"What an odd man..."
StrangerHey there, stranger.
You're not really a stranger, I guess.
Not completely, anyways.
We've spoken, and shared quick smiles,
Almost silent 'hello's.
I've passed you in the hallway before
And I always tend to steal a glance.
You were always surrounded by so many people.
How would you act if it was just you?
You seem nice.
I think we would be good friends.
Maybe we would be the kind of friends
Who are really close, but promise it's platonic.
The kind of friends who would run around the neighborhood at night
And dance around in the freezing rain.
Who would run through sprinklers in the summertime
Despite being fully clothed.
The kind who would make ice cream sundaes
And pop a little whip cream on each other's noses.
One day, sometime in the future,
If we take certain steps,
I think I could fall in love with you.
I could love you and your laugh.
The way that you trip over your toes if you walk too fast.
Maybe we'd get married.
Maybe we'd grow old together,
Hold hands while sitti
BraveMaybe Bravery is more than I thought.
Perhaps it's more than
Killing the villain
And getting the girl?
Could it be more than
Shooting a gun
And hitting the target?
What if it's more than
Saving a life
That was almost wasted?
I think Bravery is more than that.
Being the sidekick
And protecting the hero?
Could it be
Shooting the ground
Instead of the unlucky bystander?
What if it's
Saving a life
And giving up yours?
Bravery can be small
Bravery can be large
And maybe Bravery
Is found in places
We'd never think to look.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
The Owl's RiddleYou come and ask me,
but you don't always understand my answers.
You meet me in the night,
but I'm not a bird of darkness.
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
Venom QuillVenom Quill 9/26/14
I'll tattoo you with a poison quill
all the venom I will spill
So all the misery you imbued
will permanently stick to you.
I cannot find any time
when you did not feed me lines.
So I will etch on you all the
pain inside my skin
until the message sinks right in.
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch