Thursday, May 29

A Self-Indulgent Poem

My chest feels like my heart feels like a stone 
Just a head and legs sticking out of a mountain 
Of grey granite slabs
Tons-weighing, heavy, a dirt-grinding thud 
Black-hole stomach 
Feels like cinders feels like ashes feels like
The confusion of an unexpected absence
Of waking up after a long nap in which 
One's dreams were more important and serious 
Than the sticks and stones of everyday life
My mouth feels like my shoulders feels like my stomach feels like 
One Big Ache  
So heavy I'm breaking through the bed
      
What am I drinking? 
What have I been eating that sickens me so?
I have been eating the mountain and drinking the dirt, I suppose

I can't sleep tonight because my chest feels like a vase with the flowers taken out of it. 

Wednesday, May 14

Battle

Subtly she lets me know
That I am dead to her
Leaving off periods
At the ends of sentences
And looking through my face
Like a gauzy curtain

The inevitable battle approaches
Our flesh-pierced arms shaking
With laughter
That impervious armor

The shakedown commences
I have sewn her open
Saltwater at the ready
My tongue-sword slices downward—

We are the violent
Even to the arch of our backs
Colluding with the curve of our necks
We are plotting your downfall

We are the deadly
But our blood lust blinds us
I consume the flesh of my enemies;
You lick your wounds.

Sunday, May 11

Illiterate

This day is beautiful
Outside in a way like forgotten memories
And too hot
Oppressive
Stuck now in a reverie
Its vivid now
Lasting
Don’t drive now
Forget where pedalsbrakesturnnow
Because birds and spring and trees are

Blooming

Sunday, May 4

Now

All of a sudden
In late afternoon
Skin is melting down off onto the floor
Revealing blue veins and red arteries pumping.
The post-apocalyptic nap.

Puddling, I seep through the minuscule cracks
In the brown hardwood
Drip silently into the moist dark earth

The sun continues with its harsh face
Yellow bullets rain in seasonal warfare
The cool crust protects me.

I reach a hand up through
Pushing gently aside
Air/water/sun Air/water/sun
A patient toil, lucid
I grow myself a tree.

The world ends more slowly than it began
Only darkness descends, the temperature drops,
A frightening slowing of movement,
And even the sun has given up, and given way

I pull my molecules together,
And rise to wrestle with the night
Awake.

The violence of afternoons is best suffered through in defensive supination.

Untitled #

Having been living only almost
Twenty and one years
It still seems a long time I've been running
Maybe almost half a life
Since the first time I felt
The panicky black curtain
Descend
Even as dramatic as all that!

. And one by one I tried to disentangle each possible cause
Picked to bloody fingers their knots
Removed their weight from my shoulders
Released the helium balloons of what
I knew surely held my sadness
Till weightless I floated
Because now alone
(It was once i hit)Nothing that
Helped me find the rat
My portable brain lab
Clandestine manufacturer of
Carelessly measured this and thats

Sadness, I banish you with spells
Which deteriorate like cheap jewelry
And I rust away with them


This is an undated poem, slightly over a year old according to my age in it. It is lacking a couple of somethings, but there are bits I am so pleased with I decided to put it up anyway. (Notice my tagline has long been a line from this piece!)

Tuesday, April 8

Listening to music makes the sky less lonely and other lies

December 2013
We listened
Like the music was round
And had a hole in the middle
And we were sinking
In the freezing Atlantic ocean

We listened as if the music was a clear glass of water
For throats parched like the desert

We listened like music was a special thread
For sewing up bad analogies
Like broken hearts

We listened but
The songs kept ending

We listened
And in November
Were mostly thankful for
The comforting lull of repetition


A silly piece written at the end of my Philosophy of Music course

Wastrel



scribbles from a million years ago, i couldn't make them flow the way i wanted. time to bite the bullet.

Do words come
wet off the tongue
but dry from the page?
Or am I erroneously assigning texture
to intangibles?

Time cuts the top off the moon with a scalpel
while I
sit under its weight
and wax philosophic
on these
over-parsed themes