5/23/17

she taught me of new beginnings
and the healing of january
that you don't have to be profound
all the time
you don't have to be observed
you can change the storyline
but still remember that time

together we drank in nashville
to the days of virginia
swearing to return to art
when we got there
our lives were in full circle
she still believed in me
she is the closest thing
to an older sister i know
and maybe i am strong enough to say
that i don't love the person
that she let go of too

10/5/16

he left for the west without a single gesture
or farewell
and I was left with the memories of our pillow talk
and how we spoke of the future straight into the night
at first, we were innocence
a soft peck on my nose
then my cheek
and my mouth which he finally silenced with blissful inquiry
our bedside hello's while holding fractured mugs
and each hour i realized how fleeting adolescence was
scarred by the thrill and demise
i relapsed into your hands
and then the evening and the world i created caved in around me
seconds stood still like fragments of debris in an hourglass
our timeline shaped by an unfortunate call
and we swore to never hold on again
but maybe this last time here in this familiar room with each other was justified
you cried for me in secrecy
because you didn't want to feel weak
we were wrapped in black jackets and strode in black shoes on the first of november
blistering cold
we couldn't feel our hands but we shared a cigarette
each inhale stained with the pigments of my lipstick
and you made it okay
but you left for the west

White whiskers rooted above the trumpet player's lips;
his body moves like a sci-fi parasite, as he spits out songs
at the big bellied, Skecher-chic, boardwalk children.
The kids give a moment's interest before passing by like
armored flies, if armor were cheap cotton shirts and
helicopter parents.

Sooner or later, the sunset meets the brim of his hat.
It's a mystery as to the speed of the trumpet dropping
from his lips to its case, but you'd have to find someone
who cares about those types of things.

His brown, leather, Payless feet jut outward; away from
one another and towards American stores reflecting themselves:
Italian restaurant, Thai restaurant, Car Insurance, Dollar Store.

Quicker than you'd think, his denim hips are clamped by
the wooden arms of a misplaced deck chair, relocated to
a dining table as small and low-income as the man who
saw the dreamlike orange and purple sky drift away
behind the cemetery gray blanket of smoke, rising from
a fractured ground littered in mud-bathed, leaking bodies.

When the night has only begun to settle in, the man's
thick hands carefully adjust her picture, for he fears
the paleness of his fingers will leave more of a residue
than he is accustomed to.

Kept within the copper and green borders, she has
only begun life; twenty-three and never having to apologize,
there is still so much left to the imagination; her olive grey
cheeks are sided to his eyes, ready to be jammed with
baby, mommy, and daddy fragments of windshield;
waiting for the last embrace of a sturdy steering wheel;
her hair still dry and not dampened by insides coming out
or the flying weaker-than-you-think half-gallon of whole milk
that covered -- or washed, depending on your attitude -- the
back of her fifty-three year old head; the eggs fortunately
missing twelve times, hitting what was left of the windshield,
leaving an image comparable to the wall of a bar that not only
has a dartboard but also a man with terrible aim or who had as
much alcohol as the man who slipped his car into Margaret
and Joseph's life.

Joseph looks away from her picture, as his glass eyes begin
to shatter. Running fat palms and bulbous fingers through
the white, over grown lawn on his scarred scalp,
he says her name three times before retiring to the mattress
Margaret picked out.

We walked through the woods,
when it was growing thick with shadows, the way smoke funnels
out a chimney. She wore a hoodie and yoga pants,
attire to match her mood: relaxed and comfortable.
Her eyes reminded me of what lies beneath puddles,
after a rainstorm had passed through
the small hometown, which disowned you.
We wrote songs while sitting on tree stumps,
chewing tobacco and drinking gin.
Because, we wanted people to write movies about us,
like the ones they played before the explosion
took out a half of Paris, DC, and Sydney.
Test me again, and I will never talk to you,
you said those words and you meant it.
I regret ever running
into you at the house,
and falling for you,
like how I'm falling
over on my ***.
And now we will never text,
have a conversation,
or hold each other in bed.
Kiss me goodnight,
but don't say
that you ever cared about me,
because I don't believe
in the lyrics,
your favorite musician sings.

friday morning,
we wake up hungover
from last night's binge drinking,
because even though we love our jobs,
no one really wants to work for their entire lives,
when so many things are unanswered,
perverted, and misconstrued.  
hashtag all of those millennial catchphrases,
to garner hearts from your friends
who you haven't seen in years,
friends who work in San Fran,
Chicago, Greenwich Village.
crank up your laptop speakers,
as Neon Indian's Polish Girl
plays that **** synth,
and take a drag from a P-Funk,
before your Grandma hits your
shoulder with the newspaper daily—
right after she speaks in Vietnamese,
asking you what is your name,
because she has Alzheimer’s.
but in these social media days,
isn't everything that is worth mentioning to your sister,
everything that is worth fighting for,
everything that is ****** in this world,
on the internet (maybe, just Twitter tbh).
screenshot the cat meme you like,
save it,
share it,
move on.
if only she wasn't allergic to cats,
maybe it could have worked out.
that was 7 years ago.
—*** ova it. Then, mix your red bull with your coffee,
because the next 10 hours of your life,
will be revolving around caring about people
other than your ungrateful and ingratiating ***.
don't cry,
when I say good-bye.
stay for a while, under the shade of the rooftop
where the deejay spins Frank Ocean
and Frank Sinatra records,
as everyone is drinking scotch, or Yuengling,
and ashing over the veranda bansister,
; the bad boys try to open their souls
to the good girls. and the bad girls,
reveal too much to the good boys.
we devoured those drugs, as though
they were jelly beans from a convenience store,
and then we broke into the store
and ate some more.
break the coals on top of the hookah,
puff, puff, pass—
inhale, exhale,
fit the deformed piece
back into the Dinosaur puzzle,
and crawl back into bed,
pull the covers over
your trembling body,
shut your eyes,
and reflect,
for the day is heavy with regret
and unsaid things.

That stoic, elderly house
that sits beneath the sun
has it’s door hinged open
just waiting for someone

All day in the Virginian countryside
the waves of wind pass by
Yet the door remains open
‘till the sky begins to cry

A table set for two
venetian blinds on the floor
A stool, a record, a painting
All watching through that door

The night falls for the day
and the house falls for sleep
and through the unhinged door
A small songbird must creep

The sun forgets to wake the house
But the songbird pays her fee
To room with the house that night
and sings from the walnut tree

The house door swings shut
afraid to listen and hear
For the house is afraid
Of the musical musketeer

Careful to know each other
But their minds begin to roam
All while, the songbird brings him music
and the house brings her home

Oh my, am I humbled
Loving v. Virginia
History that is blood

Do you hear the pumping
Oh man, I feel it now
Riding on the winds of change

Roanoke is like webbed toes; really weird but in a way that makes you wanna cough or throw up if you look too close