She whispered his name each
Night like a prayer waiting to be
Heard by a god she thought was
There. The way the syllables
Swirled round her tongue like an
Ancient tale she didn't know but
Felt when she heard her heart
Beat. The feel of the letters on her
Lips was like a childhood lullaby
She had heard a thousand times
But forgot the words to.
She longed for the person she had
Once known like her first name.
But what she didn't know was that
There are some things that must
Just remain forgotten.
tell me back,
think me into nothing but a straight line,
a separation of roadways in the rearview.
this is holy,
this is a cathedral built of guilt
and no guise –
god unfolds the earth
and splits us apart.
that’s how I think of it
I want to become past tense,
an antecedent to all that is divine,
“hail mary, full of graveyards,
the lord was with thee”
I want to become light –
the most beautiful thing
god ever created.
I want you to think me into a saint.
all I’m trying to say
is that I want to be simple
and pure –
a testament to Love,
assurance that it doesn’t have to be
tell me back,
think me into the first prayer,
a plea for passion.
I want to become god’s light.
today is all saints day. i am falling in love with the past.
I believe in nothing therefore I believe in something even if that something is nothing.
this is like politics
skating fluid on the oil slicks
nothing sticks and that's something.
I want a beer
she wants De Beers,
diamonds or porter?
we water it down and go
off into town.
If you find yourself still bleeding, open your diary and reevaluate the moth-eaten story of your heartbreak. Reconcile where it all went wrong and follow this perfect recipe to cook up a new anxiety:
- Flip-flop blame onto you—onto them—back onto you
- Stew in all 26 emotions you never had the chance to express
- Brainstorm every possible outcome you could’ve conducted
- Choose the happiest ending
- Let it simmer overnight
- Set it in the freezer so it will never get old
It must first be thawed before it is dined, but I should warn you that when recooked, the odor is foul, the taste is stale, and you will unavoidably lose your appetite.
You can either starve or swallow the pain.
The choice is yours.
I asked your roots to grow into my flesh,
to use my veins as maps.
You let them dig into my skin,
but your hatred drew them back.
So still I stand between the their bodies, and I look east for winter's end,
I urge the dirt to drink my blood, and let the Tall Trees grow again.
Young, wicked boys, we danced through dust,
Drunk on death and mad with song.
My fading laughter showed the truth;
One pair of footsteps all along.
So still I sit with dying giants,
Their leaves will fall by end of June.
My hero's eyes burned holes in me,
I dug holes here for me and you.
The tall trees died when we were ten,
They seemed to shrink as we grew up.
We walked the forest one last time,
Just before the clear cut.