I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know:
her dress upon my arm:
but
they will not
give her back to me.

I don’t know
What im doing anymore
I had this all planned
Our big boy
And his little sister
Had names picked
A white dress all sparkly new
The rings waiting in a box
And now
None of that
Matters
Cuz I guess
She knows what shes doing
And you like her plans
more

this time has finished me.
I feel like the German troops
whipped by snow and the communists
walking bent
with newspapers stuffed into
worn boots.
my plight is just as terrible.
maybe more so.
victory was so close
victory was there.
as she stood before my mirror
younger and more beautiful than
any woman I had ever known
combing yards and yards of red hair
as I watched her.
and when she came to bed
she was more beautiful than ever
and the love was very very good.
eleven months.
now she's gone
gone as they go.

this time has finished me.
it's a long road back
and back to where?
the guy ahead of me
falls.
I step over him.
did she get him too?

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

Tebow was a good



         college athlete........


this has not


                     translated  –

when they pulled her down the stone steps
down to the dungeon
where they put all the little girls
who had done everything right

when they locked her into her own private heaven
in the golden dust
where the cherubs all sang
a new dirge every night

i was there, when she was too perfect
i was there, when there was just too much light

I want the blood I shed to mean something.
Is it bad that I wonder what people would say, how they'd react if I was gone?
I'm not being dark. I'm musing.

I don't want to be a thorn in anyone's side, I don't wish for attention that sometimes I forget I need.
I'll be sitting, music blasting out the demons, and realize I've forgotten to eat. To sleep. To breathe.

It's to the point where it's almost not sad anymore, you know? Like I've forgotten how it was before this cloud became something that'd stay with me forever. And it's at coasting, numb points like this where I honestly don't even know if I want to feel better. What is better, anyways?

And they always tell me I have so much to live for. And I do, that's the only reason I don't go. It's not the fact that I'd miss so much about my life and everything that I have before me to accomplish.

I don't want to hurt anyone by leaving, even though my hurting would be over. This is the one area where I wish my incessant selfishness would take over.

So, pardon my venting, pardon my sad songs, pardon my black and white photos. There isn't much silence, happy music, or color in my life right now. And I'm okay with it, as much as the pain stabs, it's more of a dull pain.

Maybe one day I'll understand how it is to feel again. Maybe. No one would have even known  if I hadn't had an outburst, let my selfishness take over in a thundercloud of confusion. It won't happen again, I can't let it. I can bottle feelings. Letting go is harder. They didn't know, it needs to be that way. They need to be protected~<3

*And she cried,
"Kiss it all better, I'm not ready to go
It's not your fault, love
You didn't know, you didn't know"

This raincloud
makes for an awful hat