Look up at the top
right corner of your bathroom.
I bet you don’t look there
often, if at all
I bet you haven’t counted
hundreds of barely-there
microscopic but almost
visible regrets
(the way) I’ve counted
each letter of your name
before I rearranged
them to spell out mine
I’m not saying I’m special.
I am not any less grateful
than the next sullen crash test
dummy
picked out of the bunch
but I’m wondering why
why it had to be me
cold, cold philosophy
the taste of inductive logic
still sits **** and bitter on my tongue
I spit and spit
and spit;
**** it all
to metaphorical hell
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
From one mouth to the other
she gives us life
she nourishes and cradles her pride
until we are ready
But we have time to disappoint
air to break
tears to cry
for we are far from ready
Young and unworthy
void of understanding
wings that will not work on their own
we have tried to fly but won't, for we
are far from ready
And the grass is green
And the cardinals sing
They tell us we're not ready.
She regurgitates on us
she doesn't clean it up
and when we ask her why
she tells us we're not ready
One day the pride is gone
but we've known it all along
as sunshine is to day,
being ready in our own way
the rest is simply feathers in the wind.
We may not find each other
for a while,
but from greys to May
it will stay the same
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
It’s about time
our design
came to life
Early morning light
casts a florescent glow
onto the autumn leaves
when the air around me
bends and weaves;
A-thing is to arrive.
as lightning steals your eyes,
I could not see them then
and I cannot see them now.
Is it only what is found between us?
at the point of relocation lies a charm;
a bad idea, an incentive, if you must
for where there is emotion there is harm.
Trust is always amiable,
the truth was always hard to explain.
drugs that play like cannibals
and sleep that keeps you like a slave;
inside my barracks
and I sleep alone.
the hustled train
delivers mellow drones.
Lips in hands,
eyes in mouth,
something I need
to talk about.
But things would start to grow moldy,
every bone shapes up to limbs that crack and shake
they fall down.
they fall apart.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
She would always compare love
to a habit,
something one eventually gets
used to. I don’t plan on giving away
pieces of myself for the sake of
feeding my habit,
whatever that may be. But I can also see
how she could be right.
Dripping walls speak out – guarding a
possibility.
They may not be bothered until feeble
smokescreens arrive, unattended.
Skin won’t crawl and lanterns will not quake.
The stickiness of rain settles into all that has been
made at
biweekly intervals. Oh science! dearly fleeing
from my good luck, you left a compensation
for the deadbeat tattered robe. (An applied luxury.)
Backwards lashes of dancers in the sea.
Their grandparents' history to be taken with a grain of salt.
Some spinning in the misty moss growth
ignites the yellow from the evergreen’s pollen
seed.
It stops every other season when we take
and rub it on our clothes.
It’s not that sad, there’s no offense.
It’s something we've gotten used to.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
A riveting notion it is –
to say "what if"
to disappear after damages
what if the world stopped what it
was doing and commemorated
us
what if it didn't?
clumsiness hovers tall
over the backhanded intentions
via smile, kindness.
I'm not sure
if push or pull would apply to
this.
To becoming
a bit less empty
dodging every unsolved
pattern of emotion
that there is.
Blatantly refusing to believe
that somebody else
is two steps ahead
just because sly intuition
hadn't led them astray
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
Stare carefully. Drop it. Say yes to the coffee. Handle grip. Roll. Ticket scanned. Waved hand and then - stand. Stand more still. Mouthy slime. Thank you but sharp objects? Sneeze. Bless you. Floor. Floor. But more parking. Those seats. Pasta, beef. Gargle and inflate. Wear all red for all the hate. One kit. Quiet down the pumps. Noisiest shoes. And we’re gone. Thirty seven thousand feet kind of gone. Thunder side note: I want more friends. A little flash…and shake. How serious. Get up. Gingeralebreakanail. What happens if we crash. Home, not hometown.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC