we rely on poetry
in the same way
we relied on parables
to better explain the
universe within
our collective souls

He spent the evening
talking with a poor Australian accent
to impress a strange girl
who couldn't decide
whether or not
she had a boyfriend
and on our way home
he told me about how
he liked to walk closer to the curb
in case he had to
valiantly
shove someone
out of the way
of a car
that had careened out of control
and hopped the curb
and he would martyr himself
to save those around him
if only because it would
save him from his
greatest fear
of dying and not
being known.

She liked to
decorate with
makeshift gravestones
and shrines
for those around her
who had died
but still walked
the earth
unaware

Perth,
where Heath Ledger came from,
was where she was from
and she was explaining to me
what Marmite was
and the other guy in the room
just kept playing his guitar
and singing
louder and louder
for an audience of
white bricks
that made up the walls
because jealously makes
you see eyes in
everything
and you don't know
if the performance will
be your last

He sat
writing
writing
writhing
slithering out
words from a
heart
half functioning
half patchwork
all bleeding
and trying to find
the best words to call
for the downfall of
the old ideals of love
and happiness
because if he didn't have it
then it didn't have value
and nobody knows how
burned you can get
when you crawl into
the center of the sun
for warmth

how often we
block the future
by scrambling to
pick up all of the stolen
seconds that we gave
to people we want only
to forget
all while we
are in a continuous
state of forgetting
that you can't un-live
moments
you can't un-****
somebody
and you can't
rewrite your own
string of moments
no matter how much
they make you
flinch

Is it truly
that much of a
sin
to want to be allowed
to make one's
own mistakes?
Every scar
every burden on our souls
is another spark of flame
in which we are forged
and as iron as burn forward
beaten
but whole.

Poor in health,
high in spirits

Your age is
but the number
of times you've traveled
around the sun
hurtling at
nineteen miles per second
endlessly through the expanding
void
so don't tell me
that there's nothing
interesting about you
fellow space traveler
don't tell me there is nothing
remarkable about crashing
through the universe
while sitting in your armchair
you are an astronaut
capable of searing
the stars
Do not float.
Fly.

It's okay to be angry
it's okay to shout
to scream
to throw hooks
into the sky
to bring God down
to your kitchen table
and demand some
accountability
it's okay to allow blame
to land where it needs to
and to say
I refuse to apologize
for being hurt by you
I refuse to bear the responsibility
for your actions
and it is okay
to move forward
and heal