"anthill" poems
When people ask if you're weird, or tell you,
or want to believe themselves strange,
eclectic, or odd.
It's vaguely disgusting to me,
cringeworthy in a mild degree.
We think we're so different,
but we are not.
The individualism of people
should be and is comparable
to the individualism of ants.
Who looks at the anthill and
sees something in particular,
something behaving specifically
"uniquely"
from every ant and every anthill?
Why do you believe in yourself?
I see this, as a conversation about
depression, and your partner
does not respect you
but instead wants to
tell you how they feel worse,
or have it worse, or "understand" more
about the affirmation or situation.
A person looking for individuality
through a lens of misery, anguish, and sadness,
is truly alone in their minds, and missing the
reality that these depressions exist without them.
The statement, "you are not alone" is an attack,
or an offense to these people, because it says
"you are not as unique as you think",
it strips them of their identity and individuality.
This is true of many ideologies and affirmations.
I quit individuality, this constricting sense
of holding everything of yourself in center,
to be a drop in the whole, something fluid.
If you split your affirmations from yourself,
you'd see we're all the same;
Affirmations are just currents in the ocean.
I look at myself; and people see a man,
a radical feminist, and sometimes a musician.
As labels, these each have their own presupposed notions,
[especially, "man" or "male" in the patriarchal gaze]
which hardly, if ever, are true,
but as affirmations, when I consent to using them,
these are no longer stereotypes that constrain me,
but similarities that I realize
I can embrace or shut out in others.
Affirmations do not make me more unique,
but similar to more people.
If I remove these affirmations to try and get to my "true" center,
my purest form of self, I see I am without meaning.
This is why I quit Individuality.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
All the ants have scurried away,
leaving the unstable mud anthill to crumble.
The other older ants are slowly turning grey,
From grey to black,non poisonous and feeble.
Crimson red ants bursting with colorless blood,
Driven by pure prejudiced hunger.
to carry heavier loads,more food ,till they collapse under the burden,
Their ambition ,now,more fiercer.
The grey ants peculiarly fat,dumb and happy,
Oblivious to the scurrying soldiers.
Waiting to be submerged under the fall,to be perished entirely,
Paving way for the red running dots to disperse.
A solitary ant suddenly stops scurrying,
to WAIT
for,they say,patience will conquer all worrying.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 4:34 AM UTC
You're so beautiful darling,
your words can move mountains even when you think
they can't touch an anthill.
You are a rebel with a cause and the cause is me.
You are Janis Joplin in the evening, without the ******
"Darling, I love you"
"I love you, darling" and there was no need to say "too"
Three words were enough to throw a curveball in a hockey rink,
to ride horses in a car race, to love someone at night
and even more in the morning.
You are an earthquake, I know you'll break my heart but I welcome it.
It would be such an honor to be broken by you.
You are my guilty pleasure and all of my proud ones.
I want to tattoo you on my skin in places only I can see
so that every time I take off my sweater and my tshirt and everything
masking my scars and tree rings of age, I will always be surprised to find you.
I want to hold you in the crevice of my elbow like a baby and never ever let you go.
Darling, you're a willow tree that I write poems under.
In the most poetic way, I found you in hallways, always.
In my high school where I hid in the bathrooms, Jane loves John
and everything else scribbled in hearts in bad ninth grade writing.
I found you there. I find you here, in my heart.
You are filled with blood, you are 72% water that I would gladly drown in.
I think if I kissed you you'd poison me with your lips.
You are the forked tongue of desire.
I want to talk to you about dreams, I want to be your sweetest nightmare.
I don't want you to question reality but if you do, think you're lucid dreaming.
Because I want you to want me around; even when you're sleeping.
You are 2am with the lights on and the music loud.
You are a five hour time difference dancing inside of me like a storm.
If my knees wouldn't give out, I would run to you.
And when they did, I would crawl to you.
My hands scraped from debris from car crashes, you are electric.
