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Dec 2021 · 120
Mailman
Andrew Philip Dec 2021
I hope you cancel me,
I’m sick of you
and most everyone else.
They talk
too **** much.
Except for the mailman,
who comes
to my apartment building
everyday.
He puts every letter
in every right box.
He has made other mistakes
in this life,
but has never put a letter
in the wrong box.
And some of the letters
are regretful,
love letters
that in 2 years
will find themselves
in the fireplace.
Maybe a birthday card
from Buddy,
which will be kept forever
because it is the last one
you ever got from him.
The best letter I got
was from the queen
of Cap Hill,
and there were
no words written on it.
Blank piece of paper,
I wrote a poem on it
and threw it away.
I’ve seen the mailman everyday
for 28 years,
and he never says a word.
Dec 2021 · 72
4 Mosaic
Andrew Philip Dec 2021
Tell me about how how you are a just a tourist everywhere you go.
Let me pick you up from the train station,
and drive you past
balance beam sidewalks
you once walked on
to get home after
you bulldozed the night
out of the sky.
Our lips tango
at every red light.
When they do,
I forget myself.
The light turns green,
I change the song.
I the mouse.
You the cat;
playing youthfully
with the terrified dinner you caught.
Nov 2021 · 249
Bozeman
Andrew Philip Nov 2021
It was the kind of love
where when her heart would beat
blood would pump through my veins.
Aug 2021 · 133
Silly Goose
Andrew Philip Aug 2021
What good are these words
utterances
noise
in my ears
in my head.
They are always on sale,
and always on back order.
Words
surely won’t
bring back
the Amazon,
they won’t save
the pig
from the knife.
They will never
wrap themselves around
how much I miss the
girl I’ve never seen,
let alone met,
let alone kissed,
let alone left.
How I miss
the moon
that never set,
how I miss the words
I never said,
the place I’ve never been
filled with streets
I’ve never walked,
full of puddles
that reflect the green stop light,
the neon light
in the old star drenched bar
I never visited
to quiet
the words
in my head.
The words.
Always on sale,
always on back order.
Aug 2021 · 76
Perfect Vision
Andrew Philip Aug 2021
I think it’s finally time
to get glasses.
Maybe I’m just getting older
or maybe I’ve stared
into the sun
for too long.
I can’t make out
her face
as she feels
for ripened avocados
across the produce section
from me.
But maybe I don’t want to,
the mystery,
curiosity,
I dream
pleasant fallacies,
I’d rather not know
the color of her eyes
or the mess of
old newspapers
in her skull.
The second
I’m close enough
to be able to make out
her smile
I’m done.
I don’t want to see
her
ugly
yellow
crooked
teeth.
Aug 2021 · 84
Elevator Operator
Andrew Philip Aug 2021
In a past life
I think I was
an elevator operator.
Like one
back in the olden
days.
Going up.
And down.
And up again.
Back down.
Talking about
the weather
with people
who were somewhat
strangers,
even though
I saw most of them
everyday.
And when I first started,
I liked the music,
but anything played
over and over again
starts to sound like hell.
It was an elevator
I had never gotten off.
And I know I was
an elevator operator
in a past life
because it wasn’t
so long ago.
Now I’m somewhat
more of a crane operator,
or a train conductor,
the card in my own
back pocket,
or the time it takes
the occipital lobe
of a child
to register the light
in the pupil
that paints the picture
of everything new.
Aug 2021 · 155
The Lynx
Andrew Philip Aug 2021
And I’d go to church in the mountains
and sing praises with the crows in the pines
to a god most misunderstood,
rarely seen or heard;
the lynx of the feeling in my sternum,
the missing word in my vocabulary that
has bought permanent real estate
on the tip of my tongue.
And then she looks at you
with Medusa eyes
that turn you to stone.
You lie there naked
arms and legs woven together
like sacred silk,
the warm blanket of god,
the purring lynx.
Aug 2021 · 53
Electric Candle
Andrew Philip Aug 2021
This whole thing
might be harder
if we were more aware.
Ignorance is my EpiPen.
Tell me stars are just fireflies
putting on a show,
all for me.
Convince me
that you are not from here,
but here alone.
Persuade me
there is an after party
where you will meet me
and we’ll take the tram
out of the skylight
and fall asleep together
in a bed of telephone wires
carrying words of honey.
