February 2012
2 posts
3 tags
these days.
it is
nothing.
the parking
lots and the
schools are
empty today
and tomorrow.
we decided we
didn't care
about it,
at some
point. we will
all wait here.
it is
winter
and it feels
like spring
before the chill
of god's wrath
sneaks up on
you. whenever
the weather
suddenly changed,
my mother swore
up and down that
the world was
going to end.
i wanted
nothing to do
with it. but this
is where...
3 tags
don't count on me.
don't count on
me. this is a pond,
the woods provide
shelter and intimidate
even those who belong
here. i haven't been faithful
to anyone. don't count on
me. this is a pond, the woods
that even god could sink
into. things that still don't
matter.
January 2012
3 posts
4 tags
sometime soon.
sometime soon, they say
the sun will explode
and then collapse on itself,
all of a sudden.
sometime soon, they're
going to start building that
walmart off the
expressway.
5 tags
immortal.
forgive me if this isn't
perfect but i am not
here to save anyone
in particular, not even
myself. when everyone
else wished to live
forever, i wished to
live comfortably and
die somewhat alone,
like people should.
the american dream
is to be self-sufficient,
no? even if that means
eating yourself alive?
if i die today
wasting everything
or tomorrow having
wasted that much more,
you will have...
6 tags
the final measure.
did you lose your eyes,
tossed into that beautiful,
violent sea? how you
regretted everything and
nothing. the stillness of sound
as death washed over you,
the certainty of it, the taste,
the comfort. your skin drawn
up on the bones, stretched
and wearing thin, wrapped
around what's left of it all.
you remember it so
perfectly but with that
tint of blue faded over
the landscapes of the...
December 2011
6 posts
6 tags
i want to die with the lights off.
i want to die with the
lights off. and with
dignity. i'm not sure
i'll get both, though.
the sun will be
interrupting me
and the flourescent
will be almost
blinding but never
more beautiful.
i've always liked
the smell of hospitals,
the smell of that
fake compassion.
i would have smiled
at a few, no doubt,
and secretly hoped
they were dying
like me. i want to
die with the lights
off. and...
6 tags
anniston, alabama (what is death?)
what is death? a
middle-aged man
in a volvo, collecting
payments and
favors?
i met him once on
his road trip from
new york to
california. i imagined
death streaking across
america, the way the
ground shakes and
swallows its people.
i didn't ask him anything.
i was afraid of his answers
but he keeps files on every
living being and sorts through
them when he gets bored,
picking people off...
6 tags
as it was.
broken as it was,
we had tried to
fix it. you said i
was your first like
it disappointed you
to admit such a thing.
would this be worth
it? my heart sighed
no.
but the body,
entangled in yours
as it was,
kept fighting its
own battles, waging
its own wars with
destiny and with
your eyes and your
legs.
you told me not to
speak to you, as if
i was the only one
doing the hurting.
but would you...
6 tags
crossing some distance.
as we dissolve
into the ages,
i will only have
these things
to remember:
your messy hair,
your easiness,
your voice,
your embrace.
when i drove
through the
last exit, i saw
a plane speeding
through the
cosmos.
i think
we are all
crossing some
distance.
5 tags
7 tags
where we begin.
there was this
guy, probably
not a day over
40 or so. he
looked like
everyone had
envied him in
a past life.
people at work
would just ask
if he was tired.
and he would
nod, knowing
that it was yes
and no at the
same time.
after he spilled
his brains out
in his wife's
beauty salon,
telling her he
was tired of
waiting on
everything,
they said she
went home and
put on a new
dress and...
November 2011
3 posts
6 tags
three.
across the room the door serves it’s purpose as a reminder of being forced in and out of them, shoved or carried. you didn’t want to go, none of us did. we left the lights on as a reminder, peeking under the cracks in the bottom of the barrier. the light was a reminder of a purity. this girl is just a prototype of another one and another, i reasoned as i nudged you outside into the...
6 tags
dialogue.
he said i’m tired of you. she said i’m tired of it, and there we were, trying to figure out the difference. he said it hurts my head to be around you. she said it hurts less knowing i’m hurting, too. it was already summer and no one bothered to tell us about it. he said i blame you for everything. she said i blame myself for giving you everything i had left. something in her...
6 tags
digging in.
digging in,
the way your teeth crawl.
and latch onto my heart
or my hipbone, when we
do our thing. digging in,
like the first shovel into
the earth when burying
someone you love. you
remember how fresh
the soil is, and you think
it's ironic and somewhat
painful. don't think.
don't think. digging in,
and you whisper in my ear
like you're telling me something
no one else knows while...
October 2011
4 posts
6 tags
empty room (day three).
i imagine you are
here,
even now,
in this air.
it's funny,
being a child,
how you conjure up
people that
understand,
people that won't
let you down
until that
one final
reckoning.
i have felt that
reckoning before,
met it with those
eager eyes of youth
but i feel older than
usual, older than i think
i should.
i know that i am feeling
and not feeling.
i know that i am alive
and not...
6 tags
therapy.
i had asked the thing
if i would be forgiven.
i had to shake it out
of her. she told me to
concentrate and ask
again.
i wondered if we were
really apart and if i had
pushed you over there.
i decided not to push
my luck in asking
that.
i imagine things you
will never say to me,
but i prefer to think
that you already have.
it is something warm
on days like this in
october, when the sun
waits...
5 tags
Reasons. by Thomas James.
For our own private reasons
We live in each other for an hour.
Stranger, I take your body and its seasons,
Aware the moon has gone a little sour
For us. The moon hangs up there like a stone
Shaken out of its proper setting.
We lie down in each other. We lie down alone
and watch the moon’s flawed marble getting
Out of hand. What are the dead doing tonight?
The padlocks of their tongues embrace...
6 tags
exhausted.
seeing yourself pressed naked
against a window, remembering
everything that you love
is not sad so much as it is
exhausting.
you had asked me why
i wrote sad poems, almost
like you knew the answer.
it made me think about
how exhausting it was
to be near you.
how fucking you left
a bitter taste
in my mouth.
and, in yours, too,
if we're still
being honest
with ourselves.
i threw a dirty towel...
September 2011
6 posts
5 tags
submitted:
i had loved you so well,
and still do. you are my brother
,
i will be waiting at a
distance, for the chance
to do something
noticeable.
maybe i could write
something, i
thought.
i didn't remember
that you were
settling,
back then,
when we first knew
each other, i gave you
every inch of what i'd
hidden.
back then,
you were waiting for
something older,
friends you had known and loved and...
5 tags
as the poems go. by Charles Bukowski.
as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you’ve created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.
(Reblogged from floatingparticles)
5 tags
Personal. by Tony Hoagland.
Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—
the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,
the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me
and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.
The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,
and the weather...
5 tags
now you, too, are gone.
it was not so long ago
you were showing me
that burned out stage
by the river where the
hobos had set up camp, with
their porn magazines
and other treasures.
that day, we were becoming
the intruders as opposed
to the intruded.
we had come there, though,
for a purpose that i know so
well but can't seem to recall.
i know we had both made up
our minds about, at least,
one thing.
i remember...
5 tags
Just Say No to Family Values. by John Giorno.
On a day when
you're walking
down the street
and you see
a hearse
with a coffin,
followed by
a flower car
and limos,
you know the day
is auspicious,
your plans are going to be
successful;
but on a day when
you see a bride and groom
and wedding party,
watch out,
be careful,
it might be a bad sign.
Just say no
to family values,
and don't quit
your day job.
Drugs
are sacred
substances,
and some...
6 tags
the closeness of you.
I’m not quite sure if this is finished.
in your absence,
i have erected, here,
a place of solitude,
a fortress from
everything i thought
you protected me
from.
in your backyard,
someone said it
rained. and someone
replied, "i never
noticed."
i will never feel
or belong
or care to,
anyway,
except with you,
and that is only on
my good days.
i await your call
even though i
fear...
August 2011
9 posts
6 tags
cancer.
for my mother.
the drip of an iv is like
the cool touch of water
as you dive into the swimming pool
in our backyard last summer.
standing in the sunlight,
waiting for redemption
from a diagnosis that doesn't include
seeing your son graduate or feeling
your granddaughter's breath
on your shoulder.
she gently falls asleep.
you wish that you could stay a little longer.
but you've got god's...
6 tags
rivers.
we were given the best
of each other or, at least,
that was the agreement.
we are both guilty
of something,
either way.
having burrowed out a grave
underneath your sheets, i still
feel safe inside the warmth
of your existence.
i have tied a noose around
our mouths, so that we won’t
ruin such art
with words.
and you cry, as if it will
matter after we have
settled the scores and
the...
6 tags
mexican woman trying on a dress.
A little different that the version published in UWG’s Eclectic.
she bends easy,
yellow dress clenched
in her hands like
a pew on easter sunday.
trying her luck with god,
she wears it like glass,
afraid she might break its thread
and it, in turn,
break her heart.
laced with dreams of suburbs
and purple flowers,
stitched with tears she cries
for her
welfare checks;
and for her...
5 tags
I'm Not a Man. by Harold Norse.
I’m not a man, I can’t earn a living, buy new things for my family.
I have acne and a small peter.
I’m not a man. I don’t like football, boxing and cars.
I like to express my feelings. I even like to put an arm
around my friend’s shoulder.
I’m not a man. I won’t play the role assigned to me- the role created
by Madison Avenue, Playboy, Hollywood and Oliver Cromwell,
Television does not dictate...
6 tags
sunrise (good morning).
the sunrise is
here, in my hands.
peeking out above
the buildings, the
noise. step out into
it and learn something
about yourself, about
someone else. just learn
something about anything
and make the sunrise
worth something. it's here --
still,
in my hands,
and i, of all people,
want to learn
something from it.
i know it reaches out in new york
as it does in africa. it wraps
its arms around...
6 tags
i.
out of a thousand poems,
there is one that is halfway
decent. and i'm still jealous
(and a little embarrassed)
that you were the one
who wrote it.
i wanted to get inspired,
so i read some of your stuff
like i was almost interested,
and then like i was a disciple,
and i didn’t like myself when
i realized what i was doing.
i crumpled the paper like
i was actually destroying
something. the more...
6 tags
hands.
we break down each word
we say to each other, and
dissect it and know that it
is pure, and we think that it
won't hurt us.
it’s been done already,
and you were never one
for getting old,
getting the same hand
over and over.
then there are your hands,
they're shaking but they are
firm in their decision, as if
they are trying to tell my hands
that they are not giving up so
easily, that they...
wishingonthebeauty asked: hello. I just wanted to say that I love your poetry very much. your writing style is perfect. tomorrow I am going to come back and read through as much as your blog as I can, when I'm not so tired, when it's not almost 4 in the morning.
thanks for sharing your writing here, I am glad I found your blog.
thanks for sharing your writing here, I am glad I found your blog.
4 tags
Lost in the Hospital. by Rafael Campo
It’s not that I don’t like the hospital.
Those small bouquets of flowers, pert and brave.
The smell of antiseptic cleansers.
The ill, so wistful in their rooms, so true.
My friend, the one who’s dying, took me out
To where the patients go to smoke, IV’s
And oxygen in tanks attached to them—
A tiny patio for skeletons. We shared
A cigarette, which was delicious but
Too brief. I held his hand; it...
July 2011
3 posts
6 tags
writing poems about girls you hardly remember.
i told her she didn't want
to get involved, but she
told me that she was
going to be,
anyway.
and i was a little
relieved that someone
had gone through
the trouble of making
that decision
for me.
you scare me to death,
like i'm the one to be
scared.
but when you show me
that part of your thigh
that you haven't shown
to that many people,
i start sectioning off
my body with the tiny...
6 tags
pill.
i split the pill like
it was the goddamn
atom or something.
i was about to scrape
the dust off of the counter
into my hands, to preserve
what i knew as pure,
to save it for when i needed
to remind myself i was
still there.
the doctor who gave them
to me wasn't really a doctor,
but there was a guy in the place
that would agree with everything
that she said.
and maybe i wanted to...
6 tags
i've written too many poems.
i've written too many
poems about how
unhappy i am,
or can be,
or was.
i've written
too many poems about
not believing in myself,
or being uncertain of myself
or being my own cynic.
i've told you too many
times that i miss you,
or that i need you,
or that i want you.
i think i've bored you,
or removed you,
or misled
you.
i've written too many
poems and i'm sorry,
or unafraid,
or...
June 2011
7 posts
7 tags
thoughts reclaimed at the starbucks on college...
in town, there is this
bar with a sign out front
that simply reads "bar."
as if it were official.
as if everyone should know
that's the place you go
to forget how much you
really exist.
women are smoking
cigarettes outside the
place, casually like they
don't know they're
killing each other.
i ask the brunette if
i could borrow one,
as if i would ever
repay them.
i do not yet have a...
6 tags
one frozen tv dinner later (inspired by the...
one frozen tv dinner later, i was
sitting on a bus in east athens.
going to meet my dealer, going
about my business, just like
we all were, then. that was before
and unfortunately, this is one too
many frozen tv dinners later. one
too many bottles of whatever was
left after i thought i had barely
enjoyed it all.
this is the step below, the struggle of
the common man. this is what our
parents...
6 tags
homestead.
leave your clothes on the
floor for now. there are still
a few bittersweet seconds
we've yet to wrap ourselves
around, some we've yet to
harshly ignore, and then,
with that last look of contempt,
look away.
i will wait until i hear you leave
and i will lock the door behind
you. this is closure. and this is
closing the door behind you,
waiting until i hear you leave.
just as i've waited...
6 tags
histories.
i am the same me
that i was last
summer and the
summer before
that. at least as
far back as either
of us can remember.
these eyes have grown
and dimmed in sunlight
and in darkness and, of
everything that i've seen,
often, i regret only a little.
and even though i've a life
that's spanned hundreds
of years, with remarkable
speed, i often find myself
telling you, "i don't know."
i...
6 tags
arguments.
i have arguments with
my cat. and, coming out
of it, i'm never quite
sure who wins.
we argue about almost
everything. how it can
never be satisfied, how
i never satisfy it, how
how i try to show it
some attention but then
it just does to something
to ruin it.
don't be mistaken.
the damn thing always
argues back.
it sleeps on my shoulder,
waiting like a crafting
enemy, plotting its course
of...
5 tags
here i am, lord. by michael chitwood. (a personal...
The ribbed black of the umbrella is an argument for the existence of God,
that little shelter we carry with us
and may forget beside a chair
in a committee meeting we did not especially want to attend.
What a beautiful word, “umbrella.” A shade to be opened.
Like a bat’s wing, scalloped. It shivers.
A drum head beaten by the silver sticks
of rain, and I do not have mine,
and so the rain...
7 tags
i like flat Coke (striking up conversations at...
i like flat Coke sometimes i like it better than regular Coke sometimes i just wish people wouldnt put down flat Coke because flat Coke might hear it and feel bad about itself and who the hell said regular Coke was better anyway regular Coke should be flat Coke in my of course humbly submitted opinion sometimes i do coke when i do Coke but the thing is ive never done coke in my life but ive done...
May 2011
3 posts
7 tags
sleepwalking.
sometimes, i wish that i could sleepwalk, because then, we might have a story on our hands. and i wouldn’t even have to stop at sleepwalking. i could pack up my car and go sleepdriving. i could pack up my car and go sleepfishing. and i don’t even fucking fish. i could go sleepflying out to vegas, sleepwalking through the crowds of people who are, now, far too awake. i could do some...
6 tags
origins.
he asked if poetry
was something he
had to learn,
if he had to read
the right books or
know the right
people.
and if i could have
answered, i would
have said,
poetry is sunrise
during rush hour;
it blinds you, vying
for your attention
amongst the noise,
the people, the cars,
the promises.
all you have to do
is reach out
and take it.
poetry is the open
door in a burning
building, when...
9 tags
deciding against it.
alone is what my mother taught me and what everyone else told me not to be afraid of. they said i had to learn to live with myself. because myself is all i’ve got. and here alone is. and this is what i should know. this keeps me from wrapping my arms around the waist of often nameless mistakes. alone keeps me from telling you about it after it’s over, and alone keeps you from having...
April 2011
6 posts
7 tags
i got love.
i got love in all the wrong places. i got love way down in my bones. something more than my heart or my mouth. i got love in places where you don’t have that love. and can’t get to it. i got love like a river that flows through your head, deciding between what i want you to remember and what i’d rather you have forgotten by now. i got love in every thing i say and don’t...
7 tags
what we really tell ourselves every morning.
yes! you are, in fact, the greatest thing that ever walked this earth. and don’t ever let someone tell you otherwise. they are enemies. and we will destroy them. but we won’t use our guns and we won’t use our hate (even though we’d have more than enough ammo), instead, we’ll use our wit and our gut. we will destroy them with our words and our mouths, which do a hell...
8 tags
field of beds.
Do I even like this? I don’t even know if it makes sense. Here goes nothing.
a young boy found a cave on the underside of the city. and sold the story to the newspapers. and we had to move. because they all wanted to interview us. we thought we had gotten away with some skin left intact. but if i lived deliberately, i wouldn’t be considered original. i will run away from what i...
6 tags
trains.
the light outside your window casts a shadow as deep as some canyon across the plains of my body. i labor my breaths as if you are the weight pressing against my lungs. the train barreling down my spine running on tracks struck between what i’ve given up for you and what i’ll lose either way. we are riding this out until it’s done. and then we’ll just leave it alone.