Category: Poetry

the air was hanging coldly and
cloudy; my heart seemed weak,
driving through the best parts of the state
on a journey which has always fallen
somewhere between too familiar, perfectly comfortable and anxious.

i remember finding God a year ago,
here,
He was crouching like a rabbit who knew
only to be at peace with the world and I,
I, was the shaking, scared one.

I heard once that a rabbits fear can kill it.
far be it from me to be the murderer,
living in my own personal terror of
someday becoming the murderee.

this is place is hollow and somewhat
empty but never strange,
which makes it so strange.

I’ve got a pill for every feeling in the world
one to make life stop
one to make breath long
one to make sleep come
and i’ve got a pill for every feeling in the world
except for aching.

my heart is a little flower on a cactus
and it’s fighting for the water to survive
but the packrat advises storage
for emergency.

this is emergency.

I’ve got a pill for every feeling in the world;
I have no words.

your cellphone clung to your ear
like long ago it had imprinted itself there
and your words filled
what should have been respectful silence
cutting with biting remarks
& how many pseudo-philosophies does it take?

this word, pretentious, is
what you are dichotomously seeking
both to fill your critical description
and to lend a warning about yourself
as the poet dances, ballet-shoe softly
around your cyncicism
these books beg your sielence
for they are but trying as you to impress
with emptyness, mood, and through subtlety

after you go, i apologize
to you, perhaps, as a lesson in respect
but more to thse books on behalf of my speicies
then i discuss fluidly the intimidation of blank.

my dreams, they come
now in black and white
while you remain
breathing
into them
in color
so your words
all poetry
just swirl
like smoke from a candle
like smoke from a bon fire
like smoke from my ashes

i just burn.
we all just burn,
so brightly, tonight.

this is my body.
this is my body.
this is my right.
this is my right.

this is my right hand
clutching my body
waiting to feel a kick
against the inner flesh
of my stomach
stretching now to hold a body
this is my body.

kick, mother fucker, kick.

foul language, shame, shame,
and around the children?
language which enables violence
(and sometimes laughter and love)
a man should never hit a woman
but sometimes he’s gotta slap a bitch
this is my body.

this is your right hand
gripping my left
like some sort of hand-to-hand combat
and the fight has moved physical
breaking from mental

this is your left hand
clutching a wallet
and my left clutching desperately to a hope
salvation.

this is my body.
this is my body.
this is my body.
this is my body.
this is my body.

this is nothing.

he plucks them from the sky
like their little lifeless bodies
have no defense against freedom
and i wonder,
how you sound when
you tick tick tick.

are the dreams so menacing they’re deafening?
were your eyes always so shaddowed black?
only a pill stands between you and escape.
only a blade stands between you and escape.

freedom has a ring
you can’t hear
you can’t see.

one day, you’ll taste it
in a memory of daycare
at age 6
you’ll see why

we were all born to be alive.

the crab was an unsociable creature
finding solace only in the breaking waves
during high tide
and the new treasures
when tide was low

so here you are in my hiding place
asking me to trade a cigarette for a nickel
but i don’t smoke
i’ve been meaning to start
and you’re not a stranger
i was thinking you looked alright

life has too many turns to be worth it
there is too much finding
and seeking and wishing
have you been waiting?
would you know my face
if you saw my eyes?
and has anyone told you:

you’re much prettier in real life.

i live life as you write it
one word after the other
like steps against the pavement
a silent, somber score
written for a film
i wasn’t meant to star in

this is what life is
my name scribbled
on the inside of your palm
with 10 digits i call mine
where you be, my little boy?
and when will you wake
this is just a deep deep sleep
pining for a complement
as if angles were meant
only to bend

and when will i know
life is just be being been

CTBT, shutthefuckup.

waking in a nightmare,
stairs seem sleepy too
climbing
the corner seems twisting
ominous
quickening of heart
a sign of distress
and life is a question of death,
a call for help.
thanks for the answer.

every city
is a grid mapping lonely
with unfettered dreams