Your room is not my room
(i really don't even know where mine is)
Yet,
i've been waiting,
working,
thinking,
walking,
hoping,
working,
waiting
for­ the moment when i'm here with you.
Now that i'm actually here
i can't let go of the fact that  i have to leave tomorrow,
and because of how much i've been waiting
working,
thinking,
walking,
hoping,
waiting
for this momen, i'm too tired to give you a proper last night
and ******* 'til that bus arrives
to take me back to my waiting,
working...

****, i'm too tired to give a **** about poetry.
Instead, i think i'll **** the light
and hope that one of these weekends won't end.

Your feet are bare; freed of your sandals
and my eyes fall to stares and glances
from their corners.
I want to look at you
directly.
I want to let my eyes
traverse the waves of light
that you exist as,
until all of you
has been
explored.

But this class is blood;
teachers speak of it,
and i can feel it misting the air,
choking out any pleasantries that i could express
that would warrant me
one,
maybe two
seconds
to drink you in.

A few seconds of sight
isn't much in a four week
summer class,
i think, though,
that after all this is over
those few seconds are all i will retain.

The introduction to poetry class,
English 106
at Oregon State is alright.
I might have liked
one
or two
of the things we read,
but all in all
it was just another english class
which shyed away from anything
that broke traditional form,
and only elaborated the folly of existence:
a belief that
a subjective object
could be
an objective subject.

Oh well,
it was a good way
to waste away
for four summer weeks
in hour and 50 minute
incriments
while i waited
for my life to mean something.
So i guess that
over
all
i can't complain about it
because at least the class
and i
were both worthless
and we could share that
together.

If i were
who i was
a few years ago
i might feel compelled
to write a poem
of Anger
at this whole Gulf Oil leak thing.
Being who i was not,
however,
i now think that effort would be a waste
as someone has probably already done so
who has more money
and better connections
than this college junior,
and i wouldn't dare impose myself
on another's intellectual property rights.
Plus, i know that
the current grumblings of mankind
are too quickly forgotten memories
once the next round of grumbling
begins again.
So instead i think i'll write poems
that celebrate the
collapsed,
bombed out,
radiated,
poisoned,
burned,
and decayed world i live in,
and leave the rest of you
to stake your claims
that the world is
falling apart,
and you are the first to truly know.

She falls asleep
in the driver's seat
of her car as
the light post falls
across the windshield
making my shadow fall
on to her face
(is that my nose;
are these my hands?)
I write these
lines
on
some phone
that isn't worth the plan it requires.
We have so many ways
to talk,
but communication
only seems to run
like a kitten.

The 21st century,
we made it,
but i have no ******* clue
what we made.
I only know that i
can't be
in this
passenger seat
as she sleeps,
but we can't stop *******
so
here
we
are.
Wanna watch us go?

No Wordsworth or
Keats or
Brownings tonight,
but Eminem makes me shed a few
as his rage is piped through
the blown out speakers.
I'm not supposed to let the battery
die,
but i'm also not supposed to let myself
die,
so neither of these obligations make sense.

I've already given the world
up,
bur for some reason
it holds me
closer than she does
when she's wearing my sweater,
smoking my cigarettes.

So tonight i can't sleep,
but i know i don't want to wake
anymore;
rising from a pillow
only gives rise
to a fall within me
that's deeper
than the breaths she takes
when i'm inside her.

There's a hidden history of suicides;
i hear that
thirty some-odd Koreans just joined the club
tonight, but someone
seems to have misplaced
my membership card.
Still,
i know where a few homeless men sleep
and i'm willing to be
that if i gave them
the thousand dollars left from my college loans
they'll show me the initiation rites.

Would she understand
if i went from being inside her
to being outside the universe
in the same night?

Do i care?
She's just another
American Redhead
who wants something i can never give,
(unceasing pleasure and adventure)
so i guess
the only reason i'm here
is that i can't promise
she'll be happy
witout me
(is that really my breath on the window?)

Somehow i want to believe that
this means more
than the apple tree
we're parked under;
more than
the trailer
she sleeps next to;
more than
the street light illuminating
her face
as gently sleeps
in the driver's seat,
and i
stay awake
and write
from the passenger side.

I've been told
to walk soflty and
carry a large stick,
so i tread among the silent,
blurting out
with a piece of asphalt
in my hands.

I like to keep them guessing.

My words now float
up
to space
and then down to you
in a digital prayer, while
my flesh streaks
down
I-5 with grass seeds
in my hair
and paint on my face.
My soul isn't to be found though,
but of course
no ones' ever was
so i can't lodge any new complaints
into our ledger.

I think of you
and i think of whales
and a spider
braving a crawl space
in an attic that may only hold
starvation.
We're all insane;
there is no debate
on that,
but i fear i might be
growing saner
as i lose things to say,
so i have started
not to speak.

Instead
i try correspondence with the wind
but i only recieve changes
in air pressure
as a reply.

This drove Dostoevsky
under-
ground,
but it makes me want to run
to you:
yes to bare feet
and snow
and the prospect
that something was actually waiting
for us
on that blanket.

Now the sun begins
to rise
but the billboard lights are still on
despite the slumber
of the theme parks.

Soon they will wake
and lines
will spontaneously form
out of forged courtesy
and habit,
but i will wonder
when i can sleep
in your arms
under
a January snow
again.