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my childhood dog
died yesterday afternoon.
this morning i woke up with a head full of blood
that was falling out of my nose.
i called my brother to talk
about the summer
and the truth we turn from
that is lightly tugging
at the lining of our fathers heart.
i am moving at a pace that
resembles the shifting of
a two glacial bodies —
the formation of a stalactite
within the caverns of our
dust speck, swollen bellied earth space,
but i am still moving.
it will not always be this way.
it will not always be this way.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
tomorrow morning
i will wake up on the floor.
perpetually unfazed, among the empty beer cans
and the ash smudges between the carpet fibers,
thinking about the way it started in
the very beginning.
today, on repeat for every day this month.
i can't hear out of my right earl,
and my body is punishing me
for not eating and drinking myself dizzy.
dragging myself through the morning
all the way to the middle of the middle of the night
and then again.
Forget, Forgotten.
classless scummy ohio whatever,
i once loved a firework, once.
she went off
midday
a puff, black thick smoke,
in what was otherwise
a pristine sky with an eye for some sun.
since then
i've been living in troubledays,
waiting for the cold to clear
singing to myself
when i get the chance
thinking about that black smoke
on a canvas of clarity
when i've got none of it.
i'm taking my chances with me
wherever they follow,
and i am coming back
just not today, and probably not tomorrow
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
electric pulsed,
ionizing under fake sunlight
getting fake sunburn
but a fire is a fire is a fire
and i'm still,
electric pulsed,
man or artifice or god
in whatever order,
poetry is the art of everything;
less about love,
more about recovery
its
waking up in your coffin
the morning
after you've dreamt
of a past lover
the pain
that heals
like the continents
d
r
i
f
t
.
to this end
there is a beginning
that feels like
god to man to artifice
(what is man to artifice if not god)
heavier
than the art of everything
the poetry of inky blood and red eyes
the distant solace
in pain
wherein, words
always run out
and the end comes
with a clash, we're all going.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
he coughs
the walls shake
the stress in one
second is enough
to ****
but we feel it all
of every day.
when i was younger
and less empty
he told me
about the autumn
leaves changing
and that there is beauty
in death because
it is life
but i can't apply that
to anything but
******* leaves.
not now at least,
as the hole in his chest
can only be
filled with a clock
that talks away
whatever is left.
i am sorry
i haven't been stronger
than your pain.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
i know
you can't
forgive me
for not keeping
you warm
when i should have.
and my inconsistencies
outweigh the
goodness in me
lately,
but maybe you'll excuse
the mess --
i am a bad day,
and i'm looking
for you
in everything
i do.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
pavement scrapes beneath my feet
high on hash, howling at the moon
drunk on gasoline—
drowning in it.
i’m just trying to make it
to the promise land.
ya know,
where there is no road
and everyday is a ****** up holiday.
so i drag myself through the 3am swoon
with money on my mind
when i’ve got none of it.
its hot
i’ve been counting my
teeth with my tongue
and i am searching for god
in the cracks on the side walk
but i’m walking alone
and the blood runs thick.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
i return to my parents home
nestled too far into the
battle field of mediocrity.
i am asleep in a bed much too large for
just one body,
but when my best friend is too tired
to make the drive home,
i find myself choosing the couch
while she sleeps too small in my bed
too large.
in that, there is something
particularly sad and sick
and i find it in myself
when she asks me
as i sit across from her
eye to eye,
'where are you?'
and i hold my words
in the back of my throat
and they choke me,
silently panicking,
and a clear lie is freed from my lips:
"i've just been really stressed lately.
i'm taking a lot of credits (i think about
what it would be like to die too often)"
and we move on
because she knows i'm lying
if only to hide,
but i return to my bed at night
alone and missing the feeling
of being lonely, because at least
that means i feel something
about this foreverlike distance
between me and myself
and myself and everyone else.
so i retreat to the couch
where i pretend that the cushion
is someone i can lay next to
without wanting to find
somewhere else to sleep.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
1. We are critical.
We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.
2. We are never satisfied.
We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.
3. We never forget.
We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.
4. We are fickle.
Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.
5. We are exposed.
We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.
6. We are vulnerable.
We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.
7. We will never stop.
We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.
We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
i've decided that
i could **** myself,
but instead, i'll find the words
that will do it for me.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC