When you lay down, tears no longer fall, but they pool in the cups of your eyes.
Lay prone in the hammock of home. No drink, no smoke, no drug. Let the blue loom of the sky seep its dye, so sterile, so dope. Great is its storied fresco. Rest easy that it waits for you.
Kid I was when Dad got my nose showed how to take your thumb apart Oh, and the trick with the hats and cigarette butts How to worm a hook Bought a poetry book Must’ve seen my look Told me I must be a man Face the bullies Have a plan Double up that fist... Continue Reading →
Taken-the combings of years,of minutes and seconds.Sift and sieve,this sultry eve.What’s fallen,plasmic,into dream hands,begs of wonder,of worship,and tastesof regret and forgiveness.
Burdock socks are what I have, a-clinging to my sleepy feet.
* Mental health triggers, suicidal ideation* God. You know, I'm just washing dishes, feeling useful and kind of self-satisfied. Haven't dropped anything or cut myself, even though the bothersome cat is weaving around my legs. I swear- if he had a ball of yarn, I would have been a coccoon by now. See, it's the... Continue Reading →
You must be my Witch In the day, you are as plain as day I think you don't see me Maybe you think I don't see you but I am good at eyes Always in your greys and tans and flats Shiny swinging hair Bottle goggles to discourage the shallow You glow from the feathers... Continue Reading →
At night, the Ghost, she sang to me in a seeming lullaby. I listened very carefully and her words they made me cry. She told me you will wait for me as long as I can bear this lonely life of reverie, this heaviness of care Shown was I your happy face, your painful weathers... Continue Reading →
Down here, tonight, on the green ground, it's quiet and still, vacuumed. I look up, by chance, to test for rain. The darkening clouds sail, like a float of smoke. A diamond of dirty gulls rides the breeze, like flying M's, and I fancy I feel feather fluff and whoosh of wings
I was one for Drama, but the frame was the thing. I wanted only to be the swelling strings, the muted xylophone, the kettle drum tympanic. I would whip the most mundane into the unforgettable. Make you think your sadness into music. All in allegory of our mad desires.