Assure me that rivers
stay the same,
that days never end,
the nights don’t either,
that the world is static,
and that I’ll feel this way forever.
Lie to me if you have to,
but do it with the same
sugar cane lips
you press to my shoulder.
Jul 2021 · 240
Fire Escape
Andrew Philip Jul 2021
We lay there naked
loving and laughing,
soundlessly saying
sweet things
with delicate finger tips,
escaping, for a moment,
from the fire
burning the world
outside the bedroom
door.
Jul 2021 · 56
Upslope
Andrew Philip Jul 2021
Light pollution
may be
a necessary evil.
But beyond that,
the only other necessary evil
I know of is love.
My heart goes far away,
when I think about her.
We are rubber bands
laid next to another
amongst many others
on the bungee rope
that ties the sun
to the earth.
This rope is strong,
but it stretches
and constricts
in a way that
brings the winter
and the summer,
the day and the night,
darkness and light;
you are the martini
of my Monday.
Jul 2021 · 139
73 Cigarettes
Andrew Philip Jul 2021
I am not the lion
I am the impala.
I am the cabinet
in the kitchen
left wide open.
I am here
for so much of my life
setting alarms
on my phone
for the next morning.
The ash tray
is filled
with exactly 73 cigarettes,
but not exactly 73 memories,
and not exactly 73 regrets.
Jul 2021 · 60
Nothing is Quiet
Andrew Philip Jul 2021
I’ve never considered
that there was ever
a moment
that music didn’t enhance.
But I’ve finally found
a peace in my life,
however fleeting,
where the green light
on Grant street
is the drop
I’ve been waiting for.
Jul 2021 · 48
The Astroids
Andrew Philip Jul 2021
What an inconsistency,
that the rain or her
bioluminescent smile
can cool
this sun drenched balcony
down to a place
that makes you
the good kind of cold
in early July.
It’s too ridiculous to seem real;
no one would ever give something
as ethereal away to someone else.
Or maybe that’s not true.
Maybe that’s what keeps
the asteroids from hitting earth.
Jul 2021 · 210
The Wrench
Andrew Philip Jul 2021
Rarely, if ever,
the toolbox in the closet
comes out for some
easy fix.
Today it was my lawn chair.
But I can’t use a wrench
to fix the way you look at me,
as you try to sip
the entire Colorado river
through a plastic straw.
Part of me wants to let you
have your fun,
to believe that across
the table from me
you might find
your own wrench.
But stainless steel
has no effect on the cortex,
no effect on the river,
no effect on a sun
that has overstayed its
welcome.
Drink me
until the wrench
must come out,
but I have a duty
to warn you
that I am not
a lawn chair.
Jul 2021 · 128
6th Heading West
Andrew Philip Jul 2021
Some days I feel
like a guitar
that is missing
a string.
It sounds sad
but I assure you
it’s okay.
And I’ll never know
the sound that string sings,
but my foolish heart
believes that string
is the one that says everything;
the one that puts me in the veins
under your skin,
between the synapses that fire
in your mind,
between your inhale
and exhale,
and on the tip of your tongue,
so that I can taste you
before my moon
splits in two.
Jun 2021 · 423
Summer Solstice
Andrew Philip Jun 2021
Only her evergreen eyes
and painfully pink lips
can pull an object,
a young fool,
14 floors towards the earth,
faster than gravity.
The longest day of the year
had a clock that was criminally
insane,
the hour hand
moved like a propeller
of a plane,
and flew me to somewhere
that felt familiar
but I’ve never been.
And the moon I told her
that was mine,
really belongs to her.
Apr 2021 · 76
Optometrist
Andrew Philip Apr 2021
The Fernet-Branca,
sipped slowly,
seems to go well
with the pack of yellow American Spirits,
though I usually go with
the light blue pack.
Yellow does the trick tonight.

From the 14th floor
the city lights of Denver
are blurry.
So are the morning emails,
the slot for quarters
on the laundry machine,
the cars that pass on 8th
headed to wherever,
and you.
Apr 2021 · 68
The Sink
Andrew Philip Apr 2021
The ***** dishes sit in the sink,
piled up,
like the thoughts in our skulls
or feelings in our fingernails.
And sometimes we clean them,
but more often than not they just sit there,
in the sink, in our kitchen, in our cold
little apartment on Pennsylvania street.
And we pass each other in hallways,
saying something like "hello" or "how's it going?"
or maybe nothing at all.
The ambulances drive by
and sometimes we hear them,
but mostly we pay no mind.
The nightly news plays in the background,
but I don't know what they are saying anymore
because I can't distinguish the news anchor's
words from the ambulance siren.
And we gaze through our microscopes,
looking at the content of our lives
on a fragile glass slide
upon which squirm the infinitesimal
bacteria that we took from the sink.
Mar 2021 · 316
Movie Star
Andrew Philip Mar 2021
Put me on a stage
and give me the whole orchestra
to amplify the melody
of hazy lungs and mind,
let it drown out the static of our lives
so that I can act
just for a moment
like I'm someone else.
Mar 2021 · 72
The Boy and the Seeds
Andrew Philip Mar 2021
There was a poor
shepherd boy
who used to throw
stones at the castle
walls every day.
Every day
he would return
with pockets full
of stones,
and the walls
would stand there
mocking him.
But it was futile,
despite all of the
stones he'd thrown,
the walls continued
to stand
and the king
continued to oppress
his kingdom.
In throwing stones,
the boy had garnered
quite the arm.
One day
he came to the walls
with pockets
full of seeds.
He threw the seeds
over the walls,
and trees
and flowers
started to grow
on inside of the
castle walls.  
The king became
quite distraught about this
and ordered his servants
to pick every newly sprouted
plant out of the ground.
But they could not keep up.
The boy threw more and more
seeds every day,
and the plants started overtaking
the castle.
Birds, butterflies,
and other creatures
invaded the castle.
The castle became so infested
with life,
that the king could no longer
do anything about it,
and the roots of the trees
started to grow into
and fracture the castle walls.
And little by little those walls
crumbled.
And by the time they did,
the king did not care,
his castle was more
beautiful now
than it ever had been.
Once the walls fell,
the king could see
all of the people outside
of them.
The king finally understood.
Mar 2021 · 55
7.6
Andrew Philip Mar 2021
7.6
There are 7.6 billion people
In this world.
Behind every set of eyes
A different universe.
I’m in love with yours
But not you
Anymore.
You made mine
*****.
The strings
Of lights
On the trees
Make me sad.
We put them up
In December
And they make us feel
like basement
Temperature
Flat beer juice,
And then January comes
Like law enforcement
To the rager you held
While your parents
Were in Doore County.
And everyone leaves the party.
And we all take the lights down.
This is
1 of 7.6 billion.
Mar 2021 · 138
The Vine She Was
Andrew Philip Mar 2021
Certainly
When she used
To look at me,
All of the factories
Would shut down.
But now,
I see a forest
Filled with vines
That suffocate trees.
They climb and ****
To survive
And I still don’t know why.
Mar 2021 · 67
My Cup of Coffee
Andrew Philip Mar 2021
You were my cup of coffee,
burning my lips on the first
sip of your being,
making my heart beat faster.
My hands began to shake
as I got half way through you.
But I didn't drink you fast enough
and consequently you became cold.
Towards the bottom of you
I chewed on the room temperature
grinds of what gave you
flavor in the first place.
I left you this way,
with no desire
to order another one.
One of the greatest pains in life
is that no coffee stays hot forever,
at least not for me.
Feb 2021 · 62
The Pharaoh's Tomb
Andrew Philip Feb 2021
Now I'm just the fly
on the rim of her
chardonnay glass.
A tourist everywhere I go.
It brings me back to
that apartment in the South Bronx,
an onion disguised as an apple,
an old boy who no longer trusts
the weatherman.
I leave the lights on when I'm gone
so that coming home feels less lonely.
Oct 2020 · 89
Thaw
Andrew Philip Oct 2020
The days pass
under feet
like cracks in the sidewalk
under pressure
by the traffic jam
of cognition ants
that echos with
the engines on 8th.
They slip our minds
like hair
down the shower drain,
minuscule things that
we can lose
because they seem so
dispensable.
But the old man still sings,
the crows still fly north
toward downtown,
and far away galaxies
still waltz,
out in the cold
and empty,
before you,
now,
and long after.
It is a ****** kind
of gorgeous,
where even the eyes
of a stranger
can help us
to thaw.
Jul 2020 · 117
BPenn1
Andrew Philip Jul 2020
The world is burning
it lights the tip of this spliff
spiffy satisfaction is what we want
what is the market price for that?
And so tied tight and hard to get undone
are the sun and the moon,
midnight and noon,
me and you,
soon,
maybe we don't sleep tonight.
May 2020 · 82
Invented to Kill
Andrew Philip May 2020
Just like the gun
and the bullet,
we were made for each other
but ended up
so **** far
apart.
May 2020 · 85
The Picture He Painted
Andrew Philip May 2020
I'm in between two apartments.
I'm lonely.
I was planted here
by the owner
of the apartment
on the left.
I'm the only rosebush.
I've been here
for about
ten years
and I wish
that I could
move to a spot
with a little more sunlight.
Apr 2020 · 63
Black Dog
Andrew Philip Apr 2020
She couldn't go back
to her empty apartment.
It's not that her feet
couldn't handle the
five block walk,
it's more that
Lafayette street never felt
like home.
In fact, no place has,
at least not since
there first were new
colors in the sky.
She curses the sun
but not other stars;
they had never burnt
her skin.

And somewhere
out in the cosmos
between black nothingness
and star glitter
she was hoping
to find someone,
someone she mistook
for me.
Apr 2020 · 63
Our Anthem.
Andrew Philip Apr 2020
I can see the whole city from up here.
There are buildings reaching for the sky,
so as to expedite the process
of getting into some heaven
that doesn't exist for most of
the people here.
The roads are woven together like a fabric
that is less like silk
and more like the towels
at any of the ****** motels lining Colfax.
The same smog that clouds my mind
lays atop this concrete like a warm blanket
that eats away at your lungs before moving
on to your soul for dessert.
I see only a few castles
yet there are kingdoms of shanties.
There are no gardens here
and the trees are fake.
If pain could manifest itself
in any physical form, it would take the shape
of this city.

And yet, I can see a shirtless old man,
singing along with the radio on his balcony
and drinking the beer I used to drink when
I was a teenager.
The sun still penetrates the smog
and presses its lips to the skin and antiquated shape
of his weathered body.

I can't pretend to know his story
or anyone's story for that matter,
but the echo
of his voice and radio
are the staunchest display
of protest I have ever seen.
In a world suffocated
by the cacophony of our
shared suffering,
his song is the anthem
for us all.
Andrew Philip Oct 2019
I won't fight
your war anymore.

I've seen it
from the ground
and I've seen it
from the sky.
And from these
vantage points
my eyes
will always
remember
the picture
of the blood
that my heart
no longer pumps
yet will never
forget.
Your killing machines
are the brightest blue.
They used to be
as loud as
fighter jets
but now I
only hear them
in the whispers
that haunt
the rubble
of who I am.
This poem is
nothing more
than a waving
white flag
atop that rubble;
the dandelion
that grows
from the vestiges
of what remains.

I won't fight
your war anymore.
Jul 2019 · 118
RSVP
Andrew Philip Jul 2019
I’m on the brink
of something new,
like a child in a spring garden
full of morning
and flowers
that are inviting
the pollinators in
for a cup of sweet tea.
And between the plants,
air, and the soil of my soul
I’ve found a hope
that throws its beams
off of the moon
and into the eyes
of a better man
on his way
to better days
and dreams
beyond his sleep.
Jul 2019 · 88
Microscope
Andrew Philip Jul 2019
I move around
like an ant in the garden.
I see flower sky scrapers
and leaf highways.
I have no idea
how small I am,
but if I did
I’d know what things
to care about
and what to
let go of.
Jun 2019 · 320
Bullet
Andrew Philip Jun 2019
Take the smoke
around the corner
with a grain of
tequila,
life is better
like this.
Jun 2019 · 301
Thank you, whisky
Andrew Philip Jun 2019
Pour me a shot of something
that actually interests me
and I’ll pour you a shot of
how sorry I actually am.
Pour me a full glass,
I can handle it.
Pour me a shot of
hope.
Pour me a shot of
I don’t care,
with a splash of
seriousness.
Light the place up,
I’ve got all night.
Jun 2019 · 173
Quit
Andrew Philip Jun 2019
Quit me the way
rain drops quit
the cloud from which
they came.
Back to the earth
you go,
I might plan
on visiting soon.
Might.
May 2019 · 110
Tell Me How You Really Feel
Andrew Philip May 2019
I wish that we were
bound by the pain
that we all share,
the way a drop of water
is bound to the ocean.
But we are not.
Instead, we wander
headless and heartless,
and chasing
the horizon of
our fellow human’s strife
proves futile
lest we recognize
that love is the only way
we will ever meet the sun
where it sets.
