All ready to
But you can never reach the
Your soul is
You are an
Chained to the
you left your roses in my throat.i'm convinced there was a god
at least once
not because of some neck-tied preacher
or pamphlets left on my doorstep
but because there was poetry written in the lines of your lips
and, though you were so many things,
a poet wasn't one, love
so if you didn't write those words
then who did?
i wanted to,
but it wasn't me
i don't think you would have let me anyway
you never liked my poetry very much
because it was sad
and sad reminded you of your mother
and that made you sad
so we'd be sad together
and you didn't think that was a good basis for a relationship
but we weren't a relationship
we were just two ghosts
trying to haunt each other
and that never works out.
breathe, love.i sat on your bed
and used your watercolors to paint
a cemetery in my journal.
i painted the grass the same beautiful green i always wanted
your eyes to be
and all the dirt is nice and flawless,
you can't even tell, in the picture,
that you're buried beneath the flowers.
there's a sky somewhere i can't see.i don't have laugh lines;
i have frown lines
trenches carved into my skin
by the threads that weigh my lips
the weights on the ends
have indented my collarbones;
i am, in all metaphorical sense and purposes,
a lonely canyon
dying in the sun.
can you tell i still love you?i keep a picture of you in my cigarette pack
sometimes i blow smoke against your matte face
as if it'd creep up your nostrils
or down into the depths of your ivory lungs
so you'd be dying with me
and sometimes i cut your eyes
from other pictures
and glue them in place
just to burn them out again
sometimes i just look at the picture
with an unlit cigarette resting on my lips
i used to be in the picture
but we cut it in almost-half
and took the side of each other;
i wonder where you keep me
(you used to use it as a bookmark,
is it still in that bukowski book you never finished?)
i keep your picture in my cigarette pack
and sometimes i just ignore it.
seven o'clock is looking pretty good right now.i want to take a road trip to bury all the raccoons and possums dead
on the side of the road.
i don't want to drive though,
i want to be in the passenger seat
with my feet on the dash, the tips of my boots
putting dust scratches on the plastic,
and looking through cheap sunglasses
at the sun setting beside your face
somewhere obscure in Arizona
where armadillos have died atop the gravel.
i want to read music, out loud like books,
and sing poetry.
i want to watch clouds melt against the sun
and fall down on the windshield as rain.
i want to bury all the dead things
on the other side of my skin.
did you tell the neighbors to cut the lights off?i thought there was some significance in anatomy
but it really doesn't come to much.
there's just some skin, muscle, and blood covering bones and lungs.
your freckled jacket drapes the galaxy within your ribcage.
there's not gravity,
but i'm still falling.
when i was four i thought the sky was blue marble.my father feels guilty
for spending my childhood
spending time with my brother and cars,
he feels even worse every time he yells at me;
he yells at me a lot.
my father buys me books
to try to buy my love (or maybe my forgiveness)
but he doesn't realize that he's just paying me
to love other people;
some dead poet he doesn't know shit about
and probably wouldn't understand.
but thanks though.
i'm going to need you to breathe for us.don't fall in love with me
because i don't do things the way your exes do.
i'm not going to take you to some fancy restaurant
with a suit and tie and valet to park the car
i'll take you to a library instead
we'll go shopping together
and try on some other people's grandparent's clothes
we'll get new names and fake shitty accents for each reflection
i'll convince you to buy an ugly jacket
by telling you your face is so damn pretty
no one's going to look once at that color blocked windbreaker
you'll wear it in the car,
but fidget uncomfortably when we stop
so we'll switch coats outside the art museum
you'll take my picture next to some abstract piano sculpture
constructed of old park benches
and tell me that i'm brave,
but i'm just a coward who likes to make you laugh.
i care too much about what people think
but not when i'm with you
because those strangers are just echoes of your shadow.
we'll go into the bell tower of that catholic church by the harbo
i was freezing in an art museum.i met a boy with heterochromia;
one eye was green and the other was blue.
i was watching him from across the room and he was staring right back,
his eyes peeled away my skin
and turned my soul purple.
i could feel the color fading as he walked away
and when you found me my soul was lilac, and you thought it was bruised.
i never told you about the stranger i fell in love with
for fifteen minutes
PrayerPlace your poems
on the lips of angels
so you can teach their wings
how it feels to fly
Mark the summer evenings
soon to come
with the grace
that carried you
warm and cherished softly
and know we will always place
among the stars.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
The ArtistShe talked to rocks, asking them if they’d be happy
To leave their home for her newest installation piece
She cried sometimes for no reason other than
She felt like having a good cry
Her house was covered in her students’ drawings
She said the best art was produced from innocence
She went mad once, and painted canvas after canvas
In furious strokes of black
The soft blue world of youth at last faded, she grew old
People shook their heads when they saw her
And whispered “poor dear” under their breath
But she was never poor
Her love for everything and everyone never died
It was swept in all directions like a summer breeze
Making people smile without knowing why
But the river rocks know
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,
that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead.
It isn’t true.
It’s said the stench of hell infects the earth
and healths of heated blood are downed.
But Hamlet lied.
The dead know nothing, the living less.
There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;
souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
growththere is nothing more beautiful
than the softness of a man
you love more than
a face gentle in sleep
and ardent in morning;
there is nothing more beautiful
than the first breath
of your spring,
your blooming dawn,
of nothing but you
you are growing
into something new,
and there is nothing
Photo-NegativeA weightless pause, the warmth between seconds.
“You need to feel something other than me”, and the way you said it-
Like the gazelle asking the lion not to chase her,
and many similes much worse than that.
and many smiles more cancerous than that.
and everything I say you say I say- it’s all farm grade bullshit.
Starting here, I begin to correct myself, control myself,
before the words lose their beauty by taking on far too many meanings.
I’ve cleverly described this enough times already: ants besieging a gone sparrow,
the death rattle of an air-conditioner as the summer heat takes it,
three boys swimming in a pond and only one survives their childhood.
I’ve described this enough times to know that I’ve exhausted it of figurative substance.
All that’s left is the picked clean husk of what it has always been; bitterness.
Sometimes, less words are needed to define.