i will take the clothes off my floor
and sew a blanket. i will
still sleep on the floor though.
i need the cold on my back but not
on my chest.

i am too anxious to leave the house so i wont leave.
i am forever chained to this body
and when i close my eyes i will make magic
for you. hooks through my skin
carry the weight of my world i am
chained to this body
let it float for the people. they're only
impressed because it looks like it hurts.
its blood in the nail
its the right kind of itch.

when i really want to
torture myself i stay up
late and think of all the
sleep i could be having.

a ******* a date once asked me
how i got so wise,
she spun the milk into her
tea, i stared at the twister
she made in her mug with
a tiny spoon.

i still dont know how
to tell someone
i want to impress
that i dont know what im doing.

i went to school with
a boy named Stewart.
his hair was short
and blonde. his jaw
sharp. his tongue
silver.

Stewart and i
were very good friends.
we lived on the same street.
we would walk to
school together.

i was known
as a "good kid"
Stewart was not.
but we got along
quite well.

Stewart was always
getting into trouble.
anytime anything went wrong,
you knew it was Stewart.

"it was me"
"i did that"
"sorry"

is what Stewart would say.
i could never imagine
how one boy could
cause all that
trouble.

one day.
i broke the pencil sharpener.
and from the front of the room,
the teacher asked aloud
which one of us
had done the deed.

"oh i did that"
"sorry"

said Stewart

Stewart left the class that day.
he sat in the hallway until lunch.
just another boy
another shenanigan.
oh how could we ever
help poor Stewart
he is too young to be
this bad.

white death
is perched in a
tall tree.

it is the dead of
winter. there is snow
like it were soil.
the wind wisps a
carte blanche. theres
nothing to see here.

i hope you are
hidden well
in the white too.
white death looks down
a long scope.

white death hides,
the ruby burn from
one cigarette
behind his hand.
he takes a single drag
and butts it
on a branch.
while grey smoke fills
a white world.

she stands so tall
and mighty, like she's
waiting to prove us wrong.

i stumble when i stand
on the subway but she
stands so idle
like her shoes were glued
to the floor. these conditions
must be perfect.

but theres never
a good reason to ride
the subway past six pm.

i take real slow steps across the street
hoping i might die from
impatience.

if i go in uniform theyll
yell officer down.
i might die a poets death
but never speak the words.
but never touch the paper.