i.
to river-
what to pack.
first
line your heart with apathy so that your hands don’t get as ******
then twenty lullabies your mama sang,
or twelve you found along the way, waiting in the gutter and half inside the oily iris pools
(the songs that see you when it’s dark, and know the curves of your hands.
those. bring those.)
bring your pen. bring a leash, and watch that it doesn’t become a noose. it’s a leash. remember this.
bring a tree. bring a windowsill to sit on and
bring your pile of unsent letters.
bring water.
bring a time piece more accurate than your skippy heartbeat.
the team captain will tell you what to do. how to handle the footprints
and where to go.
ii.
i found receipts on the floor this morning.
receipts for the cost of my ease and peace
in closed eyes and closed palms holding hands.
i still can’t find my chapstick.
i asked you where my chap stick went
please blink back
to at least let me know that you heard.
i am full of everything possible and the bathroom smells like vinegar and fresh paint
brushed along my skin
when will i hear your voice again?
there’s a square of light on my ceiling, a puddle of light on the floor.
is this the lights shining through the windows
or is the sunset reflected in the glass?
i am unsure.
i am waiting.
iii.
from the collection of empty envelopes,
and stamped post cards unwritten,
i can hear your silence roar.
i’m ready.
you sat in the calm eye of my hurricane mind.
she says she doesn’t want me to be tied down to that
but you were my anchor, holding me steady.
iv.
if i could,
i would.
i would speed up the days to skip past the moments that make me who i will be.
i would speed up the days so that the sun streaks across the sky, so that the sun becomes a shooting star, so that i could read all the wishes i don’t bother to make,
but then they can’t break so
it’s okay.
maybe it’d look like the lines on the highway, the yellow ones that have to be broken to let us pass.
v.
sometimes i go out into the night lit artificially from below the surface of a ***** swimming pool.
leaves would float on its surface.
i’d sit on the metal railing, my feet dangling into empty space and i would lick at the smoke curling from my fingertips.
if i held my left hand out just right, i could see the light reflecting and swimming across my skin.
(when will i see your face again?)
there’s a man down on the ground, sitting
on the brick wall holding me in. there’s a shovel in his hand. and a rake. i can see his silhouette by the lantern at his side, like a bright eyed guide. i could hear a radio from somewhere over his shoulder.
i listened to the radio shows with him. the graveled voices talked about death.
i always had the urge to leap down to the ground and walk across the lawn to sit beside him. to tell him stories.
but then i always questioned whether or not he was real.
i sat on my sill.
vi.
do you remember how you drew constellations across my hands?
was it worth the lamp light?
across the fate line and the life line, you would dot
three stars across my palm.
orion’s head at the logic line,
the bases of my fingers became a bow, the tip of my middle finger, the star.
you liked it when i stuck it up at you. you said you saw stars when i felt something.
orion was a hunter, and my heart is my weapon.
vii.
the team captain looked you hard in the eye and rolled his neck.
our eyes met on the moon.
his teeth was made of bullets.
“my little thing,” you’d speak.
captain, o captain, he’d watch the bus driver drive home alone again.
viii.
i am a UFO.
an unaccompanied floating overture you’ll soon forget about.
an unhappy finished omen swooping in with the Crushing Weight of Reality to smother your dreams.
an unbalanced fumbling orbit, unsure and unsteady.
it’s me.
an unmelted frozen ocean falling.
the trouble with you calling me your snowflake is that i will melt under your gaze and become the water you drown in.
maybe it’s better if you pack
your things and find the captain.
he’ll tell you what to do and
where to go.
mouse
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
we want to say that we built this house with our hands
with our blood
we built this house and burned it down
we rebuilt this house and burned it down
we rebuilt this house and stayed
i want to tell you that my father builds houses for a living but i have never lived in one
i want to tell you that my mother still asks how you're doing
i want to say that we built this house and it's never abandoned and we are never waiting by the windows
that we always have wood for the fireplace
we never drink alone
i never fall asleep in the shower
in this house our love keeps the lights on
you can feel it through the floorboards like vibrations through a phonograph through the hardwood through your back
we sleep monday through thursday and get paid on weekends to drink whiskey and slow dance in the kitchen
we roll around in bed trying to catch the light
our bodies become curtains or sponges
you soak me up like sunshine and nobody asks where i went
we always finish what we start
i become welcome mat, welcome back, come back,
come home
i turned the basement into a music room
when it rains for you it never floods
we built this house with our hands, with our love, with our blood
there is wood for the fireplace
the flames never spread
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
I love the way you hold me
Wrap me in your arms
Your the first thing I need when I get home and my hardest goodbye
You've seen me at my worst
My best
And all the rest
But you don't mind
After all you're just a
bed
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
perhaps it's because i can't draw that i write.
if i can persuade someone to create the image in their own head,
am i still the artist?
(e.f.)
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
There were two piano pieces of Rachmaninoff's: Love's Joy and Love's Sorrow. Now she, the musician who lets the instrument cry for her, always chooses to play the latter piece. And he, the musician who seeks to pursue happiness with his instrument, asks her, "Why do you stick to sorrow?"
.
.
.
"So I can get used to it."
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
There's an infestation in my minds imagination
I hope they choke on smoke
Because I'm smoking them out the basement
This is not rap, this is not hip hop
Just another attempt to make the voices stop
Rapping to prove nothing
Just writing to say something
'Cause I wasn't the only one who wasn't rushing to say nothing
This doesn't mean I lost my dream
It's just right now I've got a really crazy mind to clean
Know what I mean?
No I didn't understand a thing you said
If I didn't know better I'd guess you're all already dead
Mindless zombies walking around with a limp and a hunch
Saying stuff like, "You only live once."
Yeah once. You got one timme to figure it out.
One time to twist and one time to shout
One time to think and I say we start now
Because death inspires me like a dog inspires a rabbit.
- Twenty One Pilots
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
"Sometimes to stay alive you gotta **** your mind."
-twenty one pilots
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
but
i read the texts from a boy who was supposed to care about me
and i knew it was over
'parentally he was sober
yet i couldn't tell.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Broken bones, cracked wood, bullet holes
concrete jungle, trashed hoods
events parted souls.
New generation,
burned eyes, pictures burned within
the frame of mind.
Flicker like flames, burning bright
like daytime. Behaviour leaving
vague signs..smokesignals.
Adding oil, fake signs
attracted like a moth to the flame
the pyromaniac saves time.
set-up, stamp time
written the punchline
**** it, it's lunchtime
This One Ate Seven Poets
Get burned lines
like the horizon touching the sunrise
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC