"toolshed" poems
Bike videos, you love em so
And we'd sit on the couch
Right across the street, you and me
And last year surreal
Your eyes never looked so different
So blue, blueboy
What happened to your voice?
My brown boots
I could never say no to you
Drinking four lokos on the carpet
Kissin in the toolshed
I remember those tall tall sunflowers
They died and took you with them
**** so sunny back then
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
The truth is, I’m not really sure who I am. She told us to draw ourselves and then to draw our souls; so I drew my face scratched and uneven, just as I’ve always seen it, and frowned at the result both in the mirror and on the paper. The only soul I’ve ever really known was the one that shone through the strokes of the keys I punched, the scrawling of ink on paper in mismatched arrays of awkward thoughts, disorientated and unorganized, shaded different spews of emotion and rearranged through the lens of ever last viewer’s eye. Even so, this soul that is composed of words that defined me painted a picture vivid in its contrast, though blurry from both afar and close enough to squint, no details able to be made out. These words that have wrapped around my soul rubbed raw from the time my skin first flinched at the cool March air cannot be deciphered by their author, though I know somehow that their letters flowing into one another say more than any curve of my face ever could. These words are black and white, two extremes crafted in the pallet of the Universe’s toolshed, and perhaps that’s exactly what I am. Black or white. I’m dark and lost and scrounging for some rusting wall or tree branch to cling to as to ensure the shimmering waves, onyx and charcoal in their nature with the flow of blood in its spine, do not flood into my mouth at a rate in which is too quick to balance myself upon them, or, I’m white, drifting snow from a cloud scraping the vast expanse of brilliant blue gazing as a sky above all the world, pure, innocent, unscathed with the potential for creation in vibrancies yet unknown, or to be ripped to bits, scattered amongst piles of cream and autumn leaves drained of their color beneath months of shivering frost. And so, perhaps any physical representation of my being would be all wrong, because that’s not what I am. Myself, my soul, it resides in the murky depths of heights I’ve yet to discover, tethered endlessly and uncertain among the caverns of my inners, pink and mushy, stirred and ****** untouched from the harsh light of a world encased in brevity.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
*they say this sage will help her come out.
the red smoke will bring her presence.
she dances in the woods ,
and you can only catch a glimpse of her.
her blonde hair flows like a river over rocks,
skin pale as the moon,
she moves so swiftly that she could be right behind you and youd have no idea.
you hear her voice singing her song.
"at break of dawn when theres barely any sun,
come to me my sad one. there was a little toolshed where he made us suffer. he sees everything, and were his forever. my body is the art of Lucifer. so come to me my sad one. "
she repeats the song about 3 times but on the third you hear someone with her.
when the sage clears up its like nothing happened.*
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
striving for simplicity
has starting seeming
quite similar to settling
for much, much less.
i suffer this stubborness
like some plague;
some ***** scared of searching
for a saviour, or a cure,
unwilling to forgo the laws
that make him shout, 'impure!'
or 'unclean!' or 'run away,
******* run away!
i am death and his son hopeless,
and we've come out to play.'
an answer waiting underneath
every leaf and stone
and every molecule he breathes
on the wind when he's alone,
tickling his seeping wounds
and begging him to see . . .
i'm here, i'm here . . .
look here . . . see me.
but instead of living hopefully
looking for answers
that want to be seen,
just writhing in pain at the sting of the breeze,
and cursing and moaning
and spraying forth death
so stubborn and stupid with every breath
that's me, that's me . . .
that's me . . . that's me.
a leper's disposition
on a long dead, lifeless heart
afraid of hoping for a change,
a cure, a fairy's pond
stubborn like a stone
so stupid and stubborn with every breath . . .
a glass of porter left behind on the bar,
flat and forgotten,
forsaken, weak, and wasted . . .
that's me, that's me . . .
that's me . . . that's me.
so stubborn and so selfish,
never reaching, never finding
the simplicity i supposedly
believed might save my life . . .
an excuse to surrender
and to squander and forsake
every opportunity
that would ever come my way
until my talents are just rusty tools
in the back of some toolshed
in some swamp in new new orleans
in the background of my head.
i have long since lived too many years
to believe i am owed more
and i have yet to do one single thing
that's been worth fighting for,
and sticking to and seeing through
and working at until
it pays off and releases me
from my hopeless, bankrupt will.
a ***** with a strange and stubborn
sense of salvation
my days are leaking right through my skin,
and dripping their decaying death
along a trail stretched out behind me . . .
a path that's leading nowhere,
made from nothing, with no one along its way . . .
