hidden knowledge, only apocalyptic revelations now. the world is irrevocable, just born. i miss you in the same way jesus met judas' eyes on the cross. somewhere in a field of blood or a forgotten library buried under the earth, there is a better story. over time only becoming more unknowable, hopeful fragments turning to dust in trembling hands.

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Nov 16, 2022

Nov 16, 2022 at 11:48 PM UTC

the gospel of judas

jesus and judas kissed in the garden moments before the world caved in. the gospel of judas says that the betrayer was the most loved of all disciples, that jesus took him aside and taught him touched him laughed. there are two sides to canon, history, myth: someone somewhere at sometime wanted a better story, where the betrayer was held close and favored, forgiven— but the gospels all end the same. the son is strung up for someone else's sins as judas wastes alone in the garden. intention is a matter of interpretation but what is silver worth, really? metaphor disintegrates and you come to me in my dreams. to love you after all of this is apocryphal— tempting yet untrustworthy. you're not judas, i'm just a mortal man, and there is no gnosis, no hidden knowledge, only apocalyptic revelations now. the world is irrevocable, just born. i miss you in the same way jesus met judas' eyes on the cross. somewhere in a field of blood or a forgotten library buried under the earth, there is a better story. over time only becoming more unknowable, hopeful fragments turning to dust in trembling hands.

33

not florescent but covered by a translucent screen, my tense and aching frame washed in a dull desaturating blue glow. streetlights speed past neurotic eyes, like worries of friends i haven't spoken to, and every awful thing i've ever said to my mother. i think of you, of course, the way i catch my reflection in the bus window: a glimpse—terrified and fascinated. i wring my hands, a nervous habit when they're feeling empty. everything i want is always at my door, and everything i fear is never far behind. why won't anyone let me hold them from halfway across the room? stay sitting across the aisle, as mysterious to me as any other tired stranger. i see you clearly but can never tell what you're thinking.

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Apr 2, 2022

Apr 2, 2022 at 1:05 AM UTC

last bus home

not florescent but covered by a translucent screen, my tense and aching frame washed in a dull desaturating blue glow. streetlights speed past neurotic eyes, like worries of friends i haven't spoken to, and every awful thing i've ever said to my mother. i think of you, of course, the way i catch my reflection in the bus window: a glimpse—terrified and fascinated. i wring my hands, a nervous habit when they're feeling empty. everything i want is always at my door, and everything i fear is never far behind. why won't anyone let me hold them from halfway across the room? stay sitting across the aisle, as mysterious to me as any other tired stranger. i see you clearly but can never tell what you're thinking.

25

callused hands over buzzing metal string, fingers practiced, deft and adept. i slept there and woke in a memory— temporary and beautiful and gone. a song someone played for me once, over and done, the lone melody of a heartbroken nostalgia. the past wraps its arms around me— history speaks— history lies— history repeats. keep it inhuman, abstract and formless. best not to give the past a face or a place to hide in your heart. they're the parts you'll miss: kisses, laughter, drowning in a borrowed sweater. better to leave it all as loosely connected events, portents of later misfortune, not a room i can't leave, a grief grappling with the transience of intimacy. history can't hurt me— the past is dead— but that song still gets stuck in my head

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Mar 28, 2022

Mar 28, 2022 at 7:08 PM UTC

mourning hymn

callused hands over buzzing metal string, fingers practiced, deft and adept. i slept there and woke in a memory— temporary and beautiful and gone. a song someone played for me once, over and done, the lone melody of a heartbroken nostalgia. the past wraps its arms around me— history speaks— history lies— history repeats. keep it inhuman, abstract and formless. best not to give the past a face or a place to hide in your heart. they're the parts you'll miss: kisses, laughter, drowning in a borrowed sweater. better to leave it all as loosely connected events, portents of later misfortune, not a room i can't leave, a grief grappling with the transience of intimacy. history can't hurt me— the past is dead— but that song still gets stuck in my head

