UntitledNothing There was once a man who lived in a grey city.He was quiet,And no one noticed him.He lived alone,In a large houseThat could have easily fit two.The hallways were always full,Filled with the mournful colours,That bled from crayon tips. Everyday this man went to work,Then returned as the sky turned black.Everyday this man was greeted by nothing,Smiling, until the man trudged away.Nothing was nothing after all.It was always the same routine.Every day for the longest time.But the man never changes. The same.No matter how hard anyone tries to make the man realize,That there is Something.That it is yearning for his attention,That all it cares for is him,He will always blind himself from these things.Besides, it wouldn’t matter.Nothing would move on.It would forget. So many years.You left me alone,But why?Did you fear me?Did you hate me?Did I make you feel guilty?I still loved you anyway.
ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever. or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath. the thing is, i can substitute the body.the thing is, the slit is a fantastic shade of orange i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking jobthe thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.and the taste of power on the morning wind, a wet newspaperwith the headlines of a presidential divorce.there is power in the young eagle hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.i know one thing:
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,but it doesn’t stop me from nibblingthe cheese danish I bought at Krogerthis morning, warmed by thirtyseconds in the microwave. My mugof hot chocolate is too big, and Idrink it all. The washer is on its lastcycle; the cat is purring at my feet.Netflix is background noiseto clacking keys, typing a transcriptof middle class morning that I’ll latercall a poem or a turning point,wondering when I became such an adult.
i. one way to wake to dawnhalf the time i neverwake - i lie half-sleeping understars made of the flash of headlights on oil spillsand smell the gasoline-stench ofdreams as they try to breach the breakwaterof my eyes.insomniac, they say, and i justlisten, half-alive -scientists wonder why we need sleep and i can only say,we don't. sleeping leads to dreamingand not a single soul needs thatkind of disappointment, anymore.but sometimes i find myselfjust shudderinginto sleep, disjointed, falling through the rabbitholes found in zeroes of one o'clock, two -and as i wake toshimmering sunlight shining through theblinds, across the walls, i find it's worth it (justthis once) to watch and learnhow something rises.
There was an old clock in the hallThere was an old clock in the hall,Whose gears had been broken and stalled. Then ticking ensued, And it filled all the rooms,Though it wasn't the old clock at all.