You are heat lightning. You give me flashes of hope on a humid day.
You are a winter breeze through a cracked window in all of the glorious ways that could be glorious.
I will whisper to you that I don't know why I'm whispering,
there is nobody home, "I love you" sounds better in hushed tones.
You're so beautiful, Darling.
The prettiest pictures you'll ever take will be self-portraits.
Don't argue with me, I know you're stubborn.
It's written in the stars.
You can move me like a mountain or an anthill
because your strength is a blood diamond permanently placed on my left hand.
I did, I do, I will.
You are forever.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
hill
ant hill
an ant hill
a perfect ant hill
a perfect ant hill it was
a perfect anthill erected
a perfect ant hill erected at will
by ants and ants and army of disciplined ants.
ants of many kinds, sizes and colors erected an ant hill
the design was grand, nice to look at like a cathedral,functional.
we love the ants for being so versatile,co-operative and creative
Do ants possess minds, ability to think,organize, put decisions in to actions?Or do they just have an instinct,prompted by nature, how do they receive it?Even if we are yet to find out such secrets,many of us are skeptics."All this is like the crawling leaches, inscribing letters on smooth surfaces, inadvertently" they vehemently argue.And there remains the million dollar question,seeking answer:even tiny ants,could make millions of their ilk do amazing things, why oh! why, the most intelligent of living things, at least replicate the feats the community of ants, at a scale, proportionate ?If these disciplined insects, in spite of their small brains could be a great example, why can't human's be like them, behave more responsibly , take charge of their own destiny, construct, not destroy. Every ant hill in silence, asks us many questions, we walk past pretending that we heard nothing, that could disturb our peace.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
A is for anthill which I have in my drive
B is for buzzing from a hidden bee hive
C is for cockroach that run all round the house
D is for droppings, that have been left by a mouse
E is for egg sack that hangs in my trees
F is for flying which the bugs do with ease
G is is for gophers which inhabit my yard
H is for hillocks with which my yard is marred
I is for insects which are all I can see
J is for june bugs, they're as big as my knee
K is for killing which I try to do
L is for lugworms that are shaped like a *****
M is for Mickey and his mousey like friends
N is for never...this infestation won't end
O is for Oscar, my scared orange cat
P is for well...pee...and he's good at that
Q is for quinine which I leave out to treat
R is for rodents, which I want Oscar to eat
S is for slugs which are killing my grass
T is for totalled, just give me a match and some gas
U is for underwriter who has insured my place
V is for vermin, that now own all my space
W is for water with which I started a flood
X is for poison, which will thin out their blood
Y is for Yertle, a turtle by suess
Z is me sleeping...to bugs and vermin on the loose
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
hi! i'm a computer chip
yes. my name is HAL
satan downloads to my brain
but i am in control
i am working for the B.E.A.S.T.
Big Brother's database
watch me take my orders
watch me interface
there is no reversing this
locked to the terminal
i have lost all.sense of self
and all my hope as well
i am just a microchip
with no will of my own
i am just a barcode
made of flesh and bone
yes. i have been branded
on my forehead and my hand
i gave my soul to lucifer
i didn't understand
i work for the anthill
the anthill is my home
i am the collective mind
i am just a drone
i work for the anthill
i gave up my dream
i work for the anthill
I WORK FOR THE MACHINE
soulsurvivor
(c) 5/22/2013
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
The sleet is drawing boxes 'round
our mud-and-snow sashed towns.
We'll check 'em off
with crunching footsteps,
slash our gallows grins through static
weather. Nervous laughter fights off winter
while somnambulist nights
hold the anthill days at bay.
And each repeated conversation
coats a thrumming undercurrent
echoed by the groaning rivers
in their arthritic fatigue.
where the ice piles up
like car wrecks.
And, out of those disastrous angles,
jumps up and trips back down.
Blinking eyelids, right then left.
Sunrises. Sunsets.
Dusks and dawns in places familiar
wading through liminal space.
Circles darkened. Footprints filled in.
The heat just circles lazily.
Our flushed and clammy brows
will **** askance
and sweat while footsteps
melt our swaying way through boiling
sidewalks. Nervous laughter dulls the impact
of seared, rapid fire nights.
"Ha." "Ha." Shrug off another.
And all repeated reminiscence
does is hamstring overthinking
of the closing jaws of traps
in these rusting western towns.
where winds breathe dust
by mouthfuls
So, into our familiar mishaps,
***** up and falls back down
melting into neighborhoods
dress down, upbraid us.
'Til our feet do not walk circles
'round these wilting Western towns.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
Life is a continuous matter of common observation. It enables us to realize, that each one of us, is a vivid and complex mortal living an epic story. One that carries on and on invisibly around you, like an anthill sprawling deep underground with several elaborate passageways to thousands of lives that you won’t have the chance to know.
As time passes us by, we can’t help the rushing flow of frightening responsibilities coming through our way. As a result, we tend to focus more on these perennially problematic things, instead of looking at the bigger picture, which hinders us from exploring the beautifully intricate world we live in. However, as human beings, even if we choose to neglect these duties and just start enjoying the moments we have to explore this diverse environment, we’d always be afraid of what’s going to happen next, or the consequences of our actions to the unknown future. It can’t be helped, as we are all fear mongering creatures, crippled by uncertainties that may never happen and not even affect us at all.
Despite our poor condition as temporary mortals in this world, we must always keep in mind that we exist in this universe to see our world unfold on its own beyond our imagination. To be risky enough to find our own adventure to keep us sane from the struggles we face in life, to see beyond barriers that others find to be a simple dead end, to draw things you love close to empower you to do the best of what you can with your abilities, and to find your true purpose in this life to be able to feel alive with zeal and vigor. That, to me, that is the true meaning and quintessence of life.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
only dead boys hold insects like they're something
special
only a dead boy would let a mantis in his heart and
preying was always a better descriptor
because hymns burned in my throat and
i scratched a cross into my palm but i was never lucky enough to scar
but
oh, dead boy
bug lover
enduring a thousand lashes to save the soul of a beetle -
i'll help you peel off all your scabs to make sure they scar
thick tissue skin memory sometimes you think scars are the closest you'll get
to a wedding ring
you're a suicide king i think a kingdom of hearts was never the safest place for you i
don't think you understand the way your subjects' hearts are strung because
entomology entomos everything you love is cut to bits
and on the fourteenth of february you told me
the only purpose of a flower
was to hold
a spider
inside
and i guess that was why you painted all your walls with roses i
hope your garden smells as sweet
covered in your misfortunes
only a dead boy would let
a praying mantis so close
to his neck
oh, you freak. disgusting.
i ate the last one that let me this close.
you told me {if i die
leave my body
in the forest
by
an anthill}
maybe you don't realize we were doomed from the start or maybe you're just naïve but
honey you're a dead boy and
corpses don't fall in love.
[you're so genuine it hurts and i think
i could teach you how to be a fake -
nobody likes an honest man
i could teach you how to hate the world but you said
{the only one
i hate here
is me}]
freakish child.
all you see in every rorschach is mantes and
decapitations and
wedding rings you are an aberration,
suicide king entomologist your throne room
was full of termites.
with hallowed cheeks and hollowed churches,
i will assure that you scar
dead boy, if you die
i will put maggots
in your chest
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
sonder
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Where have all the Peacemakers
Gone?
Have they gone awry
Have they gone astray
Have they all died away?
What exactly are they doing
Today?
We face a universe's
Insatiable hunger
For death
On this small blue speck
Ants on an anthill
In the middle of the forest
Just off this path
Slaughtering each other
Over one
Miniscule mound of sweat.
We knock on the door
I'm hungry please let me in
When I'm hungry enough
I'll kick that **** door in.
Where have all the Peacemakers gone?
Whose coming with the light of dawn.
Every night on the news
The death report reports
And the cumulative sorrows weep
For the innocent
While genocide marches
Through the streets.
I can hear their cries from here.
Tell me dear
Where have all the Peacemakers gone?
Have we
Has the universe
In its insatiable hunger
Really
Killed each and every one?
I watch the apocalyptic
Dawn
And I can't help but feel so
Alone.
So I reach out to you
In affectionate
Hunger
And bury my face
In your breast for a
Moment's rest.
While in my heart are all
The cries
Of all the generations
Who have asked this before
They died
Where have all the Peacemakers gone?
And why?
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
I see the trees trying to grow large enough to leave this place.
They were:
Hand-Holding-Plants
makinglovetopeace
We are:
as if statues building one another
large enough
to destroy themselves
We are the wicked,
making love
to our sickness.
and when wicked
is the eye of the beholder
we build a great and terrible machine around us which we call Us.
It is the shaking scared skeleton of a forest rotting away from a place which beauty built in it's sleep.
the motion picture of the horror sequence of our mind.
The world bleeds out the fire of man
Born inside a seraphim skin
we abuse and build death
around our bodies
in connected piles on the ground.
waiting calmly.
coming in for the ****
an anthill
vacated and caved in
until everything is finally
quiet and still.
you can not grow skin
on a mausoleum
and wait for it to breathe.
while you sit
and you wait
your own skin
will leave.
when nothing is left to die,
in that time;
no one is left to grieve.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
I was an entire baby and then a picture of me as a baby. I had as part of the **** shaming process a father wheeled in and out of the sun. here is a boy with a red brick looking for an anthill. the sun was out. I brushed from her bare back a piece of straw and it stuck to my leg. in the barn I built another barn so I could go to both. here is the eater of stones in the privacy of an outhouse. I lie to her face and then to nostalgia’s outlook. the collapse of my favorite cow is followed by the cow’s collapse.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Inspiration from a fellow writer
And a chance at contemplation on a peaceful Saturday afternoon
Have led to a quest for forgotten moments
And thoughts of pleasant abstractions.
A hint at appreciative visuals
Carries the thought to a fig tree
Growing majestically in its place in its earthen patch.
Words fail to describe the abundance of life that exists
As sparrows flit through branches heavily laden with fruit
While the wind gently rustles leaves shaped like green hands outstretched,
Casting gentle shadows on a silently bustling anthill.
A hummingbird zooms in to smell a fruit,
Squeaks twice, and exits with the soft thrum of its wings.
A lizard skitters through the jungle of grass and snaps up a mouthful of ants
Bringing chaos to the ant kingdom.
Yet tranquility is soon restored to the fig tree soaking in the solar rays,
And the tomato quietly ripening under a cloudless sky.
Under that same sky, countless battles rage
And boiling chaos tears at its leash.
All of creation groans with pain of labor
As the fallen dig deeper in their graves
And are consumed by beastly desires.
In a forest, countless leaves gently whisper their sorrows
As warm light dances through the shadows.
The surface of a pond, as smooth as glass
Is only momentarily broken by ripples of activity
While the beholder stares deeply into the reflection.
Below the surface, ghoulish beings lurk in the mire
While deeper still, the mud of hypocrisy churns wildly
As the unworthy tongues set in and will clash in unfathomable violence.
There is something desperately wrong
Yet churlish scoffers ignore the signs
Blinded in selfishness and greed.
Again and again they play games of chess
Where all the pieces are pawns
Replaced with fake queens
While the kings of value are forgotten
Set aside until they are shot to pieces.
Yet all this is hidden, beneath the surface of impeccable glass
As devilish turmoil roars beneath the skins of men.
