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Willard Apr 30
Adam ******* shot my mom in the head.
in character, Howie Ratner from the
2019 film Uncut Gems told me
"i hafta! it's in the script! i hafta!"

out of all my nightmares,
there's been worse.

paralyzed,
my heart was a wasp nest
how it buzzed and stirred.
i begged my ribs to crack
and let them flood out.

for what an intrusion of stings could do,
i cannot:
articulate how scared i truly am.
sleep paralysis & anxiety
Willard Feb 10
i remember five months from now
how i sprawled across your lap like chainlink
and you traced an urban skyline
peeking through my skin.

i asked which radio tower was your favorite.
what's most beautiful about the city
we have yet to build.
don't expect anything more.
Willard Jun 2019
I LIKE TO THINK HOW WE WILT
petalbypetal
AT AN EXPONENTIAL RATE
secondbysecond
BREAKS OUR EXOS DOWN TO AIR
limbbylimb

TO ONLY BRAINS WE'LL BE
handbyhand
GROWING & PUSHING & RIPPING
seambyseam
APART FADED CORPSES, BURSTING
inchbyinch

FROM HOSPICES & GRAVES
breathbybreath
DEAD FLOWER CROWNS COLORED
budbybud
THE RED OF POMEGRANATES
cellbycell
Willard May 2019
City cops, either
all pigs or all fathers,
break cement curbs with rubber
as the shin of a warm body
brushes a front bumper;
warning sign clearer than headlights.

I stand arrested across the highway.
An idle ghost, mouth agape, eyeballing
the Record Courier parking lot,
officers breaking cement
breaking kneecaps of a civilian.

Where he kisses the ground
I once analyzed the black of the sun,
diseasing slowly from time and the light.
I soaked the now with a present mind
and active heart, living for life

defined by want.
I recall Impressionist interpretations
of Carson Valley sitting on
the windowsill of the Courier,
a hand wrapped around my wrist

using its nails to pick off my skin
naively, so I’ll bleed out
through my scabs and my corpse
will be captured in that moment.
Handcuffed, legs pressed

between my shoulder blades,
but seconds still pass.
Divorced from a faded past,
I wait until three uniforms
shove a man into the backseat

and drive to the station.
We’re now shadows of
our former selves in
the lights of a cop car,
separated from when
our heartbeats were the loudest.
Willard Apr 2019
I've waited for you to squeeze me
and feel the chinese newspaper
under my ribs.

In the black summer sun,
we could keel over in the sand
and watch small flares

infract the perfect circle
we'd been staring at
miles apart.

I kiss with my eyes open.
Maybe you'll see it.
Maybe we'll see

carved skin
we don't want to expose
to anyone else.

Or maybe,
everyone finds me
see through.

And my quest for transparency
rendered null
all my complexities.
old poem, been listening to a lot of CityCop and Shin Guard.
Willard Apr 2019
Reality’s a pink blush.
Warm, in the way
saliva pulls color from
petals of tulips,
every sunset I paint
is tinted unachievable
shades, no matter how
the sun hits the horizon.

Can I twist your
wire frames? Feed
crows my lamictal?

We can use the same
dye for every landscape,
portrait, and moment
we capture together.
:^)
Willard Apr 2019
There’s a house Anne built
with a crumbling frame,
she’d eat the paint chips
off the wood and dream
of a sun set she’d parallel
as an identical being.
A life cycle of  dissolving
lithium batteries in *****,
chasing doctor death
by staying still. Carbon
monoxide filled the cavities
in her brain and her corpse,
a beautiful foundation
destroyed in broad daylight,
do loved ones say goodbye
over the remains.

And in blood visions I see
the home I’ll put together
and tear apart. Is what’s
inevitable a tragedy?
If I stay in the garage
and let the car run,
the wood in the floorboards
would still be fresh. Anne,
my future is in all the
architecture I’ve admired.
If they’re all delusions,
then reality’s a great
impressionist and I’ve
been picking off all
of the yellow paint.

I will set with the sun,
I will set with the sun

when day time comes
to an end. and over
what’s left standing,

say goodnight rather
than goodbye.
:^)
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