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mike dm May 2016
it isnt easy for anybody
to write
themselves

down.

the gaps of what is
or is not

elide

the silly lines you lay.

most of it is ****.
true story.

but -still- you
write the space and
chase the miss

with appendages
that lift
concrete feet.
mike dm May 2016
i went to the bar
last night. had a few drinks.
jukebox played. people danced.

my glass
spun around
in my hand,
like my head, and
it drank

me up
good.

i have
a hard time
a lot.

i know

the press the press
to be someone

so well; and, she knows me.

the trim of her pale green dress
whittles the beats that

keep me going.

wooden boy with a prop in his hand
and a flower for a face.
mike dm May 2016
sitting on the couch
with her legs tucked
under
at an angle
toward the door
 
that i
walk through

she is wearing her mint green bathrobe 

her fingers clutch
a wine bottle she jus got done killing

its contents dousing
some of the fire

we start
to argue

it spirals

i create
space and

go to the bedroom

her being now frames the doorway 
i notice and
recognize
her one foot on top of the other 
pivoting the toe in-out-in-out 
digging it
into her bottom toe
as if to
***** herself 
to her place

that im in 

it crushes me
to see this tic of hers
because it was always the small things she did
that made me want to curl up

inside her bones
and call it something like

home

her fingers grasp
the door frame 
i can see
the blood
leaving them

i feel
so much

the flowers are dead and dying and
i feel like i am
watching these ******* petals
ball themselves
into a wrecking fist
with time lapsing much too quickly

before i
am able to
be in it

i am yesterday right now too often it hurts it hurts
and its weird bc
the high-flung melodrama
of me
feels kitchen sink disposal real

her blue
blue iris
so beautiful
detained
by the stilled willful dark that
increases itself

abysmal circumference
pooling around
my feet
its teeth whirring dicing

us now lying down
on the bed
together
one last time

her fetal position curls into my

stiff
straight
body 

her fingers
lacing the fingers

of another 

next to
her 

indigo silhouettes
on top
of black

lack
mike dm May 2016
rooster crow.
goat horns clash.
sudden sutured glow
for what is left

of
this

soul,

comes forward
into thought.

soon i'll know
what it feels like to find roots;
or i won't,

idk.

afternoon slow
blue sky flies
off the tips of treetops;
old-growths,
ancienter than dragon bone femur,
scraping aged skylines.

im

earthing
in
my
mind.
mike dm May 2016
Buster the tomcat
hunting in
the garden

field mouse
wins

this one.
mike dm May 2016
i hate myself
out loud,

and
make
things

awkward

er.
mike dm May 2016
blue spaces
           move you
   on the inside
          to jump ship

   skiffs in the fog of night

        wooden
kisses

  then, the sound of small silences

send
      their
  swimming roots
       bonedeep
dm **** l  o w
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