"dissapated" poems
the orangey flame in front of my eyes
reminds me of youth,
of long summers torched by a raging sun
bright as a candle that was lit at each end
endless nights out ran by insomnia
the dark circles under our eyes became our prizes
tokens and trophies of what was loved and lost and never given up
the dreams and defeats we carried
like white billowing flags held high
by our rag tag band of misfit soldiers
our ever loyal friends.
the melt in your mouth summer air
that dissapated from every pore
and filled both lungs full of life
the light reflecting from girls' long hair
like sparklers fired over a glass lake
on the fourth of july
and the blue ocean waves that crashed and turned
when I looked into his eyes
made me invincible
it was the summer of crazy
the summer of liveliness
the summer where watermelon was king
his seedly servants were spit anywhere
and the only true care was not letting the tank reach E
where driving with the windows down
and your hand out the window
made you fly
untouchable
I inhale then release
breathing out all of these thoughts
it is winter
icy and cold
but here in your car
with my feet up on the dashboard
and the radio chanting a song I once knew
I feel that same feeling of limitlessness
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
Where have you gone, my sunshine, my light?
You disappeared, dissapated, gone.
I cannot see you; my sight is plagued with darkness.
I reach for you, yearning to feel your embrace.
I feel alone, desolated, vulnerable,
Without your comforting arms around me.
Life is incomplete without you in it.
My future is lit by your presence.
Please return to me.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 1:56 PM UTC
Can dogs remember?
Your scent lingers- so she stays.
Will not leave until every last whaft of wood and moss and musk has dissapated.
Can you imagine? What that feels like?
Waiting, holding to this eternal faith of your return.
Girl olfactory loves you.
Will not leave- until you fade completley from the air.
She has the taste of you.
In the carpet, in the matress, in the blanket, in the woodwork, blood-hound loves you.
In the meantime,
she's been getting to love the stink of me too.
Underfoot. Under-bed. Waiting, snapping, snarling,
Tumness.
Belly rubs and train-whistle cries.
No joke. No story.
The Days of Our Lives.
Locked in tiny tin trailers which now contain the wild beast.
Thank God for super glue and how Justin fixed that door.
Now scratching backdoors, bent and made of cardboard,
I work in my toxic office
for a leg up and a way out. A key to that locked door.
And of course the children ask for our story and wonder where you've gone.
So I tell them
you've been hit by a train.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 1:04 AM UTC
i watched your warning apparition
consume your earthen eyes.
your warning apparition,
your exposed shadow,
the slowness of your breath.
this spirit inside your chest,
ever expanding,
constricting the blood in your lungs.
pale, skinny face.
you could never get enough sleep,
left your clothes on the floor.
can you breathe now that you’ve left?
has the fog trapped in your ribs dissapated?
has my absence made it easier to fill your lungs with love for someone else?
you told me that you wanted to save me from the emminent warning apparition.
you said it would make you mean.
make you silent.
make me hate every cloud you’d ever seen
because it gave you the wrong idea.
i may have acted impulsively
in dragging my knees through the gravel,
but it was only because
i thought you would see my kneecaps,
scarred and bleeding,
and lift me from the ground.
i can’t walk down congress street.
i see the warning apparition
sitting on the bench where i sat,
watching you sprint to me,
arms spread because you got out of work.
i see it laying in my bed.
the left side.
wishing that just once it would haunt my dreams,
so i could truly feel your sleeping embrace one last time.
i can’t take a shower.
i’m washing your face.
i can’t go to work.
you aren’t home to come back to.
your warning apparition
is not your fault.
nobody asks to be haunted.
not by a truly vengeful ghost.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC