The writing isn’t good enough,
Rough a minute, maybe more.
And me behind the trestle
Count my teeth with the back of my hand.
In jail I wreck and wrestle
The filthy disease.
Anything that’ll put me at ease,
I’ll take anything please
My laugh comes out in slurps.
Of the drinks we share,
It sounds like I don’t care
And I’m fine with that.
Not me and my fun,
Your mood is bringing me down
But I’m not.
I write my poems when I can,
I draw conclusions where I can.
But the brain’s fed
Full to the outer edge,
So scouring is the only task at hand.
And somehow that’s still not what I meant.
Silence trains my ear for a hidden thrum.
I’m so tired, this pillage of my inner hum.
But the tears, in a full loaded machine gun
Straight out of me, and down. Down they come.
Nothing about this is normal.
I proceed to the stigma’s core and melt there like magma.
Debris by the river
Brings out a face in the moss.
A frailty I’d amass in times not so long lost.
In a delicate brush past, the river tells the rocks
Not to worry ever more.
“Fate will always fate,
And pain will always hurt.
No joy is far too much,
No joy ever uncalled for.
Take whatever you can take
And spray it onto the world.”
Every stroke a bucketful,
A gatefold that tells me what to do
And I do it.
Every creak a beautiful song,
The winter wool, the clothes on you tell me
And I listen.
It’s a crack but still I whistle,
It’s been a while and you’ve been missed.
Had I not seen people come out of it, I would’ve never guessed heaven was behind that sharp right turn.
There is nothing exceedingly beautiful about it, the meadow is ok-sized and surrounded by suburban working-class housing,
Yet its humbleness is nothing short of astounding.
After miles and miles of towering greenery, this shy piece of land extends its hand and guides me through a relief I have only felt with breathing.
Which makes me wonder, how can the grand finale be so life-like, so fertile?
Aside from the roundabout cross, nothing else reeks of the ascetic qualities I’d imagined for this last showdown.
Maybe the poets had it wrong.
Caught up in a dream of tyrannical stillness, they never saw or bothered to write of a reasonable Eden,
Of an ending as undramatic as is common living.
And I’ve been stumbling ever since, every day a different thing
To get me through this unlawful queue till the day when all is right
When I, had I been looking, could have just made that sharp turn right.
The canary called from across the window to wake me from a sleep so profound I called it living.
There is no such thing, I was brimming, nearing a wake by the hand of meaning that touched everything
Left and right, till all was but a big stain that wouldn’t let me die or repose ever again.
So I lay at your feet, crushed by the utmost weight of pain yet learn to love all the way through bodily restraint.
A sight of paradise is more than most people can hold to their names so I wear it with pride, I’m not ashamed to hold you so thoroughly, so truthfully.
Were I to go back I would’ve done it all the same, and regret it either way,
Because love is most difficult, and mirage or no mirage I am devoutly its maid.
Who is to say whatever comes first,
The desire to be better or the ability to be so?
In any case yes, my eye extends to the future
And fights for the reverence of Holy will.
I might’ve shed the last of me, I’m not entirely sure.
It feels as if I have, so I ought to be and trust,
Because who’s to say whatever came first?
Green horse with wings
Racing and dissolving into flame,
Then nothing but grey fumes
And a fallen star to the right of night.
It’s metabolism or a trending schism,
The reason for trauma, a held up stigma.
Strains put upon my flesh
When the rhythms were untied but oddly still meshed.
Fourty hundred thousand crashed
That night I severed the dream from the root of me.
We weren’t but enemies,
Strangers at different speeds.
Fell astray and fell aggrieved,
Nothing ever touch the root of me.
The telepath screams,
The seams seem to rip by different means.
Different teams surrender,
If you have wounds then you shall mend ‘em.
Frozen strings don’t work in tandem,
It’s physics and I mean it.
I’m sorry it sounds brutal,
At some point I’ll summon nunace, but it’s too early to be old and done with,
There’s so much we need to see still.
Let not sadness interfere,
Let not sadness have its will.
The animal peers over the brim of time.
In a supple arch, its paw searches
The visionary lake.
I jeer it off,
The beastly thing won’t have its way,
Not on my watch.
And I know the virgin thinks it tamed,
But I won’t heed her silly call.
The ghostly love within her soul
Will have us eaten after all.
So I keep it eerie, dry and in control
And strangely, it’s what I’ve come to fear the most.
I sobbed and I loved,
And both felt real to me
If I sobbed as I loved.
For small winds aggrieve me more than any long, swelling stride.
Something about reminiscing,
Maybe I should take its side.
Pull and drain till the bath is full again,
Of dreams and conditions under which I could, after all be.
Poetry makes a fool of me.
A reek by the fountain where I wish.
On my back I toss a coin and make it spin.
I make it reach the famed country of the missed, to then hurry back –
I turn round for the hireling splash.
Is that it, can it be?
Has the effort bought me any glee?
Am I yet where I so need be?
Poetry, will you make good use of me?