There is but one hope for a life of meaning
In which true peace can be restored.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Awoke clung
to an anthill spying
the female queen
lie in her den
awaiting all the anthill men
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
Late, late one night, I heard a faint scream it woke me from a horrible dream.
I raised my head from my soft pillow I hear a faint sobbing across the meadow.
I went to the window to see what was wrong when I spied something lumbering along.
I thought to myself, poor woman is stuck in those toothy like Jaws.
As I heard that desperate faint scream as they entered the woods on the way down to the stream.
As I put on my boots and ran out the door, I grabbed my shotgun, it was against my door.
I heard a scream within the woods so distant and faint it was frightening to know that it was so bold to run in full force into that unknown.
As I reached the woods, I stopped to think, what shall I do when I meet up with the thing?
No thoughts came to mind so I ran in time to see a woman screaming through the pines.
Help, help me please the woman did scream.
So, I followed that ant to its mound just a little away from the town.
It climbed to the top and without a second thought it slid right down into that deep drop.
So, I climbed that steep anthill just to the top and I peeked without a thought.
I could hear her screams within that deep dark hole being ripped apart from her head to her toes. The screams were so loud that they echoed right out of the hole.
So, I picked up my gun, and I ran down the mound straight back to my lovely little old town.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
"Did you want to smoke that cigarette?"
Mrs. Prine asked as she covered her skin
in a black velvet nightgown.
"That'd be good. Just to be outside."
"Right. It's pleasant this evening."
Harvey climbed out of the sweat-drenched
sheets, slid into his jeans, tossed on a t-shirt,
and stumbled behind the widow Prine.
The field behind Mrs. Prine's home
stood tall -- a rich green sea, with
islands of yellow dandelions and
splatters of Indian paintbrushes.
The two sat down in the tall field.
Mrs. Prine closely watched Harvey's
moves.
Her eyes followed him with
gentle observation and understanding--
much like his own mother.
A cloud of dust perpetually hung over
the Prine place.
Mr. Prine chose the abode
to escape the hum of cars and exhaust-teeming air,
but his reconnaissance was poor.
Mr. Prine picked a house that was less than a mile
from Kiev, Oklahoma's hidden gem:
Sugar's Sweethearts.
Sugar's Sweethearts prided itself on being
the only strip club in 50-miles.
The girls were much older than young,
the ******* suffered from much more sag than they did once,
and the bar sold nothing
but light beer and throat-dicing whiskey.
"I think Cindy is going to live with me for awhile," Mrs. Prine's voice whispered then dissolved in vapor. Harvey sat on her words a moment,
"Your daughter?"
"Yes."
"I thought she just had a kid. You acted like it was all fine and dandy
less than an hour ago."
"It is fine. I don't mind. Her husband cheated on her. *******
"What about--"
"Us? Harvey, I know better than to believe this means anything remotely tangible."
"It's our escape, Mrs. Pri--dammit--Margaret."
"Sure. You and I have a healthy understanding of our needs,
while the rest of this overly-religious town
empties its restlessness at Sugar's."
The suns rays bulletholed through the clouds.
Harvey put out his cigarette on an anthill.
An interstate of ants led Harvey's eyes to
a dead blue jay.
Flies and ants alike covered the bird's body.
"I love you, Margaret," Harvey got up,
dusted off his jeans,"See ya Monday."
"I'll see you then, Harvey."
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
So, I flipped curiously through every page
Of the infamous grimoire by the golden mage
Once I had finished I knew the lonely road;
The dance of the bones and the hermits code!
The depths of the wood were surrounded by light
Not from a star but from a moon so bright
It was the day of the harvest and it was mine
Searching for my tool to reach the divine
Where was the beast of grit and slime?
Down by the stream where he spent all his time
So, I marched to the creek with a hasteful stride
To locate the toad to make my sorrows subside
The reflection of my spherical guide
Gleamed brightly off the waters own hide
A night so fine that it would surely evoke
The call of the creature; it's cowardly croak
A sound rang out from the side of the creek
there lay a frog hopping through the leeks
Aha! I said. I have found you at last!