May 2019 · 185
Stirred
Andrew Philip May 2019
I took a sip of my beer
and then I said
to the monkey on my back,
“Nothing has ever hurt
so much in my life.”
He took a breath,
then a sip of his beer
and said,
“Ah, it must be love.”
May 2019 · 75
Her Bird
Andrew Philip May 2019
What no one understood about her
was that all she wanted was to feel loved,
and none of those beds made her
feel that way.
She went to the highest mountains
and to the bottom of the ocean,
only to find fleeting satisfactions
that flew by like birds
too busy to stop and sing her a song.
Her eyes didn’t stop,
but the places that she looked
had no interest in making
a home for her.
It wasn’t until she found her goddess
in the mirror
that she went back to her own bed,
drifting in and out of the dream
that she lived;
drifting in and out of love
with herself and the world around her.

When she woke up
her heart was met with the song
of a bird that finally stopped
to sing her a song,
and I think I just might
keep singing to her
as long as the sun
continues to rain
down on her
and kiss the eyes
that had finally found
what she had been looking for.
May 2019 · 107
Pearl Street
Andrew Philip May 2019
I mowed the lawn yesterday
and it felt terrible.
This complacency
has made my feet heavier,
and though the road continues
I now walk it with cinder block slippers,
unsure of how much further
I’ll actually go.
I can feel a white picket fence
in my future,
trapping me in
and my dreams out,
coddling me
with the indifference
that trickles through
the cracks of our lives.
I feel myself becoming like
everybody else,
and I’ve never been so afraid in my life.
Andrew Philip Apr 2019
Sometimes it feels
like people are all the same,
and I don’t want to be like them.
Watch how they fight
because they think
they are different.
Apr 2019 · 178
Desert Brush
Andrew Philip Apr 2019
It’s the small things
that get us through
and eat us alive.
Mar 2019 · 1.4k
Apricot Blonde
Andrew Philip Mar 2019
And we sat there
drinking cold beers
on a rainy front porch day
wondering how
there could be
so many good people
in such a sick
world.
Mar 2019 · 206
Fuerza
Andrew Philip Mar 2019
Could you love her anyways?
Andrew Philip Mar 2019
I tried to trade love for freedom,
but ended up finding out
that they are one in the same.
Dec 2018 · 106
Motion
Andrew Philip Dec 2018
What am I to do
With all of this love?
Should I glue it
To a kite
And let the wind take it
Out of the atmosphere
So it can look upon
This earth
As a whole?
Maybe I should
Tie it around
One of my front teeth
And show it to the world
When I smile
As the world smiles back.
Maybe I should leave
It in an empty ballroom,
let it dance its way around
And out the window
To salsa with the moon.
Or maybe I should leave it
Right where it is,
Between your lips
And what remains of me.

The universe is in motion
And it feels like love.
Nov 2018 · 102
Circles
Andrew Philip Nov 2018
There was a butterfly
With one wing
That whispered in my ear.
It said,
“Don’t make anyone
Your everything
Because if they leave you
You’ll feel as though
You only have one wing,
Just like me,
And then
you’ll have to fly
In circles
For the rest of your life.”
I replied,
“She’s prettier
Than a blood moon,
And that would be
A gorgeous kind
Of pain.
I could fly
In circles around her
All day.”
Nov 2018 · 90
Pearl
Andrew Philip Nov 2018
When she calls you
With that song
Of a thousand songs
And suns,
Don’t be afraid.
Let yourself fall in love
And hold on tight
To the madness.
Oct 2018 · 359
Building October
Andrew Philip Oct 2018
I don’t know
where it comes from.
It’s not like
a song from a bird,
or a baby from the womb.
It’s less like a bullet
from a gun  
and more like
the constant
breaking and mending
of the heart
as it exhales cold chains
and inhales
the fireworks
on her lips.
I don’t know
where it comes from.
I only know that
it is one of the only things
still worth fighting for.
Oct 2018 · 100
Lighthouse
Andrew Philip Oct 2018
There’s a lighthouse
On the horizon.
It is the mother
Of the child in me.
For a time
I’ve worn
This cactus sweater
And have gazed
Through the lens
Of a night sky
Without stars.
But the way
That lighthouse
Throws its beams
Keeps something
Alive inside
Of the seemingly
Abandoned shell
That I wear.
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