You have forgotten God,
but somehow somewhere deep within
still you know
you are His prophet.
spraying holy graffiti on the abandoned midnight walls
of the eternal buildings of the city,
up in smoke the dreams of your yesterdays,
crushing emptied beer cans against railroad tracks,
screaming as the whistle blows,
longing to be,
longing to be…
just not quite so **** infinitesimal,
driven to insanity in the obscene love for now,
until your mind collapses into castrophic silent reverie.
Now,
now,
now.
i love you,
I love you,
i love you,
you are the prophet,
o lovely singular soul of everything,
you know what must be.
why have your eyes gone dark,
why are your visions no more,
you long for the starry magnitude of infinity,
and yet can only make it to the door.
you search in the sounds of the night
in the threads of your carpet,
in the creaks in the walls,
in the hum of the air,
in the sad blue jazz soul of the yellow-light sidewalks
that cry to the sky, “why this eternity,”
therein lies the mystery of everything,
you know it,
but where is it.
o prophet, o soul,
why have your eyes gone dark?
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
your desire since you were a child was to be a singer,
The world gave you cigarettes.
You also wanted to be an astronaut,
The world gave you gravity,
Eventually you grew content enough to lay down on the grass, smoke your mind away, and stare at the stars.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
If you spend your life chasing the wind,
Eventually you will understand it,
But you must first be ok with knowing that it will take you nowhere----
Unless you're among the types of people who feel like they need to be somewhere in particular----
But if you're like me,
Or at least harbor the least bit of recklessness that no one has beat out of you yet,
Then the wind is the only thing worth chasing.
For you will be beautifully lost,
Like the wind,
Searching the desert skies in the morning to kiss the side of a mountain tasting the first few rays of the rising sun,
And you will know why
And you will know that this time
Is the right time
And this place
Is the only place
And that voice inside your head
Is not you,
But you are a voice.
a great big lovely voice
Howling to the midnight moon,
And she understands you,
The way only the moon can understand.
And if you chase the wind long enough,
You will become it,
And you will understand.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
okay, i’ll admit that
your face is on my laptop’s background.
which is odd, i can see that,
since we both know i wish that you would just ******* disappear.
and i know that it’s not a very effective tactic, in forgetting everything that’s ever happened, and i get that.
it’s just that i get nervous when you’re not around for too long
but i know that eventually i’ll forget that
and it’ll be like
none of this ever happened and
maybe nothing will ever feel quite as tragic
as when i was so ******* ecstatic
that you found somebody and that he’s actually attractive, and bearded, and fully tatted.
and i’ll be here in this disaster city
where you’ve rarely matterred,
because i finally found a place where everyone doesn’t know you, and i'll just disappear for a while,
and i’ll be here overcoming my fear of needles while i'm at it.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC
a wise old sage from Louisiana, smoking cigarettes,
—which i stole one from that same pack later that day
and smoked it and almost threw up
behind the kind old episcopal woman’s house,
who the sage and i were living with in Memphis in july,
because we both were working on a stage somewhere in town
and we needed a place to stay a while, to watch summer rise from spring,
and i needed a place for you to **** me,
my phantom,
you, who, countless times, the Louisianan sage warned me about,
and the old episcopal woman hopefully knew nothing about,
who, chanting truths of freedom and songs of singularity,
white-haired, rose-gardening,
solitary and
alone and
buried alive
in the walls of her house,
surrounded by her memories,
like the coffee mugs i accidentally stole
when I left in August,
which, as it turns out, they were heirlooms of her dead mother’s—
i cracked them all, i believe—
the louisianan sage, who once tasted the sweat of New Orleans’ blues jazz soul,
now sitting across from me in the episcopal lady’s back porch,
sipping coffee from one of her mugs
that i eventually took and inevitably cracked,
this sage told me wide-eyed through cigarette smoke,
seeing visions in the june blue sky,
‘the truth hurts. but a lie hurts more.’
the smoke rose to the clouds above our heads
like a sacrifice to god, and i rose with it,
and told him about september eighteenth.
and what it felt like to die
and come here.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
you wanted to know the truth.
about me. my phantom, the truth is
i have simply loved you to ******* death.
i have kissed you into the ground.
the truth is what
made me a liar. the truth is
that i am ******* scared to death
of the truth.
the truth that
lurking somewhere in my own downward-spiraling infinity,
solving all the mysteries
we’d all rather keep unsolved,
the melody-like burning in your ears,
the key scraping holy vandalisms on
the walls of your mind,
the needle inking unwanted tattoos
on the only skin of your soul.
these are
my truths.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
I find myself tongue-tied, and i have been for a very long while.
i'm not quite sure what i can attribute this to...
it's been a quality of mine ever since i've learned to speak.
(where i've gone and
the few faces along the way,
with eyes like distorted mirrors
showing me my strange self)
i have trouble finding my place, yet i've found many places
i don't know how to connect, though at times i feel connected
you have me confused
s c a t t e r
b r a i n e d
back and forth for so long, and finally landed separate,
fixed in each other's shade of the soon-to-be-forgotten past
because-- i don't have a because.
because i have too many becauses.
because i simply cannot
i can't place my finger on why.
i don't feel as real
as i used to.
please understand
life is confusing because there are so many different ways to see it.
so one can never be too sure what is true.
about self, reality, or other people.
there are a million different experiences of the color green.
i am seen one way, but i feel about myself something invisible.
and sometimes i don't feel anything about anything at all.
she
spoke as if she knew the world down to its heartbeat,
and could see through its bones.
she spoke as if her eyes were the only eyes,
and they saw all truths.
she was not careful with her words
and never stepped outside of her body
to see how imprisoned she was in her thoughts.
she obsessed over what she saw in others,
and what they saw in her.
for that, i think, she always wore the sun.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
i'm in love with the way
we all crowd around each other
in flatteringly-lit places
with four walls
overpriced drinks
and some dark noise
as we keep to ourselves mostly
in groups of one or three
being social
but sometimes
you look into someone's lined eyes accidentally,
strangers,
as if to say 'save me, please. are you it? please be it.'
no one ever is
quite
it
then, we look away intensely at the floor,
or pick up an ash tray that is suddenly so interesting,
or ask to *** a cig
or something stupid.
as the night rolls into itself
and you find yourself alone in your unmade bed
again
to conclude yet another day,
now that you're so tired of
conclusions.
and nothing is quite
it
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
I would let your fingers
into my shirt
to carve pictures
into my back
with your nails,
and I would guess
your drawings
as a game.
You would always veer
from the mole, but
sometimes you
would accidentally
scratch it;
I would
always apologize.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
I’ve never
had a bruise
that lasted
more than the
amount of
time it took
for me to
forget how
it got there
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC