"backpocket" poems
See, I am an artist.
I wander through sentences and collect words in the backpocket of my jeans.
See, I am an artist.
I use your salty tears to glue my stories together.
See, I am an artist.
I write with silver but it comes out red. *
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
The gravel crunches
as we walk
and it's cold.
We push our breaths out
of chapped lips, and wipe
away dried spit, with nicotine
fingers.
Pigeon feels the baggies in his pockets
full of vicodin,
that's gonna get us ****** up.
His fingers look like earthworms through his jeans
as he gropes for the baggy.
I get that jolt, just thinking about it;
that jolt of happiness you feel right before you get
real ****** up.
I look around and pull out a Camel Light,
because that's all we smoke.
And light up. It's real
white out, white and cold.
The moon's fat as a snowflake
and foggy up there too.
I move my toes,
and can't feel a thing,
****
We crunch through the woods,
catching glimpses of the moon, and the lake
through the trees.
I want to hit this fifth of Henny
jerking in my backpocket,
but I'm saving it.
Pigeon stops.
Me and Gus keep walking.
Pigeon coos.
We turn around.
He whips out the plastic baggy,
In the moonlight the Vicodins look
like those tiny, candy skulls you get on halloween.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
it would be lovely to let go,
unfold this scrap of paper
in my backpocket and watch
the red penciled heart
grow wings and take flight
up over these empty acres
blanketed in snow,
through this city with it's
blur of white and yellow lights
burning without break.
in my hand is the lovenote
you left me with, without knowing,
the words you wrote about stars
and the sky and growing old,
the note about life and a love
not as transient as the one
you carry in your heart for me.
in my hand are these words and as
I unfold them I can feel your heart
lifting
up away
from our city and me.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 10:50 AM UTC