23/Cisgender Male/Gainesville, FL I'm a Journalist, a Marketing Copywriter, a Law Student, an Unchurched Christian grasping for what Christ means outside of corrupt traditions, a spouse trying to recalculate what love is pretty much all the time, and a puppy dad. (he/him) 13 followers / 911 words
I've got a laundry list of problems That I am not dealing with right now. But I swear to you that I will solve them when I am older. For now I will let them simmer Right there on the back burner.
Why is this not my bed? Why are you not my wife? Why is my house on fire?
Who left the oven on?
I’ve been home for a good solid month now and I still don't have a job And all these empty days are beginning to feel like ****. I know that God provides all that I need But I don't think he knows me that well.
I need a 10-cylinder production car. I need to do something that gets the cops on my tail Like rob a bank or hit a cop car. I want to touch you. I want to touch you. I wanna touch you I wanna touch you I wanna touch you I wanna touch u. I want to spend my days watching Happy Days with my family. I want to think about all these happy days spent at home.
Who left the TV on?
Do you ever have one of those dreams Where you're drowning but it's kinda nice And then you wake up in the bath tub?
The silence must be unsatisfied here. The air conditioning has broken for the night so my family's all gone in to sleep and sweat out their dreams.
These nights, the birds never stop their song, in with the crickets who scrape on and on and on. The harvest moon is out, and they must think it is the sun, bulbous and orange, like one wide eye of a tilted face, looking hard at all these curious animals.
Now I know I have just a girl for a mate and I'm only a man of a king but what a god, what a god what a God! we must have.
What a god I sit with now, sounding the humble noises of the night, both of us wondering what it must be like to grow old.
Summer nights in Florida stay hot. The temperature drops from 100 to 88 and you can still sweat at 3 a.m. This place feels like it never changes. Which means, when you have a picture of Florida in your, it doesn't ever really need to change. This place doesn't age. But I still do in the midst of it.
The bible says that one day, the bodies of the dead will be raised from their graves, and all peace will reign again.
My aunt Shelly was cremated, according to her wishes. "You'd never get see my body underground! Save space for the next sucker put in a box for forever."
What will happen to my dear aunt Shelly? Will what's left of her body be raised with the rest of us; her smaller self rising, kind of like smoke, from the urn we keep her in on the bookcase so that we can localize her presence whenever we feel it? Or will we find God sitting cross-legged in our living room, putting us all back together, piece by tiny, burnt piece?
Her collarbone was exposed to the sun as she squinted, assessing the birds.
The other night We planned to go out for a wine special at a cafe When we found a pigeon stuck under the hood of our car She screamed and grabbed my arm Saying “We’ve got to get it out; it’ll die if we don’t.”
So she stood in the shadow-casting light of our screened-in porch And she strapped my bike helmet to the front of my face To protect me from getting my eyes pecked out.
I opened the hood And released the bird And she screamed and cackled As it rose up Flapping furiously, free and frantic and faithfully gone into the warmest night we’ve had in months.
Just today I encountered her, face to the window: “A cardinal!” Which is a bird I only ever see on the ground And not flying And definitely not trapped behind a radiator.
Someone once told me you won’t be married to the same person in 50 years because your partner changes and you two will fall in love over and over again, with someone new each time. This is a poem about realizing that is true.
It's morning, rain has fallen making all the ground darker shade and I'm sweaty, and, god, I didn't want to be sweaty. I'm pushing panting up a hill in sixth gear on my six-gear bike because the gear-shifter has long since broken as a result of a time I cut too close to a old-fashioned lamp post, caught my pedal on it and went spinning headlong into a rose bush.
The trees are green, greener than I've ever seen them. It's morning and the cars shick by, rolling atop the water in the road like Christ did in the early years. A car slams into a puddle. When did our lives become so perfectly metaphored in cars? The a to B life; stopping only when stopped by a glaring light or harsh word; filling up and running out; breaking down only on the road, never in my own garage.
A warm rain will fall this morning. I hear only the breathy whisper of my breath out my mouth and engines and tires. I think nothing, which is a hard-earned comfort seeing as I, like every person, have a lot to think about, ever since we invented the automobile; ever since we crucified a sinless man; ever since the moment we thought nothing, and were sent crashing into a rose bush.