everyone
is a ******* poet
and that's why
nobody
is a ******* poet
sit behind LCD safety
lie to me
pretend you're deeper than
your god meant for you to be
subsequently innocuous
puttin the ob in obnoxious
i sick, you sick, we sick of us
of this
shed a tear and gut ya wrist
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
ive been starin a long time at this body mine
ragged, alien, hollow, watch me give a ****
shattered frames leanin walls, been and gone
talkin times too long
before my shoulder glance got permanent
he says that now i cant quit
starin up from in his pit
i done been done writhing with
but hes right aint he
dont like bein told
where to be
aint heard him since, aint no one
aint none my goals done
hesitate and die, son
it aint about you
bout the goods
lemme getcha eyes pretty blue
got a whole stash upstairs
sleepin with the ***** nightstand
ima take advantage of all this rain
playing the game
and ill see you shakin, chained
to ya fear, past choice, belated invoice
shoulda kept ya ride clean
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 6:29 AM UTC
I was wading through the dust which slept in my room as I have done for too long,
And finding its sullen grey between shelves, atop books, across screens and sometimes on my sheets.
Many articles of interest in this room, certainly, but mostly?
Dust.
And I plunged into a drawer with curious hands like a child in a sandbox,
And I found that letter you wrote me last December.
Or was it the December before?
The one where your heart bled from your chest, ran down your arms and saturated the page.
You know the one.
Anyway, I read it. Every word.
And then I folded it up, neatly, and placed it back in the drawer from which I had found it,
Much to the dust's pleasure.
I'm moving out now. The way I had always talked about.
Getting a place with some close friends.
(Who will probably become dire enemies.)
It's why I've been rummaging through all of my old ****
Grandma wants this to be a sewing room. I've got a lot of cleaning out to do, you know.
I'm becoming a man now. An impervious, veteran adult.
But sometimes, amidst the dust - maybe it's ash - I feel a pair of hands
Wrenching apart my insides while I recall the words in that letter.
And I remember how your heart sang to me, and I remember every note.
Every coda; its pianos and its fortes.
Your heart has written other songs now,
With warmer tambre and vivid trebles.
And this 'adult' wonders, amidst dust and ash, why he deafened himself.
Two Decembers ago.
Or was it one?
I am not wanted here.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
The music I've made sounds much better with the volume at zero.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
and roused from the back of my mind was
a warm breath of childlike wonder, present
in the twinkling of my eyes
that he called "unmissable," like it was the reason he drew toward me
with a blade called fate to my neck
and promised me escape, finally, since nobody else would.
but he spoke in shimmering riddles, tongue dipped in a persuasive agent.
he did not miss his clarity. he did not miss much anymore.
by his hand, and with God as his witness, he would keep any of that nonsense
far from the equation. he would **** that which once made him feel alive.
walled away somewhere deep inside of him, behind visible ribs and invisible slate
i observed a faraway macabre, and it did not deter me, and it did not want to.
i took his hand, which was good, since mine still trembled.
i let him pull me into the same rank pit
he had occupied for some time now. drawn, quartered.
the skin around his eyes crusting, blackening, oculars submerged in pale.
through needles were salvation; he fully intended to alter pace
and allow himself, for once, something of his doing.
solace, if not brief solace, from wretchedness.
a scarce commodity.
nothing can shine down here.
and i'm surviving on what kills me.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
How I write something with the thought that somebody out there
On that there Internet thing
Will read through some ****** four-line stanza and into the complex puzzle
I've pieced together, jamming cornered ends into rounded holes
And botching the image I would like to create with all the wrong pieces.
Sometimes I think,
How many people have read this ****
Laughed,
And clicked onward?
It's kinda scary. It's kinda funny.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 6:55 PM UTC
I work as a bagboy at a local grocery, and today, a woman
Mid-sixties
Stained white blouse
Offered to pray for me as thanks for my service.
I,
Godless, simply replied,
No thank you,
I can handle that myself.
Later I was marching around the parking lot, hunting for carts
Like a mother for missing children when I spotted
An elderly couple. Their hands joined
As they shuffled into the mouth of the store. I was still outside when
They left, and noticed then that they held hands only at the palm, fingers
Resting clumsily upon each other. The both of them, I now noticed,
Smiling.
Suddenly I wished I could
Will myself back an hour
And tell the lady with the stained white blouse,
Pray that arthritis is cured.
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 4:36 AM UTC
Two days ago, I'd broken the 10-year mark as principal of Howell Elementary. In 3,653 of those 3,654 days, Howell hadn't seen any fights like the one that broke out today. Before me, in my intimate and admittedly lavish office, sat Abel Marinero, age eight. There was a mahogany desk between us, and his eyes had recently sought refuge upon patches of its glossy surface; such curious brown eyes that would absorb the desk's reflection. There was a bruise on his right cheekbone, and his lip was a bit swollen. His hair, black as pitch, and his expression contemplative. Though he sat slouched, his hands were neatly folded between his legs. He was not panting, but had not caught his breath yet.
Only minutes ago, I was going over the planned layout for the new building to be built in 2012; dozens of fresh classrooms with newer equipment, into which I'd like to move our higher-tenure teachers. This was interrupted when Will, one of my administrators, came into the office to let me know that a fight had broken out - and that an ambulance had been called.
Since that moment, the boy was escorted to the clinic, where his knuckles were bandaged and his wounds - all of them minor - cleaned. Since he was well off, I had dropped everything to speak with him one-on-one after calling his parents.
"Why did you do it?"
"He took my Rafael."
The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle in question had been abandoned at the scene; likely confiscated by now for use as evidence. This was, after all, likely to result in a court case. I leaned forward with my elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced. I spoke into my hands:
"That's not a good reason to do what you did. You hurt Michael very badly." I paused in interest of his reply, which was, as expected, prompt:
"He hurt me first."
"He hurt you?"
"I told you. He took my Rafael."
I offered an exaggerated frown. "I understand, and that was very wrong of him. But the way you responded is not acceptable. You're in pretty big trouble, Abel."
He did not appear fazed by the utterance of his name, and his reply did not come. After a few seconds of silence, I continued.
"I want you to tell me exactly what happened on the playground today."
The boy drew a breath and began, finally granting me eye contact: "I was playing in the sand besides the swings with my Ninja Turtles, and I put Rafael over there-" he motioned to his right "-real quick. Then Michael walks up and takes it. I told him to give it back and he said I should share, 'cause he let me borrow a pencil in class. I said give it back, but he wouldn't."
Almost against my own desire, I freed my fingers to show a palm. I asked, "So you hit him?"
"Yeah."
I nodded and closed my eyes briefly. "That is absolutely unacceptable, Abel. Sharing is a good thing to do, and it's a valuable lesson to learn. Hurting people, for any reason, is something you should never do. You should have asked a grownup, or-"
"No!"
Between us, silence. Silence and a mahogany desk.
"No," he said, "because then he's gonna do it again. You keep saying stuff about lessons, but today, I was teacher."
I almost wanted to laugh, but after chewing on this response, I felt a wave of concern. If Abel was prone to violence, having him continue schooling here would be detrimental to everybody at Howell. And once the news gets involved, they're going to wonder why all I did was suspend him. Expulsion was feasible, but I'd ensure councilor visits as well. I felt compelled, however, to understand what had gone on - or was still going on - in this child's mind. So I asked.
"What did you teach Michael by doing that, Abel?"
"That sharing gets you hurt."
In 3,653 of my 3,654 days as principal, I hadn't been afraid of a student.
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 7:07 PM UTC
I love screen protectors. They're useful, practical little ******** - and cheap, to boot - and I can't help but want one for every gadget I have. But I can't ever put them on right.
There's always a thousand little air bubbles, or dog hairs, or dust particles that make air bubbles. All I want is the added security, that little extra drop of protection that everyone wants with the kind of investment that is an iPhone. Instead, I'm rewarded with a visual reminder of my mediocrity; a dozen little bubbles, only slightly obscuring my view of Ashley's text. She says she loves me - as a friend, of course. I'm "married." And it's not easy to read, because there's an air bubble over half of the text alert window.
I tried all I could; took my US Toy card to the thing in an attempt to force retreat from some of the bigger bubble-platoons. I applied, reapplied, and reapplied again. I used the spare one that the package came with. I even looked up a video to see how someone else did it. Nothing.
Fine.
A text from a man I grew up with, asking me to hop on Metal Gear Online. I can read it. I wish I didn't have to. It looks so ugly with that air bubble trying to smother it. I can't rip my eyes from the bubbles now, sealed by the OtterBox case I bought for the phone, and living comfortably with the protector's adhesive around them. I wish the case could protect the screen sufficiently. But I wanted a screen protector. I wanted to put it on and put it on right. I wanted to smooth everything out with a card in triumph and tell myself, with a smirk, that it was worth the $2 I paid. All I got was air bubbles. Air bubbles, there to remind me that I still can't do much right.
I hate screen protectors.
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
I miss when you didn't write about what you'd rather have.
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 7:47 PM UTC