bone cracked at an angle
you watch thoughtfully as my arm bends
and i'm still feeling thankful.
your eyes hold tight, and steady
my ears are thumping with a tremor
this isn't a one time error
this is merely an example.
i'll just push on through
cause what else can i do
pretend i saw the lightning-strike
turn hard around a sycamore
i'll meet you soon at
lover's lane, for a quarrel.
i'm holding down but there's no
ground game left
the sky is tossing and turning and
i saw the lightning bend
around a sycamore, i think
i can't feel my teeth
am i doing this right?
burnt by bylines
takes my mind to the moon and back
fears giving way to days
dripping like years
shove a fist in my death-crammed jaw
pray to wake up safely
ignore the crack in the sky
pray to wake up safely
something nice about a day job
to get away from it all
something about long sleeves that are
nice enough to cover yesterday
but i can still hear the thunder slapping
with my busted ears.
the dictionary definition of abuse is the improper use of something
(stealing a couple phrases from Nicky Wish again, appropriation is the most sincere form of flattery)
used to be time, well-spent
see your smile, all day.
i thought we'd meet up soon but
the time's just walking away.
used to be room to breathe
but now the minutes leave like days
i ask our time to stay but
all i get from the clock is a look away.
you're worried you're feeling wanted,
tired of smiling at me, it hurts.
i wanna go
where you go
when you turn the other way
i wanna see the things i know i cannot see.
sharp objects in your eyes aiming for mine
i fall apart in there, under the gravity.
it could've been time, or space,
could've been time for space
but i can't tell you that when you
keep tossing and turning away.
the clock's stopped counting past today
all i get is your look away.
the world's falling after me.
there used to be intimacy, but now
it's all coming down on me
dedicated to Nicky Wish for giving me the right words
i've been watching a lot of movies lately
not that that's anything new, just
wanted to let you know. Maybe,
you've seen a couple of the same ones.
i've been tearing up a lot around this time
though not for anything worth worrying
about, just sneaking in stories before bedtime
about love and laughs and hurrying toward
it feels like we're all focused on getting old.
it feels like we're running toward distractions
to forget about the future, but isn't that
what mindfulness is all about? but
still it doesn't feel mindful it feels a lot more like
maybe im doing it wrong.
these past couple nights have felt a bit too much
like misdirected repetition
playing the same notes twice
writing double, but not really going anywhere.
lets watch a movie sometime
your hard-to-hide bark-ribbed arms
wrapped in dark sleeves,
they've slipped away from here.
push your face farther into his chest
pretend in her trust is a safe place to rest
lay in his bed, recovering.
and outside meetings people click on,
quickly, with motors cranked, ticking:
"cleanness slapped with black so fast
and wrapped in a blanket called disaster."
torn up wrists and IV veins,
"clear off from me,"
feeling halfway between
a photo folded too many times
stale painted-dead air curling off the world.
Barely holding on,
We're sometimes not there at all.
shout out Jessie Pinkman
Locate I love you
In between filling hole remains
and their parting ways
this is something not quite dead but
not quiet in going away either.
It's rough to leave it at a somewhat when
hard exteriors stay untouched.
you have to shave away the edges
Whittle away what was precious and--
And dredge up a rotten throbbing ball of
bumbling nerves stuck with a steady flood
intent on forgetting the final-straw day
their own lives were sent mail-in changes
with marching orders for separation.
A dividing house is due to fold in on itself
and never stops at all.
it blooms in your mouth
as soon as you think of it
it starts in the middle
and stretches to your cheeks
it grows feet and kicks at your lips.
you can hold it in but it
wants to spread, and
it'll press on your tongue
react with it, rub your teeth thin.
because in there,
it's an in-between
and it wants to loom, to grow, to be.
They called him Grandpa, even though he had no grandchildren and was younger than most of them. And he knew it was going to be a rough one.
The ship was spitting tunes like cracking knuckles, bending under the slams of waves. The air cradled a smell of ***, alcohol curling into the wood on the deck from a fallen bottle.
Sea spray eroded at the hull, sharing the ship’s contents with the sea bit by bit. From a glance one couldn’t tell, but if you stared long enough, you’d notice the wear.
Today the sea was a slow knife sinking into the ship, anyone knew that.
Waves were volcanic today, unable to keep their excitement contained within the Pacific as they jumped into the hull of the ship. The clouds were a different story. Drunk old men bumbling about, bumping into each other as they took turns spitting electric chew into the bucket.
The wind screamed out a tantrum, ripping at the sail. We all knew the sea was a cruel lover, didn’t you read enough sailor’s stories to know?
Boots squeaked and slipped a lonely sloppy dance on the empty deck. Grandpa knew she was angry with him today. The sea, that is. He could see faces in the clouds scowling at him. Her footsteps echoing off the sky; play-pretend thunderclaps. He looked out in the sick-gray ocean, while she frothed at the mouth. Grandpa scratched the boyish stubble on his face, unsure what could be done. It was a bad day to be married to the sea.