18

I REACH OUT TO THE GREAT UNKOWN with the natural hesitance of a child nursed on plastic american protestantism, always prosperity gospel or pariah, answers just hidden behind a preacher's palm; in retrospect i wonder what questions those republican suburbanites crippled in their hatred came to submit at the foot of the cross. saccharine and soulless every sunday, the rot reliably festering under the church stage, brimstone traded for the wasteland of undecaying concrete. i was baptized by a stranger in stagnant water, now swaddled in the arms of a man who is not my Father. i'm always the cold one. bad circulation when i'm turning away. that abattoir left a pulsating wound at the center of my chest— starved weeping sickly and red. every sunday, the worst thing i could do was be honest. i worship with my hands, i falter for words; i never got to know the Lord in my youth because He never called me back. i find fragments of Him in lovers' eyes— fingertips glancing over flesh as if forbidden fruit, sweet real and warmed by sunlight. i think God was always this; physicality, connection, the simple intimacy of making someone else laugh. the only time i ever felt devout was when i was walking to get an arizona tea at the gas station next to the church with my friends. stumbling over asphalt still sincere in my vulnerability.

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Mar 5, 2022

Mar 5, 2022 at 8:05 PM UTC

reflections on a suburban jesus

I REACH OUT TO THE GREAT UNKOWN with the natural hesitance of a child nursed on plastic american protestantism, always prosperity gospel or pariah, answers just hidden behind a preacher's palm; in retrospect i wonder what questions those republican suburbanites crippled in their hatred came to submit at the foot of the cross. saccharine and soulless every sunday, the rot reliably festering under the church stage, brimstone traded for the wasteland of undecaying concrete. i was baptized by a stranger in stagnant water, now swaddled in the arms of a man who is not my Father. i'm always the cold one. bad circulation when i'm turning away. that abattoir left a pulsating wound at the center of my chest— starved weeping sickly and red. every sunday, the worst thing i could do was be honest. i worship with my hands, i falter for words; i never got to know the Lord in my youth because He never called me back. i find fragments of Him in lovers' eyes— fingertips glancing over flesh as if forbidden fruit, sweet real and warmed by sunlight. i think God was always this; physicality, connection, the simple intimacy of making someone else laugh. the only time i ever felt devout was when i was walking to get an arizona tea at the gas station next to the church with my friends. stumbling over asphalt still sincere in my vulnerability.

32

if i play with your hair, i just didn't know what to do with my hands. i'll write a poem and try not to feel pathetic, i'll keep hoping or come to terms with you not really caring where this'll go. storybook ending, beat the odds, or straight into a brick wall. i don't know. i'll kiss you goodnight and wonder who you dream about when you close your eyes. we all have ghosts we want to love us. naked skeletons in the closet that our memories dress in skin. seasons change, flowers wilt, lovers leave. i feel so stupid wishing that you wanted me.

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Dec 7, 2021

Dec 7, 2021 at 6:11 PM UTC

fool

if i play with your hair, i just didn't know what to do with my hands. i'll write a poem and try not to feel pathetic, i'll keep hoping or come to terms with you not really caring where this'll go. storybook ending, beat the odds, or straight into a brick wall. i don't know. i'll kiss you goodnight and wonder who you dream about when you close your eyes. we all have ghosts we want to love us. naked skeletons in the closet that our memories dress in skin. seasons change, flowers wilt, lovers leave. i feel so stupid wishing that you wanted me.

26

you point out jupiter in the sky, and i try not to think about how cold i am. my ears ring, it's just angels singing, i get drunk and act a fool. i hope you don't know that you've got me trapped in your orbit. i hope i never let you know. maybe there's life, but maybe it's just ice all the way down. i am simply one of your many satellites, caught in a storm's eye and just trying to keep my head on straight. i think if i stood up i would fall through the floor, nothing but empty air and the loyal orbit of an inhospitable moon. either way, the sun is rather far but i know you'd rather feel its warmth than anything anyone would find on europa.

