"racecars" poems
It’s pretty late
You’re standing across the room, talking to someone or something but I’m just here
These are your friends after all
But you look sad, like me
Like usual
Someone’s pouring me a drink and
I‘ve got that ichy feeling you get when you shouldn’t smoke your last cigarette
But you know you will
They say something to me and laugh
I’m sandwiched between a fantasy and crushing reality
like beautiful ideas that become **** when you write them down on paper
My feet are shaking, ready to move (anywhere)
I am the inches of terrible terrible air
Between the fruit on the tree and your fingertips
(you, tied to the ground, like me)
You can shout all you like, Tantalus
I know you
You’re just like me
We’ll never get anywhere
We’re frozen assets
We’re “get well soon” cards given out in the ******* cancer ward
We’re racecars stuck in the mud
But what do I know?
Why are we even here?
Do we have anywhere else to go?
I know it’s late
2:45 in the morning and raining
But I’ve got a third a tank of gas
and you’ve got that look in your eye
let’s get the **** out of here.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
I watched the bees pollinate.
Like a group of tiny black racecars flitting
between the pastel purple bulbs.
I felt my skin
crawl as I listened to their harmonious humming
and yet
I couldn't take my eyes off them -
the way they zipped through the lavender
stems, never colliding with each other gripped
me like a whirl of spring.
I lay back and I thought of you
so oddly beautiful *but beautiful
nonetheless.*
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
switchback racecars and
ham sandwitches on soggy bread
dull knives
and aching backs
and two sets of morning kisses
alike in warmth
differing in nature
but the fern petals curl away from the stem
as they mature
and maybe i am immature then
because all i want to do is curl into your spine
but who are you
which of the two i need make the vertebrae of the one i want?
are you the man who can turn over my garden bed
and tuck it in to sleep at night
or are you the man who pours fertile soil
over the dying weeds
because any life is beautiful?
am i beautiful to you
because though you say it
over and over
and though you have no hesitation when it comes the time
to roll around the cotton fields
does he?
maybe
but after the cotton is picked
and the fields are dry and ravaged
you are the one to run your fingers over the fence lining
the edges
but he isnt
he kisses me like fire
but you are embers
glowing
and remaining
and who is he
who am i
to doubt you
but lengths of sand
seperate our teacups
and it makes this hard
you dont want me
you dont want it to be difficult
but im not sleeping in the beds of other gardens
im not spilling my milky flesh over the moss of any tender forest but yours
im celibate to the moon
and sprouted from the earth
and whatever we have is what it is
and im so happy
but im tearing apart
thinking about a party
where another feather flits across my thigh
and where alcohol and others fill my pre frontal cortex
and for just long enough
i have no reason to not smell the earth of his bed
or his chest
and i dont know if i would feel guilty
we are not us
we are two seperate wholes
but we are us
we are something
and im ******* confused
and worried about hurting you
but i dont know what that means
or what that would entail
i just cant figure out
how to read the words you write
when all we know is morse code
and your hands shake worse than the earths breastplates
so are we anything
labels dont need to be pressed in with superglue
but they can help us sort through canned emotions
and reactions to situations
without worry of what is and isnt appropriate
because that way
when a feather tickles my thigh
i can sigh
push it away
and float to a place in my mind
where you are
without question
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
Was it an arrow that hit my heart?
Was it a feather that touched my lips?
Was I dreaming the whole time?
Or was it reality?
My knees, hands and lips were shaking
Like the earth's having a tremor
Heart racing like racecars
Trying to aim the finish line
Things are going well
They go as I please.
At the end of the day,
It will always be you
You and always you.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
Wizardly nighttime
when a private, big car fast
into the engine
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 12:43 PM UTC