potential in hunks littering both sides
in different stages of decay.
stubborn, and selfish,
but some will must still remain
in the corner of some toolshed
in the bog that is my brain.
a cleansing of the soul, or a
katrina of the mind
my freedom must be lurking somewhere,
for i am still alive.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
my life is a toolbox
waiting to be discoverd
so someone will no whats inside
so that God can use the tools within
and cunstruct a better toolshed
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
Grandma calls from the back porch
Feeding moldy bread to the ducks on the pond
Fish came from the depths
And picked apart the biggest pieces
Brand new boots
Torn lace
Flapping on my foot
Tying the pieces around my ankle
Just the black toes of my boots
Toeing the edge of the toolshed roof
Your eyes grin up at me
Toss the hair behind your ear
Fingers
Touching strands
Beneath a rolling black thunderhead
jump
They drag the pond looking for your body
As if they wouldn't have seen you floating.from the shore
Cannons blast
And my eyes tear
And drop on the carpet
I don't know anything
Naked feet on the coffee table
Heaven needs no hand rails
Heaven is where you went
when your long neck broke
Against the wall of the dam
Heaven is where you kiss God's feet
For all of eternity
Kiss his feet
As he shakes the earth, sending buildings
Crashing down on lovers
Kiss his feet
He holds the gravity that drops bombs on children
kiss his feet
As he watches us **** one another
Over our ideas of him
I will be down here
Licking the deep cuts
I deserve
I will be down here
Haunted daily by what you might have been
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
It's where I keep my
Unfinished masterpieces
My polished imperfections
My broken promises
My draftbook is littered
With work and unwork
Like a handyman's abandoned
Toolshed
Forgive me when the books
Flow slowly; it's all I
Can do to stay standing
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
it is fairly safe
in this town
to walk
without concealing
the spray can
found
in father’s
toolshed
-
our love
for the spray can
while not
well documented
runs wrist
and wrist
with celebrity
worry
-
a cement wall
scraped
in passing
by one
with a stick
is the love
we have
for father
-
for mother
we scale back
on pillows
and lie
face down
on blank sheets
of paper
or watch
television
-
most times
we pop
the keys
of a ribbonless
typewriter
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
A simple figment
lost in a toolshed
oft times tinkled
with broken appliances.
He manipulated
rusted design
to his fancy,
breathing second life
into misfit *******
The elusive wisp
dressed in split fingernails
and knotty knuckles,
as lore foretold.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
Slender reeds sway gently
in the cool breeze of your passage.
The whispery songs of dusk
carry across the placid waters.
The trembling shadows of clouds
skim lightly
across the liquid mirror of the pond.
A flock of young geese
is pecking hungrily
at the waterlogged and bloated corpse
of your tutor.
The axe wound
in her eyeless skull
gapes darkly
in the dying light
of a perfect summer day.
As you glide back
across the dew-glittered meadow
toward the house,
the first tremulous notes
of the nightly choir of frogs and cicadas
float up into the darkening sky,
blanketing the thin and muffled screams
of the tutor’s daughter.
Her head cracks and implodes,
like a coconut wrapped in a wet towel,
as I lean on the handle
of the big vise
in our toolshed.
Equations and asymptotic curves;
Variables and discontinuities –
I Subtract Thee From The Sum of Humanity…
The eels down at the murky bottoms
will have thoughts for food tonight.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
caught dangling in the bathroom, caught thought up in little thinkings, those little nibblets nibbling at your inner ear, telling you you're weird
funkining funkinings frolicking around frustrated ambassadors
stuck out of time, make sense of anything, when the road ahead seems so clear,
and a vision presents itself on a pedestal, asking to be taken
awkwardly feeling my way around a toolshed, I'm on empty
where am I again? step by step
step by step
be gentle on yourself
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
She was real. She lived like this life was something God built for her in His toolshed. Like every wrong turn was just another excuse to dial God’s landline just to hear Him breathe through the phone “I’ll love you whatever way you travel.”
She has something worth buying the whole field for, worth devoting 60 years of your life and the next 10 minutes to build a temple for Christ that has pastel portraits and electric green ceilings. She deserves a man who has “Christ forever always” written on the back of his hands, so if he falls in worship or in life, it is seen regardless of the motive.
She will stay as her role is defined, and I hope it is a good one for my heart’s sake.
Either answer,
Thank you for the yesterdays.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
i gave you the sun.
created in the toolshed of my heart
the labor into making
a light out of dark.
it was imperfect,
it was patchy.
but it was my sun.
and i so wanted it to be yours.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 9:27 PM UTC