Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
Dry bones of Moses painted on my button down shirt screaming,
“to be or not to be” is not an English word.
In the daze of the thoughts of Neurology, I saw a man kick a bucket full of Starbucks giftcards down the avenue street. He screamed in pain as he watched the bucket tumble and roll down the street, blessing every Bohemian with a slight cold.

Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
I dreamt about a land before man where the Oxygen that sprang from the pores of flowers
sang a sweet death. Where dishwashers are saints, for afterall, man will not be if not for food.
Where books are written not to be read, but for the sake of Orange trees that will grow in the future.
I once wore a poker face to a funeral and laughed at the man in the casket because the souls he had underneath him were two left feet.

*We all once had naked pictures of God on our nightstands but lost it after Einstein  
Lost the fried chicken war of 1812 to Isaac Newton.

it's always at night
that the epiphany comes,
that the constant downpour of thoughts
forms a constant shape.
how can i tell you that lately,
that shape has been your name?

my late night dream shaping sessions
have to stop-
epiphanies leave a footprint,
and i don't want this one to be filled by tears,
like all the rest.

I'll put the rain to better use
than thinking there's a spot next to you
for me

time to roll over,
fall asleep without dreaming

i think like this too often
for me to believe i've succeeded tonight

i'll wake up tomorrow still thinking of you
and thank myself for you not being her,
but i'll still be stuck-
dreams are hard to break,
false realities are worse
(wish i thought this could work)



©Brandon Webb
2012

It always rains here
Puddles form in the valleys of the cracked pavement
The flimsy gutters snap and stick out like broken fingers
Water flowing in choppy patterns
Slapping loudly against the slick ground
Water always falls where we walk
Our shoes are always wet
Raindrops break though the cold, thick fog that creeps down our throats
We always happen to forget our umbrellas
When it rains all day, I look at the grey blanket of a sky
And think its eyes must hurt terribly
Thanking God we brought our jackets
We converge in the 20 by 20
Linoleum floored room
Hidden away behind the mossy brick walls that catch the rain
We sit in places where the floor is less wet
Letting out hair dry and hands warm
Against the wheezing old heater
Which two lucky ******* use as a seat
Heads crack against the old porcelain water fountain
And feet trip over the wobbly doorstops
We carve our names in the walls
And scuff our shoes on the floor
I bury my nose in the dusty pages of a book
And laugh halfheartedly when someone calls my name
We huddle like penguins in the Arctic

That's Seattle I suppose
And we have never been happier, I think.

It was many and many a year ago,
  In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
  By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
  Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
  In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
  I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
  Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
  In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
  My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
  And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
  In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
  Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
  In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
  Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
  Of those who were older than we—
  Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
  Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
  In her sepulchre there by the sea—
  In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
  This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
  Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
  Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
  Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,
  Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
  Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning,
  Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
  Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning
  Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
  And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

If I could see the weedy mussels
  Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
  Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

Feel once again the shanty straining
  Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
  Dread the bell in the fog outside,—

I should be happy,—that was happy
  All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
  Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy
  Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
  I have a need of water near.