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april 23rdwe are so far away
from the center of the universe.
yet there is music aloud in my head, and my strands of unconscious and conscious thoughts weave a web of sound and noise.
my heart is in my throat as I watch them trip all around me, and my words of warning can only be silence to them. I feel their wounds reciprocated here, in my chest. I, too, trip over guilt and irrevocable circumstances.
I repeat words of reassurance to myself, but don’t really believe them. of all people, I know the weakness of words. a house of words can still be burned down, a strongly woven shield of them can still be battened away
and I wonder how much words matter if there is no one who will hear them.
the birds stay away from usthe birds stay away from us
they keep a general distance,
and stare at us with eyes of fear.
for they know what we do to our children.
take me down to the river again and throw me in*
i want to write to you,
i want to write about you
the way i used to
when your body was my anchor and
my head was underwater -
before my life became defined within the space that
there was something then in the way you'd make me laugh
spitting up blood -
it felt like death from a ruptured lung.
and how sweet it tasted from all the sugar-binges of self loathing
i had to swallow back down with it.
(i never despised myself with more enthusiasm than
when you held my hand)
and remember the day you tied me up in the darkroom
and spilled photographic developer on my back
to watch your image appear and superimpose -
well, i haven't lifted my shirt in public since.
and to the people i share rooms with, and beds with,
and morning coffee,
i swear that it's really just skin deep
and that i keep it there out of guilt,
and how i only sleep in the sheets you died in
to remind myself that you're gone.
2014 January 28th 11:27pmher joy is in the susurrus of swaying grass,
lithely dancing to impress the warm wind.
the sun is her lover, he breathes and she exhales.
her sorrow is as faithful as he,
his resentful death spins her into a frost ridden cradle.
she paints without color, a bitter white to hide his love.
he awakens again
and her misery is undressed as her last snowflake melts,
the first kiss of the season.
i tried to tell you that Marley was a ghost,
but you wanted to walk with wings
across gleaming midnight.
How marvelous, this stone stands
sturdy and musty; this glorious church holding up a ticking sun
that slowly cracks the trippy stained glass.
you drilled way below the church stone,
and found dried palm leaves and old joints
like clues to the map of an exceptional life.
I love this torrential literature,
I love a racing heart.
i cannot sleep, i keep dreaming,
ezekiel's visions leave me breathless.
Take it up with the Big Man.
Surely the cannabis creator
must exude a presence that lingers on synapses.
i've lost my ability to fly.
a tender sky with reddening clouds,
the sights of death give birth to no life.
Well, I'm l
2013 December 15th 2:10amshe tied threads around her fingers,
hoping to remember.
she cut her fingers off,
hoping to forget.
last night i dreamed i kissed you.
broken boy, you still
infect my poetry,
tangle my vocal chords with your half-meant promises.
there are scars on my fingertips where i touched you.
my mouth still burns with the doubt i tasted on your tongue.
you have to miss me sometimes.
you have to miss the way
i smiled into your kisses
as if they meant something.
you have to miss me because
a month after i woke up in your bed and realized
it was for the last time,
i keep your "i love you"s hidden somewhere inside me,
folded and folded and folded in on themselves
like notes passed in school,
creases frayed and ink smudged into illegibility.
we were never good for each other
like the cigarettes we passed at midnight
as we leaned on the church's locked front doors and
pretended we could save ourselves.
we were insane and reveling in our insanity,
half mad and in love with our madness.
but broken boy, you've broken me, and
last night i dreamed i kissed you.
AbortionI warned you not to count your eggs
before they hatched
but you were too hyperactive,
and you had ADHD and you wanted to bake cookies.
You wouldn't shut up
about how grossly sweet they would taste
and how pretty and glossy the stretched white yolk would be.
You just wouldn't listen
and now our baskets are empty
and those cookies just sit on the counter, untouched,
like that voicemail that your mother left on the phone
begging us not to get that abortion.
Are we murderers?
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