i think it is beautiful
that poets,
from all over,
are able to gather here
to share what we
have a passion for.
and there are writers,
who would rather
write about the bright side
than the darkness,
and there are others
who are comfortable doing
the opposite.

to create something lovely,
we write by ourselves,
but we are also writing
together.
and i am not sure if
this is as sincere
as i would like for it to be,
but i want to say thank you
for writing with me.

Smack, jab! Left, right,
watch out I bite,
process words
too fast,
they move like
flashes through my thoughts,
I don't make them, they don't make me
Don't force them, they don't force me-
I do this for fun;
bash my head into a turtle's skeleton,
pelicans, stay out of the way.
Wish wash kind of washer head,
wolf wild but walker wed,
stupid is as stupid ever gets when
stupid is what stupid said he'd turn
stupid,
what he'd spurn, stupid
pedestrian...
I, always the equestrian
and never stupid (and never wasteful
but always mindful, mind you!), like
to think that I do this for fun.

Believe me,
I do this for fun.

Sangrias on Saturdays,

a better way,

we got sicker,

the stairs spiraled,

quicker than a Winter's day








and a jet plane






is a

dalmatian




in a weird sort of way.




That was stupid



to sa-

vor

one sort of angle

over
another sort
of strangle
hold

would be a mistake,

one of great consequence,

something to wince at.


Keep wincing.


I know.


Red haired,

struttin' down that stage
like the Summer fox,

strummin' that
southern rock,

get me off, get me off!

I'm stuck

in love me mode

so give me

a good


night lullaby

and tuck me in-
at least.

freckle faced teenager, giddy up!
freckle faced teenager, give it up!

I'll be there,

I"ll be the one.

I'll feel hair

and I'll pull for fun.



Snow.


Roses.


Snow and roses,

Fall always forces
and I can never go back to
the cotton my blood was soaking in.

Snow and roses,
Fall always closes
and leaves me wanting.

I can never go back; ****
the rotten fruit our wine was soaking into.

conceited and overconfident of knowledge, but, poorly informed and immature*

embodying the definition, I lie in bed, quiet, thinking,
face down, shirtless, in a pair of cheap purple *******,
breathing in a smell--cotton sheets, sweat, and coconut

I am not nothing, not miserable, but not happy
I am not frightened or bewildered by anything

I am an elder amongst the young
I'm a youngster still, to everyone.

all trash talk,
                not new news.

I just sort of quietly revel in the experiences
unravelling above me in a floating memory

adding up my mistakes,
until all pressed into me

+ that doing the right thing hurts, sometimes,
+ people are going to do things that you can't

and still that's okay, but don't get discouraged
if you work hard and get nothing out, that just
means something, that if you like it, fight for it

I don't know.

I also learned this year not to trust the bad liars,
that sometimes people are bland, but even still,
it doesn't mean death, and it's really going fine.

I learned this is as smart as I'm going to get,
so maybe I should try a little harder with it.

turning on my back, I flick an imaginary cigarette,
I put on a little blush + a long-sleeved black shirt
then I did what I was supposed to, maybe for me.

Where, my friends, have you gotten to?
Now that I no longer listen to the call of the creature.
Were here you ever?
Or was I so imbibed I imagined you by my side?
As alone I stare, aware of my fear.
Fear that I held at bay with a shield of aluminum.
I regress to being last chosen for red rover,
A long way from the awestruck crowds of Dionytes
That fed my thirst and called me Saint of Taverns.
As mine eyes crystallize in focus,
I see naught but a wasted life
That I must taste un-wasted.