‘I ain’t tired!’ yells the homeless, old man begging for change On the green line station me and my friends get off at to buy coffee He turns and looks at us ‘I ain’t tired!’ yells the toothless, old man on that cold winter night As we preemptively pull out our phones and look down at the ground A defense mechanism ‘I ain’t tired!’ yells the hobbling, old man as we pass him by Without making eye contact or even a sympathetic nod If only I had cash on me ‘I ain’t tired!’ repeats the mentally ill, old man while we descend The stairs down onto the pavement and into Chinatown The snow continues falling ‘I ain’t tired!’ echoes the starving, old man His voice ringing in my ears long since we’d left ear shot The only time I had the courage to glance at him He was a mess of wires and bone and cloth and paint and white hair Older than the city I had just begun to explore and call home Permanently on that train station yelling ‘I ain’t tired!’ ‘I ain’t tired!’ ‘I ain’t tired!’
Rigid, impasto clouds Stick out of the sky Like Van Gogh Put them there himself Sky peaking between Buildings and towers Pushed and pulled Twisted and ripped apart Like fabric tearing slowly Moved by the breeze Invisible currents slicing A silent cacophony of air I reach up and feel Solid, dried paint crackles Under my finger tips I pull my hand away Digits stained white and blue and gray
Shifting streets and their buildings Pulsing and moving and shaking Jagged and prickly corners Edges of windows glint Like drops of blood On the edge of a sword Walls and sidewalks Rough like a giant cat's tongue The skyscrapers carve the landscape Into a distorted forest An amalgamation of today And yesterday and the day before that I reach forward and feel I pull back in shock Fingers pricked and knees scraped
books written in symbols were attempts to mimic the language of the heart
somewhere i jotted within an admission of love
i wonder who knew it first and how profound it could be when it was there the whole time
i find myself at Union Station, where people pass time sitting silently in pews.
closing doors kick a breeze that weaves between the columns holding up the heavens the hair on my arm waves like wheat stalks
i’ve got a hunch i could go just about anywhere from here
the halls here just go on and on. it’s not the whole world, but it’s the only place i want to be.
hi everyone, i haven't posted here in a while, but i thought it would be appropriate since i just released my new poetry chapbook. if you like this poem, you should check out some of my samples on my etsy page!