"botched" poems
Walking out the door of your tree house,
You draw your sword.
Defending and exploring the crazy world around you,
Taking that first step.
You grab your friends, head off to distant lands,
Protecting the exotic princess.
The land awaits and the world is all botched,
What time is it?
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
My Prize for Waiting
~
*tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able
my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping
no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests
but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction
the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps
the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^
woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry
so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete
and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place*
3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019
~
last nights scrap
***cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration***
inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ****** and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! **** **** **** **** **** ****
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
ching, ching
Two men walk into a local cafe.
A city boy, and a Townsman
The cityboy sports
Slicked up hair.
Blue button up shirt,
Grey slacks.
Dress shoes.
The townsman simpler.
Brown hair.
Orange T-shirt,
cargo pants.
Work boots.
"Hey there!" Says the city boy.
walking up to the counter.
"Do you ladies have different roasts of coffee?
Or do you have just one kind?"
The Register girl looks at him sideways.
"What are you talking about?"
"I want a black light roast if you have it. Also, two shots over ice."
He hands her his travel mug.
"What's this for?"
The girl fondles the travel mug.
"I'd like my coffee in that please."
The manager puts a hand to the girls shoulder.
"The house coffee is a light roast doll, give him that."
"Cream and sugar?" Asks the register girl.
"Oh god, please no." Laughs the city boy "Thank you."
Handing over a credit card.
The register girl does not understand
what is so funny about cream and sugar.
"Cash?" Says the manager.
"Is there an atm? I can only offer this, but I know how to change that if you point me in the right direction."
"No ATM. We just Offer a discount for cash, we'll take your card." Says the manager.
The city boy waits for his drinks.
The townsman, walks up and says
"Coffee, please"
The manager hands him a paper cup with coffee, cream, and sugar.
He pays them in cash.
smiles, nods. Says: "Thank you"
Then waits for the city boy.
"Here's your sippy cup."
Says the register girl.
Handing over his travel mug.
The city boy stands there waiting patiently.
"Are you waiting for something?"
"Yes. my two shots over ice?"
"Oh I put it in there."
"Could I have two shots over ice please? I'll pay for it again if you forgot."
"Oh we don't have an espresso machine.
Our shots are like a syrup."
"Oh... Is there syrup in here?
I just wanted two shots over ice."
"Well like... I mean our prices are so low anyway, it's no big deal, but we don't have an espresso machine so..."
"Sorry" says the manager.
"Thank you ladies." Says the townsman.
The cityboy grabs the townsmans hand.
They leave the Cafe.
The city boy sips his
Botched coffee.
"I've had good, bad, and know what I want.
I don't want to be seen as difficult because I'm educated."
He tolerates it.
The townsman sips his
Familiar Coffee.
"Sometimes ignorance is bliss."
He enjoys it.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
Born of a binary,
black/white,
white/ black.
Cultured by silence,
a blank slate,
but no more tears.
Time isn't real.
They speak, they say,
tell me there's nothing wrong with me;
standing in the kitchen with my
grandmother telling me there is
nothing DIFFERENT about you.
Strive to conform.
Sameness is a casualty.
**I DON'T GIVE A ****
about conservatives
.
"Humanists" avoiding their toxic
misogynistic tendencies,
old friends enlisted
voluntarily perpetuating a
system of violence and suffering,
others are bluffing, don't say ****
walk eggshells,
I must be a tiger loose from the cage,
and they're waiting to see who becomes the
canary in my coal mine.
Rhyming by incident,
but I hate this **** & I'm not all right.
Women can participate in their own oppression,
minorities can be racist,
we're all raised in a ditch;
Patriarchy, capitalism, class values,
botched messages, "color blindness",
etc. etc. etc.
**** everyone, and don't treat me like I'm better
or I should know better, or I have to be "perfect"
if I want to be "different". Raised in a ditch.
Cultured by racism and depression.
I think of suicide like a novelty
until I don't
.
.
.
Everything turns grey and reads like sloganeering.
Waiting for the past to manifest as a trauma.
Waiting for the past to make sense.
Waiting.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
*Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.*
Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your condom'd *****
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****
could have been more.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Flickering lights, a pause of the dark.
botched up kohl, a spot on her chin
an ironic beauty mark.
She just lay there, dummy dead..
Juggled in a crass cacophony so shrieky,
as if nothing was ever left unsaid.
Her red tinged lips clasp the stick of joy...
it, like a new bride, so crisp and coy.
a rush so sweet..
the feel to feel it forever.
WHAT. A. MAJESTIC. TREAT.
The pain evaporates..
the soul levitates..
the sins are forgotten..
a bizarre psyche evolve to take a path less trotten.
The world stands against her ..
She doesn't belong to it anyway,
a sight of it is blur to her.
In that moment. .. she belongs to her soul.
like diamonds belong to coal.
the scorchy sun don’t matter..
the night sky, just colorless with a flecky mole.
Let her lie in her limitless peace.
let that nothingness never cease.
let that brutality bestowed upon her lay low for a while...
invincible. . . let high be the highness, let her smile.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
our withering is changing. we have new lungs and the sour mercy of our discotheque is no longer
earth shattering. new bells that'll ring, ping the sonar of thus far, and right now. our iguana
is bothered but our cactus is out of practice, so we malice the wrong people. brown scotch
botched in the locust plume of our nothingness.
all in the night jar.
we palm the coin of many realms but snooker the genie into 4 wishes for kicks.
we split the bucket list and enlist strange agents to embroil the liturgy of our silence
with the umbrage of our slumbers.
where rumbles the blunder of our measured steps
as we stumble through the rapscallions of our private thoughts in the after hours.
we empower our oblivion
by kissing on the mouth.
this is how we keepsake sacred, but escape velocity by way of quiet... this loud.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
This empty ***** bottle,
has been cuddled and swaddled and squandered.
In my ***** it seeps to every dame between,
a dad and not knowing her own preponderance.
I **** I **** by the ****** of my hilt,
of the sword of unrighteous, self help,
and filling their wombs with guilt.
I've never helped anyone all of my life.
Though they would tell you different mistruths,
of their positional view, so skewed by proof,
undo, that I sent them through.
It's a fun house of lies and mirrors shaping figures,
of veneers, so botched that plastic surgeon quacks wouldn't own up to
the scars.
I ferment peoples living.
I turn drunk ****** into angels.
I mask charlatan as queens,
and poison my own gut with the fakes in my head.
Crops die.
Crust subdues verdance.
Chronos rhymes the days and night.
Course subjugation to penance.
But now I seethe my own head into my throat,
and end in ink wrote as prose.
Killing beauty. Art.
**** Art.
Today is.
Death.
Tomorrow's not life,
nor living,
breathing nor breath,
oxygen's just a molecule,
it causes no spark,
except in molecules charged,
with dividing and subdividing,
and rejoining and conjoining into something that can use it.
happy flights :)
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
My great-grandmother lived in a time when if you sang too loudly in a public place
Such as on the bus
With no audible music anyone else could hear
You were thrown away
Reported by the sanest of citizens
Locked away in the mental ward of Bellevue Asylum
By your own family
She was an alcoholic
Well, she was Italian
As was that whole part of my family
And Italians like wine
And she liked her wine
Maybe a little bit too much
My grandfather said that by six o'clock
Everyone in the house was screaming
Throwing things
Alcohol-tinged, infant-like fits
The lot of them
Drunk
Every night of the year
But my great-grandmother
She was the only one who carried her drink
In a little metal flask
Tucked in her ragged coat
Took it with her on the bus
On the way to work at a hotel
Where people with enough money
To boost the world's economy
Slept, ate and yelled at her
For forgetting to put a mint on their pillow once
But she just hummed away
Took the flack with a smile
Sipped her poison
And rode the bus back to work
The next day
Drunk
Singing
La Donna e' Mobile
One day though
Her brothers caught up to her
As she was boarding that bus
She was singing again
And smiled
Asked them what they were doing there
And they looked at her
Smiled
And smacked her
They threw her in their car
And took her to Bellvue
In 1947
When the idea of mental health
Was shrouded in ignorance
And scrutiny
And the word "medicine"
Meant electric-shocks to the brain
Submerging in below freezing
Ice-tanks
And
Fiddling around
In people's brains
Through their eye-sockets
With screwdrivers
"Lobotomies"
My grandfather was born in 1945
He was only two when they took his mother away
And only three
When they told him she died
Rotting in the asylum
Experiments done to her
That my family will never know the nature of
Never know how much pain
She ****** up
Never know if the cause of death
Was actually "cirrhosis of the liver"
Or
An officially administered
Botched
Brain-fuck
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
My own cowardice
Botched last suicide attempt
Can I try again?
May 13, 2022
May 13, 2022 at 1:29 AM UTC
You are my personal taste of sorbet, sun-tan lotion, botched
slices of the sun that sit on my tongue like pills
before I swallow. I hate necessity, and crave your entity
in ice cream scoop sizes. I want to pull the batteries out of your back,
**** the juice onto my palette and spit it back into your eyes
so maybe you can feel the sting you left me with when you pushed
my heart off the side of the bed while pulling your pelvis closer to my head.
I hate when we’re cooking and you slide ice cubes down my shirt,
but did you know that’s the only time I ever felt anything
from you that wasn’t warm and bitter and bruised? I think
that sometimes your nightmares even scare me.
I can feel them when you sleep,
your arm flinching beneath my neck, how you curl
your toes against my calves and grind your teeth like you’re trying to fit
your square memories into the oval-shaped hole of my spine.
I get that that’s why you’re a little crooked, but you used me
to straighten yourself like the post a tomato plant wraps its stem around.
You took all the nutrients from my center and fed yourself.
You are the palm tree in my snow globe, but no matter
many times I shake you
the snow still falls on my shoulders.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
then i don’t mind not remembering my
name, or what year it is,
or what new ********* styles are in…
i don’t mind mumbling, cross-eyed
with **** running down my leg
for the rest of my life…
i don’t mind a dilapidated hospice,
because it’s like you’re some angry
******* god who demanded more
than a ****** sacrifice.
so take this mass of jumbled ****
make angels cry,
make the devil envious,
and make the specters of yourself get
ghost as i demand ice-picks through
the eyes that you lied and said
were beautiful,
because i don’t know what to
do any longer with the botched
******** you’ve left me here with.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
Rooms and rooms open and closed
For the regressed and depressed souls
Writers and blighters
All scotch and lighters
That search in earnest for truth
Doors and doors ajar and afar
To be entered and left by creatures
Walkers and stalkers
All botched and talkers
Misleading their way through life
Corridors and corridors long and narrow
Paced and rested by jokers
All jubilant and chokers
Laughing into space for eternity
Floors and floors large and small
Stood and wandered by lovers
All romantics and dull
Longing for love in an instant
Hotels and hotels sprawling and nestled
Visited and departed by society
All happy and sad
Wanting to sleep and wanting to mix
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
How come
I am always dying as a martyr?
My thoughts constantly drifting
To funeral marches and sobbing relatives
How will I die?
A botched parachute jump?
Saving a small child
From a moving vehicle?
My funeral will be adorned
With white icing
The flag of my nation
And a flock of doves
Testaments
To my infinitely philanthropic nature
And unending commitment
To human liberty
Why is it so easy
To tack a medal to my breast?
Maybe because
I exist
As my bloodline
dowses its progeny with ****** praise
So eager
to bathe
In the violent tears of this world
That are ancient castles and monuments to men wearing wigs
Or maybe
Because I'm just selfish
And I often *** all over myself
On my paunchy stomach
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 4:31 PM UTC
the house was painted
a soft hue. an old tobacco trap;
discolored white where
pictures once hung.
in the kitchen, grease stains,
faded bluebird wallpaper —
long since ceased it's song,
and one cast-iron skillet off to the side.
pale and forgotten,
the fine china shrieks!
my barefoot innocence
is lost as the cold-colored
porcelain eats at the floor.
sometimes when I lay there covered in
turpentine, stars usually topple
out of the cabinet,
and my gas stove aspirations are botched.
the sink drain moans with the silent
invectives of an impure saint…
her rosary still atop the mantle.
just outside, a stone angel
that smells of lilies, —
savagely eats rosebuds over
an autumn bonfire.
from time to time
her face is one of lament…
it follows me from room to room,
and my hands shake for hours
while holding little antique figurines
in a basket full of milkweed…
they’d tuck at the curtain,
their little music box voices
complain about her eyes...
they'd scurry up the ivy on the side of
the house to avoid her
disappointed glance…
there was a sad wingbeat as
I stepped out on the balcony to collect
them one last time.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
It's 2:35 am and the notebook is on tv
trigger warning
right after I got a haircut I like
my mother takes me to the grave
of my dog that died just three days ago..
trigger warning
my dad talks down to me
trigger warning
my brother talks down to me
trigger warning
I make my mom mad
trigger warning
I cry at an overly romantic scene on a tv show
trigger warning
I'M TIRED OF ALL THESE ******* TRIGGERS.
so pull it, pull the ******* trigger
and watch me spiral the **** out of control
until the tears streaming down my face
seep into the lungs I use to try and breathe-
but see the anxiety is weighing down on my chest
like it wants to steal my lunch money-
pull the ******* trigger.
Go ahead television, mom, dad, brother, anyone
pull the ******* trigger-
and watch as my mind goes blank
twenty round shots straight at my hand
and then wonder why exactly I want to be dead.
trigger warning
No. These hands have held the gun too long
placed my fingers neatly on the trigger
ready to aim, and to fire
like I'm in some kind of action movie
"CUT!"
because i'm not a ******* extra
in some botched overly explosive action film-
I'm the ******* director of a best-selling
highly anticipated autobiography turned movie
that sells out every single theatre opening night!
I am in control of these words I hear
I am in control of these emotions
that I have spent my days trying to feel entitled to.
I will no longer hold close to the gun that triggers my downfall-
The NRA ain't got **** on me baby
because I'm packing thirty two rounds
of sure fire confidence and aiming right
at my own insecurities but I won't pull the trigger-
because I can't **** what makes me feel so alive
I can't **** these emotions I wish to diminish
but why would I want to?
Because I feel things more strongly and profusely than most
and I love harder than any mother ****** I have ever known
and I **** and I fight with more passion and more fury
than any Nicholas Sparks novel or Jason Statham movie-
******* try me!
Because these palms hold more grudges than hands
and this body feels more anxiety attacks than relief
so ******* try me-
because I am not my trigger warnings
nor will I ever be.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
I try to write when I am tired
but tiny spiders descend around my desk.
Newly-hatched eight limbed-things
parasail
the silk lids over my eyes.
If only I could ride out the exhale and
go at once adrift, self-rappel
I would climb the silk suspension line
swing from thought to thought
thread the eye of the needle
pull-ey up the beanstalk.
but instead I'm left to watch these aerial yoginis
swim on a draft from the ceiling.
These spinsters with their poetic acrobatics
for whom rhythm is spun on silent trapeze--
make a play-swing
out of gravity.
The tiny spiders that descend around my desk
make me--an oaf.
a self-honoring monument
for climbing, a botched landmark to ---human ingenuity
me, a moving pedestal for dancing
me, a knotted up windsock
hunched over a heated screen,
trying to blow down metaphor, alliteration
from these tiny kites that ascend the earth.
Tiny spider, tiny spider
let down your silk tresses
draw up my mind
swing the high rafters
I want to hang upside down--
make a play-swing
out of gravity.
Yet when I pulled on the thread
to net the silken-mouthed beast,
words did not come down
like mana from heaven.
Rather, my tongue grew heavy with cotton
metaphor, alliteration,
the fabric of suspended poetry
unraveled.
Lucid improvisation fell like Icarus
to quips.
because thinking to write
and writing to think is like
pulling dead hair
from spaghetti.
Meanwhile, tiny spiders descend around my desk
parasail
and make a play-swing out of gravity.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
This site does not permit the caesura divisions at all and I will not post the poem without them. You can find "Antihistamine Dreams with a Little Touch of Grendel in the Night" at my own not-very-well constructed site,
https://reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com/2019/01/antihistamine-dreams-with-little-touch.html
where the divisions are merely botched, not forbidden.
(I think it's rather nice, shivery little poem, especially if read around a campfire at night)
“A little touch of Grendel in the night” is a takeoff of “a little touch of Harry in the night” in Henry V.
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 2:55 PM UTC
a minority of surgeons need
to have their knives confiscated
their ineptitude with these instruments
can be clearly demonstrated
injuries from scalpel croppers
are carried for a lifetime
poor usage of a cutting tool
causes culpability every time
litigation in court is awaiting
those who can't handle a knife
they'll be tried for maiming
their patients for life
redress must be sought
in the form of compensation
by those who carry scars
out of botched up operations
we entrust our limbs and organs
to the medical fraternity
and they are obliged
to treat us with the utmost care and dignity
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Grow Up- Learn your ABC's
-Tic Tac Toe & 1-2-3
Hopscotch, bop-bop, twinkle toes
Head, shoulders, knees & elbows
In It- Trying THC
Just to ***** authority
LSD to open eyes-
Though it was made by FBI
Till birds are mocking
Walls are talking
Brain is botched
So hops & scotch
Jingo Jango in your glass
Your only present is the past
When everything has gone deluded
Spirits drink your spinal fluid
Should have thought Outside the Box
But stayed inside your mental locks
Cause Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Is now a Soul put behind bars
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:16 PM UTC
Collided with you on my way to work,
No, it wasn’t a sign, wasn’t destiny’s quirk.
A swollen temple and a bruised nose
Do not herald a date, a wedding, or even a rose.
