There’s a dog on the bench
By the car on the sidewalk
She won’t move —
She wants to stay dry
And stay on the sidewalk.
I am paved in gold & the
Parts that make up a radiator
A rigid source of heat
In the cabin.
Like a ligament at the crook
Of your, her, leg — I am bathed
In the light of the fireplace
Waning from the moon.
I am afraid of the moon
It may render me a wolf caught
In a bear trap;
I howl.
I howl like the dog perched
Upon the bench by the car
Crashed upon the sidewalk.
She nor I will move for fear
Of straining the safety of dry fur.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
Dear Rabbits & Rabies & Silence & Bones so hollow they can break upon landing & Sleep & Teeth & Being radiation free & Radiation for being clean energy & Dieting & Headphones & Lightning & The Sky & Thirty-Thousand US Dollars, really it’s closer to Twenty-Eight but let’s round up to be Safe & Playing with Blocks as a kid & Starting my car with a screwdriver & Learning from failure & Failing quizzes but passing classes & Teachers who need to chill the **** out (because they’re excited and I don’t get excited so it scares me when people get excited) & my mother and father and brother and unborn sister (she might have been named after Bob Marley like I almost was) & Clever titles & Bad titles for making clever titles seem more clever & Robots for making life easier & Robots for taking over the future & Passing cars & ****** bars & Oil Tycoons ******* straws from MotherEarth, bleeding her dry just in time for winter
You’re all okay—
I have a lot of feelings
That I don’t like feeling all that often
And you’re vital, pivotal to the waking world
But you’re also ruining my life; I’m no good at math
But I’m trying anyways and slowly learning that
Good & Evil are pretty much the same side of the
Same battle if you’re standing far enough away but I
Am not quite that far away yet.
The world is a clock and without every gear in locking place
Time would stop altogether—a redundant thought,
Yet still relevant upon revisiting.
If I am a cloud then you are a storm, a billowing hurricane
With sugar for blood and wire-tapped veins, broken
Like I ought to be except I am afraid
To truly really break like the love of my life
Did when she was seventeen or eighteen—I don’t
Quite remember when it all started but how it pains me
Every day that you (not you, reader, but an old friend)
Did this and do this to yourself still.
No matter where I go and no matter how much
Powder you buy just to look at (it’s comforting—
I want to believe you) You will always be
At the front of my mind & for that,
I owe you.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
My Father's mother wrote me a check
And though she has a checkbook
with her name on it
From four years ago,
She sent me the decadent sum
of twenty-five dollars
On a slip of paper with a name
that was of her husband,
My Father's Father,
And still is.
When I look at this check pinned to my wall
I am reminded of the man,
The eighteen-wheeling man,
And how a few years ago I was afraid
and unamused
So I did not peek into his open casket.
It was a year since I had seen him,
And 'goodbye' escaped my lips (which were sealed
incredibly) until he was lowered.
I hope he went to heaven; if he did not
I am sure I will say 'hello'
After I cash this check,
But not yet.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
The child fell in mid-July
When he held three rings
Rippling out from his bones.
His knew smiled a toothless
grin that dropped guts & goo
While the child screamed
Hoping that mother would set
Down her dishes and break
In half her paint brush. He hoped
That mother would stitch him back
Together. A scarecrow wears a costume
Of a strong superhero three months
Later with the help of rubber bands
And metal barbs.
The child fell in mid-July &
Left a scar but not a bruise.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
I am composed of so many
Different Shapes
That while I am touching
Myself in the dark
I do not recognize
Who is in the room
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Well, not we
But you alone delayed
Those blurry red lines
That poured from
An officers light.
He pulled you from the grave
In the way
You pulled those stones
From the ground,
Pillbugs and all,
To call them boys
And count their fingertips.
Each had ten
While you had twelve
After the crash.
The car wrapped around the sharpest
Pole you could reach
(The car wrapped around,
Twisted like a cobra,
With poisonous barbs ready at will)
and spit you out towards the top.
You slowly slid down
Peg by peg, full with splinters,
Then the officer came
And let down his hair
To weave into yours.
After we went camping
The forest swallowed you whole
And the belly of the world
Was swollen with guilt.
After we went exploring
You swallowed your tongue
And your belly was swollen
With rage and your
******* with milk and metal.
It was the wild
(About which you had forgotten)
Which drove you to madness
And
It was the madness
That drove you to
Crash the car
Once before
And though I hope otherwise
We fear it will drive you
To crash again.
Well, not we
But I still fear for you.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
Watch this
You mumbled deep in slumber
Took your hand
Unzipped the skin just beneath
Your occupying ribs,
Slipped four fingers behind the walls
Of your cage (what does it hold
Does it protect or alienify?)
And wiggled them between the bars
Look at what I can do
I almost have it all figured out
If you tried
So would you
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
Johnny remembers the barn
He kissed his first cow in
It burned down two years ago
Johnny holds his head low
Pointing towards the floor
Pointing towards the door
He drinks homemade grape juice
And thinks about how odd
It is that we crush small things
And drink their blood
Johnny does not want to be crushed
He does not like the sinking feeling
He gets when he thinks about
The grey silo that still stands
By the dark patch of grass
That won't grow back again
He wishes the clock would stop
Talking at such a steady volume
Johnny has trouble sleeping
Ever since the barn burned down
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
A drawing of a superhero
Done by a fourth grader
Who’s father died in a fire.
He’s standing ten feet tall
With the wind blowing in his hair,
He’s got so many friends
And feels no despair.
All the happy people
They say they love him
And there’s nothing he can do
But just keep going.
But teacher asks a question
And he doesn’t know,
So all the children laugh
At the broken Superhero
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
It used to be that
We couldn’t go a day
Without talking.
Now I’m joining the army
So that I can die
With a rifle in my hand
For something I don’t understand.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC