WJ Thompson Jul 1

Everything is simple;
simpler than you think.

Everything is just...
Layers of simple things.

If you could figure it out, you would've figured it out hours ago when you first began to try and figure it out.
WJ Thompson May 24

I haven't given up on love.
It's not that.
there's something in the way the night hollows out the heart,
it's like being sculpted.
It holds less sway over my thoughts than it did when I was younger.
I wait for love.
Yes, yes that's it.

WJ Thompson May 24

Sir or Ma'am,
It's not blood but my sweat that trails the sidewalk of the                
Dogs lick it for the salt.
I've given them names but they
I wear a watch, a polo, and a prayer.
       I offer a future for you
            to entertain
for the thirteen seconds
      that I exist
at your front door

(that is)

until you slam it in my face.

WJ Thompson May 23

I'm underneath an amber twilight
(and tasteful landscaping)
flirting with nostalgic anticipation
in room 1034
yet alone and content
I should photograph my life events
or the morning dew, still wet
with evaporating trepidation
which breaks into a cold sweat
when soothed by the resolution
of the seventh, to the third, to the root of the polyphony, harmonizing to the tune
of a Scantron being scribbled on,
or my choice
to ignore
(at least until finals are over)

WJ Thompson May 23

I spoke with testosterone,
and after he ripped apart
the concrete in my driveway,
he sank into a pile of rubble.
Lighting an ironic cigarette, he said,
"Teach me how not to care"
before he fell asleep.
He's been there for a while.
Maybe we should check on him?

10 AM I am pumped to workout
1 PM I workout
3 PM I am no longer pumped about anything.
WJ Thompson Apr 17

The stars are in the sky
And they are bright
at night
But they are very far
and despite how far
We can drive in our cars
We can not drive to
the stars
because they are very far

One day
I will destroy my enemies.

A poem I wrote as a joke for my friend.
WJ Thompson Mar 30

It was an atmosphere
It was an atmosphere
It was an oxygen mixed with southern fog
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind
The rolling hills behind property lines

It was the question you asked
It was the question you asked
not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass
as I leaned against your Corolla
And we sang under the overpass

It was graffiti
It was graffiti
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple hair and acid wash jean jackets
melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement

It was the way the reverb spread the major seventh across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor ninth
which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars)
and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd-
surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.

It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat
soaking up the air of my A/C heat
and the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall
and now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all

But I'll let this night be interstellar
I'll take a bath in the Big Dipper and write you a letter about Orion's Belt
or how I miss the stars sparkling in your eyes making contact with the E.T. in me.

Phone me home, darling.
I'm lost at sea.

-W.J. Thompson

A repost but with a different ending.
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