"voicings" poems
She's more of a poet
'cause she went to school for it,
and she tastes sweet in the morning,
and in the evening,
sunlight filters through her
and lights up that slice of lemon
that I love so much.
I think I'll have a writer -
on the rocks.
Every time I come home,
my room smells like *** in the summer,
and it sounds like the vinyl is still under the needle.
Best album of two thousand and nine.
Best album of all time.
Sand between our toes,
we wrote prose
on a filthy mattress but
roses never grew here.
And they never will.
There was something about us though,
something that had a feverish pulse
behind it. I'd say it was something to
do with the way we have of never putting
a cheap laugh below us. I think it has
something to do with resilience but I'm not sure.
Humming trite voicings of things we'd heard
in the backseat of our fathers' cars, radios on,
you use to tell me to flash the turn signal,
in the black of night, just so you could make sure
we were alive. Dry, but at least alive.
A little beacon to justify us,
and just defy them.
Whiskey,
come over
here and
kiss me.
C'mon
Corinthian,
keep me
company!
Set this manuscript
to music and dance for me!
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
Portrayals of suffering -
Mine and everyone else’s -
What are your cravings for?
May you matter
Existing in this endless instant.
Voicings of my pain,
Do you matter if you save a life?
For a life is but a number.
Representations of my fears -
First aid or pitiful joke?
Sublime art or appalling misery?
Beauty or madness?
Tokens of life or death?
Pointful or pointless?
Does it even matter if it matters?
God doesn't either,
dead or alive,
in dreams or in nightmares,
Unless He makes you laugh.
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 8:12 AM UTC