Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Suddenly my world so closed
becomes open,
to follow every animal-trail that
emerges in the heaving, breathing woods.
Old roads now lead to houses
and from canals up high
one can keep an eye.
I could not find
the stepladder weave up the cut
of the powerlines;
nor could I find
the stack glissade of rock upon rock
springfed from out of a mine.
My home’s at once drafty and
dark becoming, doors uncontaining,
the roads all too entwining.
And so too, my within,
chambers filling and then draining.
On the mend
The case of the missing lodger
and his disassembled pens—
how he’d fleetfooted, everrunning feelings
he never could seem to pin.

One would have never guessed How
one’d grow accustomed to hell, Nay,
would seem to seek it out; Sidelong.
some part of you, sure, but wholly Itself.

We find it’s a little more manageable:
we’re not so lost surfing channels,
so neither red-eyed nor rubbed raw
by our own hands, but for we
dulled every point we had.

It’s the mornings when you realize what you’ve done:
what contrivances you’ll now employ to get on,
how you have your half-truths, white-lies, alibis
to maybe make it back to an end, any end, back to bed alive.

Exertion is low on account of the smoke;
the cat cannot snack, he just sits and counts kibble.
How cheap’s the talk we sincerely deliver;
how meek’s the squawks, silences, whimpers?

Movements are limited, speaking’s discouraged,
all promises made should be weighed
‘gainst the chance you can’t keep them;
if or if ever that’s ever the case.

The only way back, back to your druthers,
back to the timeline you still felt hungry,
where you were wont on cold nights to shiver,
with far less to consider and less high of stakes—

Keep behind or else far out in the world.
Remember to chew something: gum, dowels or cud.
Carry paper and pen else be misunderstood.
And before it's this Winter, gather your wood.
whatcha been upto?
Pillows too large
propped or pushed
to the floor,
wood debris and
shredded paper,
tools left out,
lights left on,

***** pots and bottles
on sills,
sheets in heaps and clothes
in piles: this list to-do.
A house in shambles,
a home in making.
Now then when I think I smell really her I’m smelling myself;
back when I smelled her really how’s I’m smelling myself.
Thank god for hash to hew you me
when you’re feeling cold.

It’s out up then blindly.

Wind waiting
in this darkling
where that this pen
is writing—
—Thru a given glass of water
Remember, remember,
the high shelf, harbored letters?
Wicker seat,
linens, and too by fleece
how I listened to you
and you listened to me
I can't let myself come be with you (all of the time).
I'd get cruel and I'd tire of our sweet loving.

I can't let myself have another drink (I can't swallow).
I'd stop answering, stop thinking, start wallowing n' we both know
where that'd go—real low.

What I can
is take you driving, sunrise-set chasing
falling or dawning, what I can.
Taking my pride in all I can.

I can't let all myself go cuz I wouldn't know (when to stop).
Thenceforth hard-pressed to top what we had, what we got.

I can't let sweet old you into my life (not just yet).
There'd be a price in my eyes, a cost for letting you get.
But yes, maybe, maybe I might, if it's right.
Rain fell today, yeah, the drought's over.
Now you can all go home.
I hope this a bitter winter,
hope it chills you to the bone.
That might settle the score,
but when I settle my affairs
I'll want more: prepare for war.

Some soon to come and some more soon to go–
like I expected any less.
I'd tell you what but I am just too yellow,
I'm too young to know
but you couldn't call me heartless.
I make amends, make amends, my friends.
Wanna be easy, breezy again.

Lovely Western Zephyrus, I do invoke thee now:
please send something our way.
Lovely cumulonimbus flown in on o'er the town,
like a child's tantrum rage.
Have to be brave, be brave to be saved.
But my voice is hoarse, depraved.

This Winter now is just a-getting started.
So far it's like a one from way before.
Reckon it will leave me so brokenhearted.
The storm's knocking, knocking at your door.
When I die I'll finally have the time
to go visit with my mother,
do the dishes and all those little somethings.
It'd be more money-coming
to my sister and brother.
When I die I'll maybe turn to the Lord,
the only room and board I could afford.

When I die don't bury me.
Just a ghostly linen sheet will do.
Prop me up in the corner discreet.
A Stetson hat, underwear, and my Italian shoes.
When I die let's have us a time–
big bonfire in the woods with wine.

We can go up to my shack
where no one can find us,
lay around in the sack
n' get simpleminded.
Next page