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Willard May 2019
City cops, either
all pigs or all fathers,
break cement curbs with rubber
as the shin of a warm body
brushes a front bumper;
warning sign clearer than headlights.

I stand arrested across the highway.
An idle ghost, mouth agape, eyeballing
the Record Courier parking lot,
officers breaking cement
breaking kneecaps of a civilian.

Where he kisses the ground
I once analyzed the black of the sun,
diseasing slowly from time and the light.
I soaked the now with a present mind
and active heart, living for life

defined by want.
I recall Impressionist interpretations
of Carson Valley sitting on
the windowsill of the Courier,
a hand wrapped around my wrist

using its nails to pick off my skin
naively, so I’ll bleed out
through my scabs and my corpse
will be captured in that moment.
Handcuffed, legs pressed

between my shoulder blades,
but seconds still pass.
Divorced from a faded past,
I wait until three uniforms
shove a man into the backseat

and drive to the station.
We’re now shadows of
our former selves in
the lights of a cop car,
separated from when
our heartbeats were the loudest.
Willard Apr 2019
Reality’s a pink blush.
Warm, in the way
saliva pulls color from
petals of tulips,
every sunset I paint
is tinted unachievable
shades, no matter how
the sun hits the horizon.

Can I twist your
wire frames? Feed
crows my lamictal?

We can use the same
dye for every landscape,
portrait, and moment
we capture together.
Willard Apr 2019
There’s a house Anne built
with a crumbling frame,
she’d eat the paint chips
off the wood and dream
of a sun set she’d parallel
as an identical being.
A life cycle of  dissolving
lithium batteries in *****,
chasing doctor death
by staying still. Carbon
monoxide filled the cavities
in her brain and her corpse,
a beautiful foundation
destroyed in broad daylight,
do loved ones say goodbye
over the remains.

And in blood visions I see
the home I’ll put together
and tear apart. Is what’s
inevitable a tragedy?
If I stay in the garage
and let the car run,
the wood in the floorboards
would still be fresh. Anne,
my future is in all the
architecture I’ve admired.
If they’re all delusions,
then reality’s a great
impressionist and I’ve
been picking off all
of the yellow paint.

I will set with the sun,
I will set with the sun

when day time comes
to an end. and over
what’s left standing,

say goodnight rather
than goodbye.
Willard Apr 2019
i see the same hillside.
with you, completely

there, growing into
something taller

than skylines
with broken ribs.

your breaths fall
out your body

over me. the way
your pupils expand

in shock works
like flood lights

into the dusk.
our lips split

as a still

with your breaths
still warm. my ribs

crack to the beat
of my heart.

i see the same hillside,
skyways and all,

with you, completely,
in the black of your eyes.
Started lamictal this morning. Here's a love poem.
Willard Apr 2019
love is what love is; i've always spoken it into monuments. their eyes would be pearls among cheeks captured in marble, and i spent a lot of time time tracing bone to bone over the bridge of my nose thinking if my touch is the same as others'. love is what love is and i've acted as Midas. under all the suns kisses are dandelions, we run through the blossom. in the scratched blackheads there's pollen and i lie fetal as a raisin and whisper "**** it out". break my shoulders, whiten your hands, **** it out.

love is what love is; I've started to wonder if raindrops ****. intimately, so the pollen pours out at paint's pace. love is what love is what's real is what's slow. i can count blackheads among vacuum suction marks. water trickles down the post, jogs after each other 'til one catches the other in matrimony. i wonder if they ****, if they love, and if the rising action is longer than what i have to live. but love is what is, slowly but surely. moments in time can't be lost if rain ***** forever.
Willard Apr 2019
i could have been a field medic,
you suggested, with my gentle touch
running down the thin skin
of your spinal notches. i bite my
nails but i still could pinch glass
out of your pores and press my hand
so red would fill my palm lines.
the version of i, completed with you,
is a war vet’s firework dream
of what grandeur really is.
you’d talk of lactating with
your closed wounds, we’d retire
to a wheat farm, and i’d plant your
stomach into the garden. maybe the
baby’s blood cells pump forsythia.
our favorite, but really, yours.

i could still be a field medic, you
suggest, but not the only one.
i’d stitch slits when, if ever,
rain comes down on bare you
planted & abandoned
in the flower bed. you’d
still lactate, just wouldn’t
bleed. and the planted baby
would know me as a father
or a gardener but i’ll only
ever be a medic. the
statue i once was,
imperfections cleared,
is crushed marble on
a mausoleum floor.
medic can’t recover with
no bones to heal.
Willard Mar 2019
I break down into a heartbeat
through a whipped cream canister;
God’s feet whomp at the Pearly Gates.

Incapable of sin, I’m unable to think.
Love jitters through every pore
of my skin & laughter drools

out. In an out-of-body only
Malcolm In The Middle exists
when Dewey asks, “is your
brain big enough to get

your feelings hurt? Me
neither”. My life replicates
art, choking out brain cells,

and I no longer have to know
what my heart feels. My brain
is too small for that.
this is really self explanatory
Willard Mar 2019

i watch people die.

the romance moves slowly
on camera film; a lover
crashing through pvc
to kiss pavement,
windows behind relay
a tragedy captured
with ***** lights.


i transcribe scripts
to my bathroom mirror.

i see no Winslet.

green in my eyes
mark an imperfect creature,
no feeder's hand to bite.

i speak to my reflection
in self indulgence.


i don't have a role to play.

who i am is minors and leads
of movies shaped by the past,

but gas on the celluloid
makes the memory blur.

feelings died with the character
dead in the past.


i just watch people die.

temporary love rejected
when the bone and
the heart shatters.


i don't know who i'll become.
i don't know if i'll become.
i used to frequent /r/watchpeopledie a lot before it got banned. i was obsessed with a video of a man falling through a pvc entryway. been on meds and writing has been frustrating. all the reason i had to live has kind of assimilated over the past few months, and as i'm "supposedly getting better", the people who are "in the wrong" have it better. there's nothing. nothing. nothing. why live? i wrote this in a movie theater bathroom.
Willard Feb 2019
I want lithium that tastes like
hair intertwined in chain link
on pedestrian bridges.

It'd be spit.
Your spit I swallowed
eyeing the eye of the storm

barefoot on Kombucha glass,
we both felt safe.
The bridge'd be destroyed eventually

but love's a greater monument
than cathedrals built with
taxpayer money and with

lips locked I'd have no
reason to scream
when winds break the trees

or the wind breaks me.
I'd stand my ground
magnetic banded

to the metal behind
what's in front of me
and I'll have the taste

of lavender and humidity
in my mouth instead
of my own blood.
Willard Feb 2019
wherever you go, there you are
in a world of silver legacy
where all you feel are
living emotions of memories
you thought were dead;
hands on the dash,
passenger seat,
their eyes are too friendly.

glass ***** that act
like warm pillows, i'm
ready to fall asleep.

no melatonin,
no split palms or slit wrists,
no fever dreams of vision loss
where i'm left a
broken nose bruised beauty.

i'll be a beauty, or something like that,
but i won't be nothing
like i've been recently.
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