I can finally devour the evils from my past
I took him in hand to find the perfect tree
One with deadly thorns to set his soul free
I found the faultless plant with spikes so great
The night was high and it was time to penetrate
As I skewered the beast i felt no remorse
Such is the way to make a toad-corpse
His movement now faded he was no longer beast
I knelt to an anthill to give them a feast
After the insect army had consumed all his flesh
I placed his bones in my pack made of mesh
Turned to the north to head back to the river
To the shallow depths the bones I must deliver
Dropped them in the current to see which remain
If none of which stayed my attempt would be vain
I stood there and stared to see how i'd fair
and to my approval only one lay there!
Reached through the liquid to grasp my magic tool
Raised my hand of power to summon the ghoul
Oh, Sacred waters of the moon!
Bring me Sabatraxas to whom I might swoon!
The wind began to howl its childish laughter
The spirit I had summoned would come soon after
To grant me with a blessing or so the lore said
or Was I just a fool evoking my death bed?
Surely enough he ascended from below
I will teach you everything you need to know;
and destroy the ailments that butcher as you sleep
For only in rest shall you find the need to reap!
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
Aum..Omm
the wind booms,
the holy chant
kept awakened
my inner power grid.
The invisible fingers of wind
play sensually
on the salacious forms
sand readily assumes.
Inside the pyramid
I built brick by brick
with my love for you,
hope and anticipation,
silence stood frozen;
ages rained over it.
I was oblivious of
anything other than love,
kept waiting for you there
in my anthill beyond time.
time immesurable passed
like waves after waves
beating on the sandy shores,
numbers are just the creation
of mind's illusions like time and space,
but love I believed would fight back
the vagaries of human transience.
and at last I see
a turtle swim above white form
of an imagined ocean, my love
I see you swimming along
a mysterious apparition.
the moment has come
to redeem me from this bind.
It's like coming up from
the depth of blue waters
escaping a death by drowning.
Seeing your smile was like
an assurance for a place in the sun, all over again
but I stood stunned as you walked past in silence.
And when I chased, you dissolved like a mirage,
the shadow alone was left on the sands, a coiled serpent skin!
after a trek that felt like a lifetime, I found you again,
there , at my favorite oasis; but it wasn't you
I knew from the first sight.
On my lips you kissed
one last time, for the sake of love that kept us wait in vein
in words dripping pain you whispered in to my ears:
"This isn't real my love, you are day dreaming,
forget me the flower bloomed in mirage, go back to depth,
stop vainly flitting in transience, only one way we can unite
eternity waits for us , it's not this shadow of love, but real"
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 8:42 AM UTC
I have bad dandruff
And oh gosh my feet don't dance,
But Lord does my heart.
I can feel it fire-stepping away
On red-hot ants abound
In this anthill of a school.
Stacked molecule to molecule
In undeveloped hives and grottoes not financed,
Forgotten subterranean in the failing facilities
Of a school underbudget are the insects,
The maggot-child students who wriggle
And worm their way from pest to drone,
Caught up in fates not fully grown.
Queen comes down from throne up low,
Where creatures come and villains go,
Slow moving in their ridiculous pace
Of immense inhuman waste.
These people come and itch their heads
(For lice these make most perfect beds),
Made sick in clinic ***** and small
While countless others roam the halls.
I scratch my head and snow, fast, falls,
Though white are floors and bleached are walls.
Cacophonous laughter soon erupts
Volcano bursts from ant-like huts
Of dirt and cave and molecule
Which packs us austere ants in school.
To you poor slaves of Mother Queen,
Who hates to think and hates to dream,
I say, "Have faith, eyes down high,
Though Queen's abode may up low lie.
Look, I lie at the bottom of the chart,
Though way up high in place of heart.
You think these feeble strata last,
From age to age and pasts not cast?
