Grateful.I am endlesslygratefulto you,Who sawmyheartand called ithome.
Hangman.I cursed my hangmanuntil I remembered whosenoose was 'round his throat.
Early morning philosophy.We're already bornso thelastcertaintywe haveisdeath.
Best Spent.The hour hand is on afuse,set to clockwise sidestepsoon;carving down ourterminal diagnoses.Maddening,quick,the calendar sheds,the bare bones,the New Year's ball againand we are 18 and 45in the exactsamebreath.Work, family, and weekendsjust as we were toldwhile the hands we dearlywish to holdrace out of ourpanicked graspsearchingpleadingdaydreaming-Until death comes 'roundto kiss our cheeksand tuck us under soil sheets,What remains in our heads:thoughtsforeverincomplete-So pour them forward,drinks on you!Only one day for dyingthe rest is your's to choose,So every day,love better than the last.For when Dying Day comes,it won't want to wrestlea fretfulinsomniac.
Intuition.Call me paranoid,but I'm starting to seeyou're not as lostas you'd like me to think...
Found.I find poetryunder my nailsandbehind my ears,prose spiralsdown the drainafter a long,thoughtful bath:the kindwhere you don't come tountil the water's long since gonecold.
The Domestic Type.Props to the housefly,who can pop in anywhereand feel right at home.
For it is known.Good love needs not be verified.
Victorious.I hopeeveryonegets a momentto realizeit wassillyto haveworriedat all.
tidal wavesdon't fall in love with a writer,rinse & repeat:don't fall in love with a writer.(i could write this day in, day out; up and down chalkboard roads and everywhere we go, but it never sticks. it never sinks in, just sits on the surface and stings)tell a lie, play nice likemother taught me to: be abutterfly under pins, letyou fondle my wings and worm your way in.(you're the final bridge to burn in a long line of ash; kerosene and sulphur kiss my knees, teach me how to say please)i am an ocean, but honey,some lines aren't meant to be crossed.
runs in the family.from my fatheri inherited cold gray eyes anda stubborn pride;and from my mother i receivedthe unwillingness tostay and a fearto leave.i'm sorry that i didn't pick upthe phone orlisten to your year oldmessages– you should probably getused to it.
windfallI would gather allthe seven seas for you.for me, you would notspare a raindrop.
Kate (day-dreamer)Kate paints her nails teal with black speckles because she says they remind her of egg shells left to warm themselves in the summer sun.(I tell her I've never seen a teal egg but she tut-tut's at me and presses our lips to the pages of an old book until our tongues are tattooed over by words from a dead poet's mouth.) Kate cuts her own hair with scissors she found rusting in an old, waterlogged box in her grand-father's attic.(I tell her rust doesn't cut, only bruises, but she rolls her faded eyes like dice and tells me that's nice but I shouldn't believe everything I read.) Kate uses honey and paper bark to wash her face because she says it's all made of star-stuff and she likes to touch the night sky.(I tell her it doesn't equate to the same thing but Kate is a believer and my soft words don't change her.)
He calls it cologne:nine dollar wine, smeared on with hands thatquake beneath the weight of five ounces (chalk dust) and a splintered childhood.
unheard songs and the dreams to matchonce you finish readying yourselffor the metallic mists ofmidnight, you betray the sensesand fall (asleep)into dreams of clever atmospheresand misspoken resonances.for so long, you've been smilingat thoughts of a boywith stor(m)y skies for eyes,tracing flowers on the hypotheticalskin of his metaphorical handbut recently, you've been dreamingof a guy with the sun in his eyes,stopping you from waveringon the edges of conformed reality.this is not the end-we aren't even past the beginning.and you're already imaginingthe unforgiving flow of abutton-down floral dressand a town too beautifulto see it.you can see silhouettes fightingfor control against an unnatural lightand hear a rustling in the garden,so you wake yourself upfrom clandestine nightmaresand redo an untried cycle.
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,again their bones are breakinglike the cracks in the Colosseum.Death does not defendeager-eyedfighters; he does not fulfillgodly goals ofheaven and halos.I am inverted, introverted,a jester jeeringat kids who kisslike life is long enough to fall in love.my mouth is a machine,a new nightfallordering our soldiers outinto pits where they pray for peace.the quirks of ourridiculous readings rule us,sand us into sculpturesthin and tall, trembling.our universe is built on uncertaintyand vicious virtueswritten by long-dead warriors whoexpected to live forever, andI do not yield to yourwell-read zombies.
Empty Pages.You are the perfect story,A plot unfurling from your touch,And poetry in your eyes.You speak with golden glory,Into sentences of hate,And promises of lies.You are the bookI never had the words to write.
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning stormthat leaves only plastic bags and stray dogsflitting through the river runway streets.You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,and seams bursting from blistering electricity—I am not afraid of you.My father has whirling weatherveins too,but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshineclenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, andmore importantly, she will make you feel okay.You deserve okay.
open up and kiss the blueour souls are unfurlingpeering through the cocoonof darknessinto the daywe aresunflower-children,faces turned towardsthe sun—our soft, leafy fingersreach towards thelightpetals blooming,eyes unlockingthe sun will risethe sun will risethe sun will rise
this is the way that i will extract my revengei am nothing but phantom painsreborn into old bones;oh, sugar skeleton, tell me -what's it like to be a ghost?
YOU make me want to LIVE!walls keep closing in on meonce opened doors shut tightdarkened skies refuse to clearwhat's the point anymore?why continue this mundane existence?but then I think of youyou make me want to liveyou make me want to breatheyou make me hope againyou listen to me...friends I loved have disappearedfresh enemies abounddark shadows follow me homewhat have I to live for?why go on to face a dismal future?but then I think of youyou make me want to liveyou make me want to breatheyou make me hope againyou listen to me...world spinning out of controlmadness all around mecan't control these emotionswhat do I have to offer?why pretend that I matter to this world?but then I think of youyou make me want to liveyou make me want to breatheyou make me hope againyou listen to me...pain and sorrow/never-endinglive tomorrow/answer pendingdesperate feelings/wanting closureneeding healing/not exposurewill you take me/will you save mecan I break free/can I b
SynestheticSometimes I taste test names;Anita – sharp citrusand lemongrassfor the ann-i,a tortilla for the taa.Brad – I likeits weight; a slabof marbled chocolatemelted on my tonguebefore the last letter.Charlotte – somethingsavory, but sweet; porkmarinated in honeyon sweet rolls.Doug – vanillatinged cheesecake;a dusting of grahamcracker shavings;an Oreo with no filling.Elena – spiceand heat radiate –eh-layne-ahh – a coronabursting fromthe second e.Fletcher – it’s syllablesmesh like mashedpotatoes, lumpy yetconsistent.Gladys – driedlemons and staleSpree candies, rattlinginside and empty pitcher.Hawthorne – brackish,the leftover remainsof a magnificent feast,the apple still stuckin the boar’s mouth.Imogen – leanand stringy. Greenbeans and chickenbroth at a small,weathered table.Jules – red velvetand hot peppers, a weekold cake with hardfrostin
i wonderi am ugly nudeis mother earth ashamed ofher scars too?
you're not silver-tongued, specter boyyou told mewe walked among dead -that we're all(nec)romanticists;now, dearest, i knowwhy skeletonsalways look likethey're smiling.
three ways to fall aparti.we were seventeenwhen you promised me thatthis tiny dustbowl ofa southern town was not going to beeverything my life was made of.it wasn't hard to believebecause the maps you'd spread acrossyour ceiling never lied (since you claimedit was easier to dream when theywere stuck above youin the night).i remember the lines you'd drawnin a felt pen, red because it seemed important,seemed louder than the rest, andi remember how youwould trace the roads with your eyes until youfell asleep. you had a knack formemorizing every escape route, and when i asked whyyou answered that it was because one day youwould have to run.when i asked if i could fly away with youyou said yes, and that night i dreamtof runaways and falling stars. i never was sureif they were supposed to mean something bigger than us.ii.sometimes when i lie awake at nighti wonder now how far we mighthave gotten if we ever left, if we had jumped intoyour old impala and left the road behind us -it's too
44time's been walking bya little slowerevery day and when i askedwhy he said he just ain'tas young as heused to be( life came up behind him, said hey, don'tyou think we need to move this thing along - )
Sullen.There's asickeninglysullenboywho wakeswith a songin hishumminghead.Oh,how I wish thatjustfortomorrowI couldbethatsong.