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Andrew Dunham Mar 2016
Under hazy violet twilight hum sprites
Performing acrobatics above my head
Eyes fixated on the popcorn ceiling
They sing the body electric
In the cinema between four off-white walls

Under lazy muggy moonlight I hang tight
Watching pixies become gremlins
Eyes chartreuse, bright, and bulging
Scurry down walls and seek refuge beneath me
Becoming the neurotic symphony of aging pipes.

Under fading fluorescent lights I sit upright
Scanning all four corners for my personal bogeyman
Eyes bloodshot, heavy, and weary
Once again close beneath then fortitude of quilted mass
Becoming another night of stuttering slumber.
Andrew Dunham Jun 2015
hey you.
yeah you.
it was 10:30 and i was groggy
my bones aching and creaking as if they were worn out machinery
you got on at Granville, maybe Thorndale
i may have missed your entrance, now that i think about it
you wore a class ring
that caught the morning sun and reflected it into my eye
but that wasn't what caught me
you stood patiently
as we lurched forward
you balanced
calm, composed, collected
i looked up ever so occasionally
hoping you'd be looking back
sometimes you did
i laughed
you left at Grand
i left at Lake
next wednesday if our paths may cross
i will tell you that i liked the way your hair looked
Andrew Dunham Feb 2017
I angle my upper body forward from my reclined seat back,
To gaze through three panes of a frosty porthole,
To view a blanket of lights on darkened earth.
But they're below me, I'm distanced.

I'm thirty thousand feet in the air.

Incandescent highways splinter and mend like aimless root networks,
Funneling wingless fireflies like worker ants. And I, here,
Hoping your luminescence is, too, wandering to your hive or elsewhere,
Hoping against hope that you notice me in transit.

Though I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.

At least, but likely closer to the distance between our moon and sun,
Hurdling through galaxies at the speed of super-sound,
Sure that even at the end of space, past comets and nebulase,
That even if I get turned around,

I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.

As the lights ebb and dim from outside my window panes,
Gradually giving way to blackened earthly landmass,
I will recline my seat slightly and rest my eyes,
Hoping the steady burn of the plane's fog lights guides you,

Thirty thousand feet closer to where you need to be.
Andrew Dunham Jun 2015
Ich will der nicht sein**
der auf deinen Zug wartet
der niemals kommt
Der, der die Anderen sieht
Leute, die sich umarmen auf’m Gleis
Die schnell weg vom Bahnhof verschwenden
Und da bleib ich noch
Ich guck’ ungeduldig an die Anzeigetafel
Die leer steht
Leer bleibt
Und dunkel wird
Ich will der nicht sein
der allein Heim fährt
Nacht ohne Wert
Heute Nacht bin ich der
Doch ich kann ehrlich sagen
Du bist das schönste Ding
Das mir vorbeigefahren ist
Andrew Dunham Jul 2015
His housewarming gift was a night of sweaty sheets
peeled eyelids
and restless tossing.
He lives beneath your bed,
contributing to the eerie feeling
that gives your domicile its familiarity.
Always awaiting a conversation,
but you're just so busy that he has to wait for nightfall
to whisper in you ear.
He will rarely show his face,
maybe because he's shy
or introverted.
He's lonely,
and desperately would like a friend
because you have more than enough space under your mattress.
did you ever think that the monster under your bed may just be a misguided spirit? probably not.
Andrew Dunham Mar 2016
The wrinkled man who shrugged off my laments
Disregarded despondence
Left me lonesome on a freezing night
Waiting for the next northbound

But he's no friend of mine

The lady in blue who
Always knew better
Knew the truths and
She didn't need any **** suggestions

But she's no friend of mine

God watched from his stone steeple
Admired the downward spiral
Like rock 'em sock 'em robots
Eagerly trying to decapitate themselves

But he's no friend of mine

How could I be fooled by poorly constructed word
Let me taste empathy
And to think that I almost durst to think
That I wasn't alone

But they're no friends of mine

The bedsheets ensnare me in a morning haze
gives me a newfound appreciation for my Blank walls and ceiling
I admire them
Illuminated by the slightest amount of light to make them visible
Peering through my blinds like a peeping Tom

Yes, quite a good friend of mine.
Andrew Dunham Jun 2016
The coffee was too sweet as I mentally sketched a blueprint for each sentence I hope to speak. My tongue eagerly bounced between the most eloquent wordings to express thoughts that even you probably know are too complex for me.

