scott-swanger - Hello Poetry

he had been a pretty thing. i got my own to keep and he’s got his own. we ain’t got no love to make. when can we learn to live without touching? he had been a pretty thing. we crawled in the back seat of my car and i pulled mine out first. i came on his *** and was proud for it. i know he won’t need me again. i got my own to keep and he’s got his; we gather it together under a dying sun.

0

Apr 12, 2013

Apr 12, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC

hot mess.

he had been a pretty thing. i got my own to keep and he’s got his own. we ain’t got no love to make. when can we learn to live without touching? he had been a pretty thing. we crawled in the back seat of my car and i pulled mine out first. i came on his *** and was proud for it. i know he won’t need me again. i got my own to keep and he’s got his; we gather it together under a dying sun.

44

when you thought i was sleeping, i was pulling the breath out of your lungs. scaling your throat, deep into your core. the rope strains and breaks between your teeth. you feel it and remember the way god feels in your stomach, the fear of hell, and of waiting rooms, the thought that someone out there had, at least once, thought of you. this poem is for the dreams you’ll never realize. this poem is for the words i want to shove through your ear and into your heart. this is for one night, a thousand miles away from here, when you say good night to a man you can never love, force your head down on your pillow and remember that you had been loved at least once. you are the only science i’ll ever know, the only pieces i want to add and subtract. connecting the arms, the head, the **** the heart, and breathing what life i have left into you. i hope you remember how that feels.

0

Feb 26, 2013

Feb 26, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC

untitled; movement number 7.

when you thought i was sleeping, i was pulling the breath out of your lungs. scaling your throat, deep into your core. the rope strains and breaks between your teeth. you feel it and remember the way god feels in your stomach, the fear of hell, and of waiting rooms, the thought that someone out there had, at least once, thought of you. this poem is for the dreams you’ll never realize. this poem is for the words i want to shove through your ear and into your heart. this is for one night, a thousand miles away from here, when you say good night to a man you can never love, force your head down on your pillow and remember that you had been loved at least once. you are the only science i’ll ever know, the only pieces i want to add and subtract. connecting the arms, the head, the **** the heart, and breathing what life i have left into you. i hope you remember how that feels.

73

i had a ***** when you left which subsided in the fifteen minutes it took to realize you weren't coming back. when i couldn't write a poem about you, i realized what you'd done. "you son of a ***** i yelled as i walked into the bedroom, where we'd once made something of love. knowing you'd never hear it. knowing that, of everything i had given away, you had taken the few words i had kept for myself. read the following under a false pretense: i am the bird, you are the plane that swallows and hurls me back to the earth again, to discover myself one more time. i have your memory, your smile, and your silence. and i intend on being selfish with what i earned.

0

Oct 8, 2012

Oct 8, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC

on thinking of you.

i had a ***** when you left which subsided in the fifteen minutes it took to realize you weren't coming back. when i couldn't write a poem about you, i realized what you'd done. "you son of a ***** i yelled as i walked into the bedroom, where we'd once made something of love. knowing you'd never hear it. knowing that, of everything i had given away, you had taken the few words i had kept for myself. read the following under a false pretense: i am the bird, you are the plane that swallows and hurls me back to the earth again, to discover myself one more time. i have your memory, your smile, and your silence. and i intend on being selfish with what i earned.

50

it is nothing. the parking lots and the schools are empty today and tomorrow. we decided we didn't care about it, at some point. we will all wait here. it is winter and it feels like spring before the chill of god's wrath sneaks up on you. whenever the weather suddenly changed, my mother swore up and down that the world was going to end. i wanted nothing to do with it. but this is where it's come: the empty spaces in our conversations when we run out of ways to tell people that we love them, when their eyes lose the thing that made your stomach turn, when they get bored with you and throw you away. it is nothing. the day is someone's or no one's at all. i, myself, will wait out another cold night.

0

Feb 13, 2012

Feb 13, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC

these days.

it is nothing. the parking lots and the schools are empty today and tomorrow. we decided we didn't care about it, at some point. we will all wait here. it is winter and it feels like spring before the chill of god's wrath sneaks up on you. whenever the weather suddenly changed, my mother swore up and down that the world was going to end. i wanted nothing to do with it. but this is where it's come: the empty spaces in our conversations when we run out of ways to tell people that we love them, when their eyes lose the thing that made your stomach turn, when they get bored with you and throw you away. it is nothing. the day is someone's or no one's at all. i, myself, will wait out another cold night.

53

what is death? a middle-aged man in a volvo, collecting payments and favors? i met him once on his road trip from new york to california. i imagined death streaking across america, the way the ground shakes and swallows its people. i didn't ask him anything. i was afraid of his answers but he keeps files on every living being and sorts through them when he gets bored, picking people off like flies. i figured he had heard about the likes of me before. is death the object of a mid-life crisis for a god who got a little too close to the sun and got his feelings hurt? maybe that is the answer after all. he left me at a truck stop off the interstate in anniston, alabama. i didn't catch his name, but i think we'll be introduced again real soon.