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Oct 18, 2021

Oct 18, 2021 at 1:59 PM UTC

europa

you point out jupiter in the sky, and i try not to think about how cold i am. my ears ring, it's just angels singing, i get drunk and act a fool. i hope you don't know that you've got me trapped in your orbit. i hope i never let you know. maybe there's life, but maybe it's just ice all the way down. i am simply one of your many satellites, caught in a storm's eye and just trying to keep my head on straight. i think if i stood up i would fall through the floor, nothing but empty air and the loyal orbit of an inhospitable moon. either way, the sun is rather far but i know you'd rather feel its warmth than anything anyone would find on europa.

28

is it too much to ask for someone to look for me when i run and hide? but what i think of as love would probably be better phrased as hunting. so, please, pursue, rifle in hand, pull me from my burrow; at least i'd know you want me. pretty as a picture - strung up, throat slit - anything's better than hiding, better than a fear best described as paralyzing.

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Oct 18, 2021

Oct 18, 2021 at 1:49 PM UTC

rabbit season

is it too much to ask for someone to look for me when i run and hide? but what i think of as love would probably be better phrased as hunting. so, please, pursue, rifle in hand, pull me from my burrow; at least i'd know you want me. pretty as a picture - strung up, throat slit - anything's better than hiding, better than a fear best described as paralyzing.

15

all my life i told myself that i would be free by now - but the farther i went, the less i knew. maybe lost is worse than suffocating, or maybe i just want my mom. i thought i'd be more complete by now - but i don't feel ready for anything, i just feel scared.

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Aug 17, 2021

Aug 17, 2021 at 2:35 AM UTC

ballad of a homesick nomad

all my life i told myself that i would be free by now - but the farther i went, the less i knew. maybe lost is worse than suffocating, or maybe i just want my mom. i thought i'd be more complete by now - but i don't feel ready for anything, i just feel scared.

12

the scientists called it The Bomb, capitalizing it like God. is there anything more surreal or divine than to crush the world under your fist? is there anything more human than to ascend, abuse, destroy? do you think they realized what they'd done? animal breaks Creation, adam usurps Creator, radioactive, reeling, resplendent - i hope for a nuclear future; not desolation, no horsemen, but clean air, man-made Providence. there's something beautiful about evolving, becoming more than animal, living past hope or good sense. i am become god, bringer of life; i want to live to see the atom split, not for death, but for light.

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Aug 2, 2021

Aug 2, 2021 at 12:26 AM UTC

why did they cry when the very first atom bomb fell?

the scientists called it The Bomb, capitalizing it like God. is there anything more surreal or divine than to crush the world under your fist? is there anything more human than to ascend, abuse, destroy? do you think they realized what they'd done? animal breaks Creation, adam usurps Creator, radioactive, reeling, resplendent - i hope for a nuclear future; not desolation, no horsemen, but clean air, man-made Providence. there's something beautiful about evolving, becoming more than animal, living past hope or good sense. i am become god, bringer of life; i want to live to see the atom split, not for death, but for light.

23

drinking alone, smoking, playing dead, overthinking, a psyche made of bad habits and a stomach that's always sinking. this is the summer of silhouette, laying in the shade, apathetic slumber, the figure of a man in the background, counting my ribs and fearing the number. i go transparent in the sunset - the sickness is tangible, apparent, just as i knew, feared - it's buried in my chest, inherent. i can't get better when it's just paper mache and cigarettes; i pray and pray and pray but no one's heard me yet.

0

Jul 25, 2021

Jul 25, 2021 at 4:45 AM UTC

field report: the first summer without you

drinking alone, smoking, playing dead, overthinking, a psyche made of bad habits and a stomach that's always sinking. this is the summer of silhouette, laying in the shade, apathetic slumber, the figure of a man in the background, counting my ribs and fearing the number. i go transparent in the sunset - the sickness is tangible, apparent, just as i knew, feared - it's buried in my chest, inherent. i can't get better when it's just paper mache and cigarettes; i pray and pray and pray but no one's heard me yet.

16