I firmly grasped my the frigid mason jar, afraid that the same twilight that illuminated all the right parts of your face and highlighted your rogues strands of hair like golden thread would be enough to knock me from my seat. If I explained that, would it be romantic?

I pondered whether geeky comedy could be my niche. Decided against it. My hands grew colder from icy condensation and hesitation.

Every calculated consonant passing through your lips becomes fuzzier as i balance my focus so you don't notice how distracting you are. I struggle to pretend this is effortless for me, too.

I wished with each passing moment that I weren't one moment closer to death, one less moment sipping sugary coffee in your company.

I wished each passing moment elapsed quicker. my coffee is dwindling, the lump in my throat is a landform in of itself.

Though I'd rather babble about the universe and love, history and life, your small talk captivated me. Vowel after vowel. Of ambient noise, you could compose symphonies, your stare a screenplay, of simple Walmart trips, novels.

Of me, I'm but the fly on the wall in a fleeting moment of daylight in a rocky chair in a café in a day of your life upon which I couldn't even confess that I think about you more than the universe and history and life and coffee. Until you know that, I'll see you next time and we'll order the coffee black.
Andrew Dunham Jun 2015
Currently
Grasping the fraying rope
At both ends
Firm hold
Keeping us
From splitting in two
Just as I ought to
Currently
Worriedly pacing the floorboards
Before mortars
Waiting for a knock on my door or
A phone call if you’re savvy or
An SMS like a daddy
Angry and in all caps to his daughter because she defied her father and stayed out longer than she oughta
And I’m currently
Physically staying in place and
Mentally running away, 3 p.m. train to a better day
Like the teenage girl who was ****** cause she had to be home at 10:30 and it wasn’t even a school day
But hey
I digress currently
Hurriedly thinking of everything beautiful in life to decide
If it’s worth it
The answers sit unaware like prey
The questions come back like predators and they’re lurking
If Jesus was a thief, should I be stealing or learning
Is thinking helping or hurting
It sounds good on paper but the feeling’s disconcerting
Bending and turning
Waist deep in a swift current currently on bended knee
Scanning skies for an elusive heaven
Waiting on something, but not too surely, for if salvation decides not to come to me
I’d walk anywhere to the crystal stair
To get me where
I want to be
I’ll get there eventually
Even though I’m not there yet I won’t let it start disturbing me
Currently
Andrew Dunham Jul 2015
dr. mustard
he goes by other names too
he comes by night
his satchel full of wonder bread
leaves me a slice
and returns home
one night he left a trail
back to his cave
i never followed
now there are crumbs all over
like children's toys in a day care
i like their ambiance
MKE
Andrew Dunham Jun 2015
MKE
I can’t say we’re the same but I too have lost large parts of me to greener pastures
Your dark bricks turn to dust and paint the snow a red maroon
“The stories they’d tell”
Says everyone sad to see them crumble but not sad enough to do anything about it
“Someone should do something”
Someone, but not they
Milwaukee I too am a lot like you, if you only knew
How far I slid sickly over the Kinnickinnic oil slicks
Past fallen trees and draining pipes
Until being caught by a shopping cart
Left on the muddy banks by some poor poor impoverished soul
Who also didn’t really care enough to return it to the Pick & Save
From which it was taken
I’ve sure seen better days and I too have come a long way
Like I got on to Fond Du Lac Avenue and kept walking
Until I reached
Well...
Fond Du Lac
Like I ascended Kilbourn Park with a pick-axe
Defeated the yeti on top and shoved your blue flag
Through his heart, cracking it open like a Pabst or Schlitz can
and dropped a quarter in a homeless guy’s jar
And he told me I was just like you
I can too burn bright like the foundries in the valley
Or roar like railcars and rattle the south side
Or be courageous like the captain
Sailing to Muskegon
Over choppy freshwater treachery
I can shutter in peace like your factories when I fall asleep
And never wake back up
I can drive all my loved ones away
Just like you have
For the past five decades
I’m exactly like you
Because I too
Wait for a sunnier day
Andrew Dunham Jul 2015
I awoke from pseudo-sleep to frigid sweats and an unhealthy heartbeat
my mind snowy as the television opposite me, morning, half past three.
I dreamt up a personal narrative, reflecting on dreams forgone
time deferred, potential memories collecting dust on a suburban lawn.
Similar to that of books gifted to me, never read, and currently locked,
Vonnegut converses with Hemingway within a cavernous box.
Tucked neatly beside the dehumidifier, bottom level of my fortress
My once-manicured front yard so overgrown, you'd expect wild horses
galloping about like I once did before my femur weathered like sea glass,
leaving me like my alabaster figurines, just more stationary mass.