0

Dec 17, 2011

Dec 17, 2011 at 6:39 PM UTC

anniston, alabama (what is death?)

what is death? a middle-aged man in a volvo, collecting payments and favors? i met him once on his road trip from new york to california. i imagined death streaking across america, the way the ground shakes and swallows its people. i didn't ask him anything. i was afraid of his answers but he keeps files on every living being and sorts through them when he gets bored, picking people off like flies. i figured he had heard about the likes of me before. is death the object of a mid-life crisis for a god who got a little too close to the sun and got his feelings hurt? maybe that is the answer after all. he left me at a truck stop off the interstate in anniston, alabama. i didn't catch his name, but i think we'll be introduced again real soon.

37

broken as it was, we had tried to fix it. you said i was your first like it disappointed you to admit such a thing. would this be worth it? my heart sighed no. but the body, entangled in yours as it was, kept fighting its own battles, waging its own wars with destiny and with your eyes and your legs. you told me not to speak to you, as if i was the only one doing the hurting. but would you mind keeping me, once again,in my own dreams for awhile? the heart says stop. the body says go. turn on, turn off.

0

Dec 11, 2011

Dec 11, 2011 at 2:23 PM UTC

as it was.

broken as it was, we had tried to fix it. you said i was your first like it disappointed you to admit such a thing. would this be worth it? my heart sighed no. but the body, entangled in yours as it was, kept fighting its own battles, waging its own wars with destiny and with your eyes and your legs. you told me not to speak to you, as if i was the only one doing the hurting. but would you mind keeping me, once again,in my own dreams for awhile? the heart says stop. the body says go. turn on, turn off.

30

as we dissolve into the ages, i will only have these things to remember: your messy hair, your easiness, your voice, your embrace. when i drove through the last exit, i saw a plane speeding through the cosmos. i think we are all crossing some distance.

0

Dec 11, 2011

Dec 11, 2011 at 1:28 AM UTC

crossing some distance.

as we dissolve into the ages, i will only have these things to remember: your messy hair, your easiness, your voice, your embrace. when i drove through the last exit, i saw a plane speeding through the cosmos. i think we are all crossing some distance.

19

there was this guy, probably not a day over 40 or so. he looked like everyone had envied him in a past life. people at work would just ask if he was tired. and he would nod, knowing that it was yes and no at the same time. after he spilled his brains out in his wife's beauty salon, telling her he was tired of waiting on everything, they said she went home and put on a new dress and that was that. when i heard about it, i could only lift my hands in some prayer to no one in particular that wherever he was going, someone would ask how his day went. how final is it, (i thought) eternity? i refuse to believe it is final enough. after we have accounted for all of our steps and have said everything we ever wanted to say. it is here, after all, where we begin.

0

Dec 5, 2011

Dec 5, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC

where we begin.

there was this guy, probably not a day over 40 or so. he looked like everyone had envied him in a past life. people at work would just ask if he was tired. and he would nod, knowing that it was yes and no at the same time. after he spilled his brains out in his wife's beauty salon, telling her he was tired of waiting on everything, they said she went home and put on a new dress and that was that. when i heard about it, i could only lift my hands in some prayer to no one in particular that wherever he was going, someone would ask how his day went. how final is it, (i thought) eternity? i refuse to believe it is final enough. after we have accounted for all of our steps and have said everything we ever wanted to say. it is here, after all, where we begin.

57

across the room the door serves it's purpose as a reminder of being forced in and out of them, shoved or carried. you didn't want to go, none of us did. we left the lights on as a reminder, peeking under the cracks in the bottom of the barrier. the light was a reminder of a purity. this girl is just a prototype of another one and another, i reasoned as i nudged you outside into the cold and lightless world. your eyes kept their pleading, as a reminder of innocent nights sneaking into your bedroom hardly breathing and knowing nothing, holding her head there, i, i...

0

Nov 19, 2011

Nov 19, 2011 at 10:28 PM UTC

three.

across the room the door serves it's purpose as a reminder of being forced in and out of them, shoved or carried. you didn't want to go, none of us did. we left the lights on as a reminder, peeking under the cracks in the bottom of the barrier. the light was a reminder of a purity. this girl is just a prototype of another one and another, i reasoned as i nudged you outside into the cold and lightless world. your eyes kept their pleading, as a reminder of innocent nights sneaking into your bedroom hardly breathing and knowing nothing, holding her head there, i, i...

40

digging in, the way your teeth crawl. and latch onto my heart or my hipbone, when we do our thing. digging in, like the first shovel into the earth when burying someone you love. you remember how fresh the soil is, and you think it's ironic and somewhat painful. don't think. don't think. digging in, and you whisper in my ear like you're telling me something no one else knows while you're having your way with me, or I'm doing something to you. don't think. don't think. forget digging, forget the hipbone, forget all of your common denominators. don't think. don't think. and you won't. digging in. digging into fresh soil like there's something worth finding.

0

Nov 6, 2011

Nov 6, 2011 at 8:57 PM UTC

digging in.

digging in, the way your teeth crawl. and latch onto my heart or my hipbone, when we do our thing. digging in, like the first shovel into the earth when burying someone you love. you remember how fresh the soil is, and you think it's ironic and somewhat painful. don't think. don't think. digging in, and you whisper in my ear like you're telling me something no one else knows while you're having your way with me, or I'm doing something to you. don't think. don't think. forget digging, forget the hipbone, forget all of your common denominators. don't think. don't think. and you won't. digging in. digging into fresh soil like there's something worth finding.

27