Dropped my books on my way to class,
Our fingers brushed when you knelt on the grass
Music blasting from the dorm on the second floor
I nodded my thanks and walked through the door.
I know they say it’s divine intervention,
But it’s more just my lack of hand-eye coordination.
I know you believe we were meant to be
But I need spectacles more than a relationship.
Now my scarf’s stuck to your wrist watch,
My hem’s ripped, your buckle’s botched.
I knew I shouldn’t have bought the lace
Oh **** Did you think this was decreed by fate?
Spilled my coffee on your shirt front
**** Was it Ralph Lauren? Peter England?
Here’s a coupon for a dry-cleaning discount
Just tell me you don’t think this counts.
Look, I’m not saying you’re reading too much into this,
Though that might be an accurate analysis.
All I’m saying is our future looks accident prone
So maybe invest in an insurance plan before a wedding loan.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
I am there
Wishing that if I pressed my fingers to your lips
I could understand the broken Braille of your breath
When your throat locks in the noise
Gentle butterfly gut
Fanning flames over burning cinderblocks in your belly
I am there
When you wished the moon in a rearview mirror
Heading west
Wondering if you really could go far enough to see its dark side
When you wanted to turn back
I was there
When she drank razorblades
And Tylenol ink
Into a botched suicide note
I was there
This is the journey
When he wondered when he could hold somebody again
Like a waterbed full of blood
Without the motion sickness
I was there
Every moment y’all
Of your ***** sacred
I want to be there
So when you see that this place is so big
And you are so small
And our souls might be stardust and minerals
Burning blue so far away
At least you’re not alone
Your body is built for love
She said
Beer breathed and true
I smiled
I was there
Kiss me with your car parts
DUI this knee buckle
I want to be tried and arrested
Spit out and spanked
And I will still kneel before you
And praise all that is good in you
Because you are holy
Every moment of you is holy
I was there
Begging to be baptized by your presence
Because in a place so big
I don’t want to feel so alone anymore
I want to kiss you
I want to kiss you
Like you are better
Than everything you’ve ever done
You are
I was there
When the world inside your breastplate
Spun natural disaster
And sunshine
Anvil remorse
And sweet laughter
When I held you
Any of you
And our worlds
Vibrated a conversation only our souls could understand
I was there
And all we could speak was “LOVE”
All we could speak was “Us”
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
dear —,
this is not divinity-
no empty pillowcase cape can make you fly
no lipstick can make you beautiful no girl can make you girl no
boy can’t make you boy
no night time prayers can make you god
girl,
you can’t hate yourself into a revolution
or love yourself into a label
boy,
bi-
child.
binary gendered thing
bipolar botched up baby with hit hard head
bisexual? still denying: gay **** queer ***** ***** *****
bi.
j,
this is no caution tape finish line-
no period can finish your seesaw story,
child,
sadness sometimes stretches like
semicolons or wet cement
flowing through this blood, waiting for the moment to harden
to cave you into yourself
to sink into nose too wide, heart too big, space
too much
you growing soul,
with samson strength put all
in two places
just because that ****** pillowcase can
catch your tears doesn’t mean
you will always be only to catch
You,
stand.
have you prayed your own salvation so much you’ve forgotten how it feels to
open your eyes
?
held yourself long enough your back can’t crack open again
?
searched solutions for phantoms so you can only see yourself problem
?
have you written so many poems that you expect me finished
here?
•••
darling,
not every poem has a conclusion
not every poem needs one.
and not every person is prose
where the solution wraps itself into a bow
you can’t keep conflict with yourself until it does
love,
sometimes the answer will pass through
falling failing chests and
pressed pastor palms
sometimes the answer isn’t prewritten
picture book in black and white/boy and girl
sometimes it’s You
somewhere in between-
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
Walking in a minefield of self-destruction
Not knowing that I was being watched
On a path that was so uncertain
As love of self was being botched
Bound by images of life’s path
The stronghold of the enemy in me
At every turn releasing it’s wrath
And growing more and more crafty
As I added to the scars Christ bore
Thinking this is the way life will end
Lead me to the gates of death's door
Pleading to start over again
In the middle of my own *****
Sinking in was the reality of my world
I no longer had a say or control of it
Everything in my life was in a swirl
Created for a degree of excellence
Something drew me to find meaning
Love was watching being patient
So close to me just waiting
To say one yes was all I had to do
He took control of the situation
In my life Love came to the rescue
Saved my life and soul for certain
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:27 AM UTC