there she sits behind the trees
alone
with her book and the leaves
just like me
they fall to her with
the rain
but i won’t
though i know she is my soulmate
                                        like all the others

she coughs and i wish i could be the air
stale in her eyes, in her lungs
beneath her ribs where it’s soft
                                        she is me
                                        i am her
watching that flowing sun
ripple on its surface
cowering at the sky’s laughter

she is my soulmate
the sky chuckles and says

               *“aren’t they all?”

this is a poem because i say it is

    i could imagine that once you thought the same words
    with perfectly bleach-white blinds
    letting flawless streams of morning sunlight in
    maybe a smile on your face and a boy in your arms

these words are what I put together, okay?
they’re all i have when the sky is dark and the clouds are moving
in that too-fast way
and I need somebody to hold me but never ask

this is a ******* poem because I say it is

If I told you about when
I tried to flip my car
at three in the mourning
in a field that would
be an accommodating  
burial ground
(which was all too ironic)
I think maybe
grass would grow faster
or just turn yellow
like it always does.

If I told you about
the time I lay face down
in a rain puddle
on my old playground
where I once
was pushed to the concrete
by a sad and angry boy,
I’d be left to think
that maybe I’ve taken his place
and kicked my own self
to the black pavement
laughing into
a ***** water pool
breathing in hilarious defeat.

If I told you about
when I climbed my roof alone
and smoked my first cigarette
jolly and wild and new..
I can’t help but think now
that I was low and not high.
I stumbled back into the warmth
of my room
dizzy off of this new sickness
that is no longer new
and is quite yellowing and calloused
on my fingers.

If I told you about
the first time I drove at night
sad and angry like the boy and me,
I think that I would chuckle
at how
I tried to flip the car over
so many years ago
quite halfheartedly
and how I am the same always

in the most laughable way

a soul and silence
are the same thing
says the girl
who smokes in her sleep
she writes endless words
but can’t quite make poetry
//
the musician lived on a busy sidewalk
playing the harp with his teeth
his gums bled but he didn’t mind
anyhow
he had no money to eat
//
the painter smokes and drinks
not water but beer
slaps on colors and
complains to me
he hasn’t **** solid in years…
(what a joke)
//
i know a dancer who
has no grace
her toenails fall one and two
blood smears the floor like a portrait
in her empty space
//
                                 but you are every kind of artist
                                 no need to try
                                 you could twist galaxies
                                 in a pathetic knot
                                 with just a sigh
                                 //
                                                                                 your fear,
                                                                                 the songs you hear,
                                                                                 the way your lips hum
                                                                                 while you dream,
                                                                                 and when you cry,
                                                                                 how you scream,
                                                                                 the glow of golden
                                                                                 at your feet
                                                                                 as they crack
                                                                                 the sidewalk
                                                                                 and street..
                                                                                 delicate rain
                                                                                 is what you are,
                                                                                 a cup of coffee,
                                                                                 a lit cigar,
                                                                                 the swooping stomach
                                                                                 of life discovered,
                                                                                 the breath in lungs
                                                                                 of love uncovered.
                                                                                 //
the only good artist
you won’t ever leave

Life is spent begging to be remembered. It’s like I don’t exist, really. I must convince others I am real or else I may just be a figment of my own imagination. And so here I am again, pen and paper; hoping these pages won’t disappear. The ink is there, existence of me alive in time. In the same way, I’ll look into your eyes begging you to remember every cave of dark green and pool of droughting blue. I speak whispers with my mouth near to you so that you can feel the warmth of my breath and remember the soft words I needed you to hear. Feel the uncalloused hands wrapping around yours, the hum of my car beneath us. I am real. I am here. And I love you. **If you ever remember me, just remember how I loved you. If I was ever real, it was because you believed I was.

we lay together naked
and i whispered to you,
“break my heart”
i needed something to write about
you only said to me
“darling, i already have”
and then you left
without another word

timothy lynch
the Catholic boy
won’t talk until Easter

he doesn’t speak in his classes
to his parents
or his friends
he doesn’t laugh or giggle
just keeps to himself
until lent passes by

i want to tell him it’s a waste
of three months

//
he’s ******* mary jacobson
the Baptist pastor’s daughter
every day after school
anyways

she’s glad
that he’s given up talking
she says he needs
to be Holier and cleanse

but she mostly
just likes when he’s quiet
during ***