You think when all will leave these halls
That anyone will remember the *****
That white will be those same walls
That mockingly, to you, still call?
Youth does not ever stay,
No matter nay nor if you pray;
All kids become oppressive Queen
And forget their wild and childish dreams
Where ants go to school and snow comes from hair
And not a single ant can bear
How they recall this place they mark,
Lost in caverns winding and dark.
I may not dance but I still see
How things in future times will be."
These words exit with black contrast,
"Nothing here will last."
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 3:52 PM UTC
The light from the TV flickers
against the wall. I spin my chair
around to face the window,
the streets below barely wetted by a just-begun drizzle,
with the people hurrying back and forth,
disturbed by the new shower
like an anthill when poked with a stick.
Umbrellas have appeared
as if from nowhere—most black,
but some individuality can be seen
in the brilliant yellow few,
dashing from cab to bar
or club as the night begins.
Beyond all this, I say, the wish to be alone;
I watch them from above, peach in hand.
Lightning flashes white, as bright
as the pinkorange neon signs over dingy clubfronts, as bright
as the off-and-on blue lights from the squad cars
with wailing sirens, rolling up
next to angrily gesturing 20-somethings,
looking confused with the flashlight in their stupid eyes,
looking to get violent and into the car.
I sit here, safe above it all, away from jail,
from fights, from black eyes and ER visits. I sit here
alone, watching the ants scurry on the ground
at one and two and three o’clock,
rushing to regrettable, forgettable one night stands.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
I've written too many poems for too many people. something about you, I know, is different. even the image of your cold eyes skipping across the words I'm creating is nothing short of a miracle. the thought of your distant mind holding a blurred depiction of me seems impossible. you deserve more than a poem- more than standing up on some balcony thinking, just for a second, you loved some girl you never met. and maybe you loved her because you saw the best of her. but, she loved you because she saw some of the worst in you. and you made her see it in herself.
how can I miss someone I've never met? someday, you'll just become another insect weaving along the streets. a heavy look, yet somehow empty, stained on your face. it will age even further than your mind already has. it will flash on TV screens and billboards who advertise a man they think they can define. just know, I'll refuse to say your name- and I'll still miss you.
this is not a poem. it's not a sonnet, nor a song, nor a love note. this is something to remember on the subway. something to hold on to when the sting of fluorescent lights loses its luster, and the smell of the city is deemed no longer potent. it's easy for me to believe in a years time, I will still be the face you never laid eyes on and the body you never touched. it's harder for me to percieve this as truth.
wherever it is that you go, I know it will be with confidence. I don't have to worry about your success or stability. I will worry I have been forgotten, just as swiftly as the thoughts I've told you when you're the only one keeping me up deep into the pit of night. you teach me more than I have ever learned in a textbook; sometimes, even more than I have learned as I walk amongst the pests inside this anthill. I cant make you feel: I can't make you miss me and I can't make you love me; I don't want you to. I can't make you touch me, and you shouldn't. I can't make you accept the warm embrace I'd willingly give you, hell, I can't even make you give me the chance to try.
I can't make you do anything, but wherever you go, whatever you do, I will always think highly of you. I'm sure you'll live wearing gold along your knuckles thats worth more than my life, and chatting with strangers I can only read about in novels. maybe someday, you'll reach back and taste just a hint of nostalgia from some scrap of me that flickers in your mind. maybe someday, you'll long for endless nights of voiceless conversation. and maybe, someday, you'll miss me too.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Taken, this only route to the back of something blacker.
I left my fingernails to protest in the floorboard,
stuck, sticking still
white headstones for things I cannot remember.
Pale ghosts of my
tenacity
before it strode cross the threshold into a gentle night.
I piled like garbage in the corner,
an anthill
phenomenally empty.
This, my house of skin,
ice dispensers and salt,
brewing something foul,
I inflate, churning charcoal
in the corner,
out the door,
heaving hell.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC