1/18/2015

here is one thing i have always liked
about myself:
i can force a poem.

12:27am on a sunday morning,
i wonder what you are up to
thinking probably you have more

**** than me,
more luck than me
and you'd told me once

walking down the orange streetlight sidewalks
in mercer county developments
"you gotta be in a good place in

life to do drugs, and i'm always
happy, i gotta celebrate that."
your crooked white teeth

curling upwards and your
blue scary sharp eyes smiling
i just shoved my fingers in the

ripped jacket pocket harder
and gripped your hand with my
other.

"i guess i could never
do too many then."
i'm kidding, though

and i keep taking hits.
i haven't heard from you in weeks
last i saw was your

scaryskinny naked legs
next to mine on a scaryskinny bed.
but i do know you're not exactly

suffering out there
and i wonder what your secret is.
i'll never see you again after those

scaryfast two weeks
i know that and yet sometimes i wonder
how i learned to force my poems so easily.

1/15/2015

sitting behind the shed at the seminary
where we'd rolled off together for the first
time that night in the fall

but that's another story.
stolen lighter flick,
first hit's my honor

and soon my manibular ramus
is reaching towards orion's belt and
i realize with that it's your

favorite constellation and I think about how
I Have To Laugh plays, the Fleetwood mac
hurting the crests of my pink pulled lungs

swaying said manible to the slowly winding
upriver bass remember when LSD was legal?
she says and they used to test it on citizens?

it rips up through my own breath with the
guitar mucking creshendo and the words
it's over, it's all over and i'm glad to be free

and i laugh,  i cannot stop it,
i look up at your favorite constellation
we promised we'd look at at the same time

at new years and i feel very bad because it
is a long time ago perhaps even two weeks,
and the tobbaconist laughs when we ask for Ozium

and I feel bad i don't think of you that often
but then i stand up and say to my friends
hey where you going i'm hungry

and then the fleetwood mac's a story
on itself from the past and i feel my
legs growing on and i realize feeling guilt

because of you
is thinking of you
and i feel a bit better about myself

and dismiss it completely
and keep walking
making sure to cut across *Alexander Hall

"what a *******
cliche," is that what they're calling it these days?
stop talking about a ******* revolution
god, youre so naïve(cough spit cough
crying for justice in the dead of night
whens the last time someone heard you screaming?or
cared?)

1/12/2015
"There is no woman living that draws breath
So sad as I, though all things sadden her.

Alas, Love, what is this thou wouldst with me?
What honour shalt thou have to quench my breath,
Or what shall my heart broken profit thee?
O Love, O great god Love, what have I done?"
- Algernon Charles Swinburne

Utility boots set down stolid on the asphalt
of the Powers field
by the power vested in me
as I sit in stadium seat 547B

In the cold, bathed
in the antifreeze holding
it steady in my mouth

a fat orange plum on the metal
mandible.
as soon's the safety's off with the
fork it's a

crack light, crack light as my
friends would say
and I think who the hell would
ever do drugs?

You've come a long way, Baby
the box says
and all the ones serious about
their tar intake

make fun of me
girl things, girl stuff
where's your love for camel?
but really. cancer isn't a competition.

it is cold and colder.
i think of ******, i think of you
most importantly

of how i probably wouldn't be staring
dully at the bright orange paint
PRINCETON

and throwing stubbed out cigarettes at
the turf.
the next field over was the one he kissed
me in that night

and i'd thought of you then,
thought of you always.
and why the hell?

it is funny. I know why i do this
i told myself i would never smoke
because i get addicted too fast

procrastinate far too much.
i throw another dead little Virginian girl
at the grass chambers of hell below

and I look at my frostbitten fingers tips to
see if they are still there.
because it is my fault,

and it always is;
debauchery's been my best friend for
so long

and i do not know why these boots are
so broken in,
so sturdy and so very "here"

when procumbent you'd
say to me i don't know what will happen
but the future's going to make us happy

and i guess it worked out for one of us.
i haven't talked to him in three weeks,
the almost father of my almost child
(thank god. . .)

the sire of my sense of
restlessness
his words of "i'm 16 going on 21"
ringing on to me

and making my tongue bleed
as i reach for the bottle of tea
i had dropped somewhere in
the "B" seats

but where was i?
oh yes, where you are  not
and i'm going down the stairs to
where i'd throw down the goodness

on saturday nights in november
and i can't feel my toes now too
so i go down faster

my head reeling
and the marlboro boys and the
camel boys tell me that virginia slim's
supposed to not make you feel anything.

11/21/2014
to every person i've ever loved
who loves the party more than me.

You down a 40oz
I write it all down
on a friday night.
But where              is the difference.

I'm feeling pathetic
you're putting hands down pants
But where              is the difference.

Haha.

And in my head, maybe yours
It's recited:
"It's ok to feel tired
Ok to feel bad, Ok to
wish you had things you
can't always have.

Ok to go to parties
Ok to go to school
watch out, babe!
the drool from
those boys- i still see it
on your neck
even today!"

Clearly, you're wrong
40oz liver kid and not one mixed message
on my drunk message phone receiving center
either you don't think of me

when you have no impulse control
or you are disciplined.
i'm not sure which i prefer
do i want to be an impulse?

Maybe. But it's because
I know and you don't
God, i just want-

Looking ****** never getting called pretty
except for when you're weird
and you're sit here
not beered up, BUT riled up

When today your grubby hands
slip n slide down a rusty zipper
while I sit and write on a friday night

but the jokes on me
because come tomorrow i may just
live happily

and let those grubby fingers hold my
hair or maybe
i'll be the one touching the zippers.

with Bolt velocity,
  no moment's hesitation
I got a thirty eight on my math test
but you go out all day three point five gpa
still saying you miss the trees and bees and

(please, I need a vacation.*)
you've been having a bad time too
but it's ok i don't believe **** of what
you say or do
but i'm leaving it up to you like you know I
like to do if you know what I mean

Laziness is interegral of me
so is apathy
and so is envy
  but what's the difference?



do i care?

11/21/2014
1
It is a november night,
and the chill in the air is a colder one at that.
Do I offend it when I lock myself in my room?
  perhaps it says
     'Do you not want to be with me?'

Dearest,
It's not that.
          Definitely. It is not.

But when will the wind learn?
for it only feels  the tailends,
never verbalized.
go on wondering
why people run from it.

2
But when the wind is about to
    lose its mind from loneliness ,
              it screams.
                   This is called a blizzard, or in the warmer months,
                   a hurricane.

3
It doesn't make it less lonelier.
   In fact,
     it only makes it worse.
People board up windows,
go to cheap motels inland.
That's why it always rains softly
after the storm passes through.

11/1/2014
   Every time I go into the library basement I think about the fact: at one point I would have taken a very soft rubber bullet to the ball of my foot for him. Now, at this point, i'd take a very real bullet on the occasion we had to cross paths. Sometimes, walking through Rittenhouse square, I would get this urge to give him a tremendous hug.
  But with the same intensity, a feeling of unease would creep on me when we drove in his car down the hill, humming and rolling with the quiet effects of German efficiency. I wondered. I couldn't possibly be scared of him.
  I'm sure he thought the same things. But mere rejection of Mariology at our young age'd contributed to our mutual apathy. I hate writing in parks. I had to write my Joycean riddles facing the door. I couldn't come to terms with him or anyone reading even a word by mere coincidentiality, right-place-at-right-time.
  Truth is, naked and embryonic, that none of this happened. This is just a cute dream. Philadelphia park dreams with the one who took my... innocence? I more like confirmed that societal pressures are *******. Like my friend Francis Scott said- I just want the pleasures of losing it again.
   When I sit here doing my AL 2 homework and he is doing a University research paper, the fuckedupedness hits me like a brick. Born too late or born too soon, easy come, easy go. I realize that I may be scared when i'm in that car.
   Because the truth is that yes,I do have to write in front of a door- but... I never thought that we'd every really be together in the grown up love future. Capable of loving someone that much I know. Old letters prove it.
   And where am I left? He is saying things to me he probably will say to someone this very year- and i've never said any of them to anyone in my life.
    I close my textbook, yawn a bit. I know there won't be a grown up love future- an apartment. But I just have to make sure the fantasies expressed by him are copacetic.  How will a day in the apartment look like for us?

He'll forget, if I don't first.