I've grown accustomed to drawn curtains and opening them at nightfall,
my eyeballs have grown to love staring contests with my blankest wall.
Not-quite-yet-discarded alcohol bottles have become my closest fellows,
kind enough to let me grasp them as action figures between my yellowed fingertips. We'd make dates to watch Local on the 8's together,
humming along blissfully to the muzak without regard to the weather.
Since my everyday life now remains a comfy 72 degrees, accompanied
by a soundtrack of leaky faucets and turning pages of AARP magazines.

Now completely alone I float, clinging to life in a sea of unknown
Clawing a barely buoyant lifevest filled with styrofoam and rhinestones
If I were still as spry as a spring chicken, I'd walk ten paces in the kitchen,
I'd draw my nine and snipe a mirror for displaying an unpleasant image.
If my eyes had less cataracts I'd be in the process of shredding them to bits
because I never wanted to peer through lenses so dull and spiritless.
If my ears were better, I'd hear fewer phantom telephone rings,
answer every telemarketer, hear more synthetic voices advertising things.
I'd never touch my college sweaters for the regrets they would conjure,
But now I'm finally grown up, wasn't that what I always wanted?
i dreamt that i was an old man one day. scared the bejesus out of me.
Andrew Dunham Jul 2015
nestled in its comfortable corner of the marsh,
lays nine-thousand acres of soggy southern soil and sweetgrass.
here the hands of the clock carelessly play a lazy leapfrog
as tranquil transformations of pidgin make for musing murmurs.
the clangor of crickets lulling the weary ears to sleep,
as nocturnal creatures nimbly parade over placid, brackish water.
rotting wood stilts sink softly into the not-exactly-quicksand,
the last ferry makes a wake while winding to the next *******,
father time is in no hurry here.
google: Sandy Island, South Carolina.
Andrew Dunham Jul 2015
she paces down the dimly-lit corridor of a modern day ***** den
in a corner apartment, situated on the intersection
of **** carpet and depraved junkies
she knows she was raised better.
guided over heaping masses of humans
cigarette butts
and the burnt carpeting they create
she knows it's only getting worse.
her hands are clenched in tight fists
awaiting the moment
when she can finally loosen up
she knows her father loves her.
her fingers run along the wall
awaiting for a familiar feeling
something to remind her of something she loves
she knows these walls are nothing like her bedroom.
she and he sit down before a snowy television
he reveals a plastic syringe
beneath flickering florescent lights
she knows it's late.
he flicks his lighter and burns the needle
to sanitize it
leaving a layer of burnt black butane
she knows it's still *****.
laying down, a the warmed needle is placed on her arm
she ties her little league shirt tightly
around her forearm
she knows her father wouldn't be pleased.
after leaning back
she's reminded of her last flu
by the initial feeling
**she knows nothing now.
Andrew Dunham Feb 2017
The sun plays hide-and-go-seek on a midwinter's afternoon,
Darting constantly towards the next available cloud.
Shielded.
Beside my intermittent shadow flutter my companions,
Guided by the ever-changing, blustery gusts.
The snowflakes follow me home.

Windy, wafting whispers winding through dormant branches,
I hold my breath and count to ten to ignore their murmurs.
Gossiping.
Hazy February clouds conceal indistinct peeps.
Should nobody else join me,
The snowflakes follow me home.

As I pass through the threshold and traipse across the floor,
Legs chilled and wavering over creaky wooden planks.
Weary.
But I glimpse once more, out through tempered glass panes,
Reassured and reveling in the knowledge,
*The snowflakes follow me home.
Thought about this while walking home in a snowstorm.
Andrew Dunham Nov 2016
These constellations are just stale light.
Dimmer than the orange haze from streetlights,
Each proudly signaling the triumph of mankind.

These constellations are dead beacons from afar.
I need no north star to get home,
Street signs guide me just fine.

These constellations are bright ***** of dust.
Romanticized into patterns,
I can only remember the big dipper.
And passing planes.

These constellations are lifeless light.
Andrew Dunham Feb 2017
Aboard her majesty's Mississippi steamboat,
we stared at the palisades,
and they glared back at us passersby.
And we spoke in radio static.
illinois
Andrew Dunham Jul 2015
a day in the life: valedictorian at the school of hard knocks,
already committed to humdrum state university--full scholarship
she laces up her shoes, buttons her top, ever so slightly to balance
the constant feeling in the pit of her stomach
like that of a roller coaster moments before the big drop
each car horn and bird chirp plays into a miserable melody
raining down upon her withered teenage face like ashes of anxiety
burn-holes her already tattered clothes until they resemble swiss cheese
she breathes heavily.
each step is a hurdle,
each word a quarrel,
each conversation an uphill battle
every potential relationship another personal waterloo
dimples and straight teeth mask the dread coursing within her skull
just as her long sleeves and wristbands hide the things she shouldn't do
her body lackluster and tired, as if she hadn't slept for days
or maybe just worn from escaping the holes she finds herself in daily
or from her Jackson *******-esque arm motions when she splatters paint
because she thinks she can never paint else anything right
she opens the door with her right hand
her left hand remains in a fist, squeezing tight
her sweaty palms make holding the door a challenge
but it's best that she not let go.
observations of someone close to me.
Andrew Dunham Aug 2015
There's a raccoon inside me,
I've never liked raccoons.
He nuzzles my heartstrings when I feel worthless,
and cackles maniacally when I believe that I'm worth it.
Whenever I'm bold enough to speak he claws my vocal chords closed,
leaving me dumbfounded with an obvious lump in my throat.
I feel his grimacing face and beady bandit eyes in constant stare.
He hisses angrily when he catches me unaware,
of just how afraid I am.
His grubby paws pander to my love of cancelled plans.
I guess you could say we're selfish,
because I relish the nights spent alone with him.
And I'm positive that he does too,
because he knows I'm often too weak to leave my room,
and disdain is a dish that makes a feast for two.
**I really like raccoons.
Andrew Dunham Jun 2015
I think of you when I’m on the toilet.**
Okay.
Maybe that wasn’t the best place to start
I think of you when I’m walking too
Wishing you were taking the same route
By coincidence
But hoping that it was by choice
I think of you when I make breakfast
Cause I would gladly make enough for two
When I have nothing better to do
I count the hair on my forearms
And I wish you were here to help me count
I was never really good at math
Or science
But I’m really good at thinking
I swear
And I’m pretty good at grammar
Because you
Are the person
About whom
I have been thinking much lately
I ponder you like politicians
In Astana
Ponder budgets
Like artisans in Rwanda ponder baskets
Like the UN ponders nations
Like farmers ponder precipitation
I roughly calculate
I could have solved around 200 Rubik’s Cubes
Give or take a few
In the time it took
to figure out you
So now I’ll chew my fingernails well past the white part
Even though you can’t stand it
Because I don’t want you thinking that I’m thinking about you

— The End —