I’m all alone.
I’m wide awake in the lonely witching hours, the world sleeps, but I digress.
Loneliness is a terrifying concept.
Constantly reaching out for a hand, knowing the world won’t reach back and when it does,
Those hands are covered in oil. ■ I don’t think it is so easy to cast off loneliness as just a bad thing, isn’t
there some beauty in being alone?
Sitting in an empty space with only your ideas, unfiltered, uninhibited
we burn the winter away in the bottom half of an oil drum,
cut up the tree that took out our garage in the last nor’eastern,
neat quarter-circles with a chainsaw we borrowed from a neighbor. dad drinks budweiser in his khaki shorts and steelers hat as he kindles
the fire, and i shovel the green brush into the barrel and then fall back
when the smoke plumes up charcoal black—each piece of nature is a different color in its state of decay, and i never knew that before.
1. The calendar tells me I’m a Sagittarius but most mornings
I feel like a Scorpio rising. Astrology cuts across hemispheres—
here I am a Sagittarius or maybe a Scorpio rising but I, too, was
born in the year of the rat, the rejected rodent, the mouse’s ugly
vodka aunt squirreled away for another 12 years. 2. Sex without intimacy, a loveless fuck, and you might as well
not be touching me at all. A tenderness caught in the spaces
between your cells and mine, not quite a
Last Sunday night chill
killed the chickens in their coup,
all frozen beak, flat eye— feathers off-angle, broken bone,
skewered. We took them
out onto the gray potato earth, cruel rocks and all—
cold on their slack backs,
already skeletal, hateful— and primal—gnashing
grossness in their clay bodies—
come from some creator, maybe, but minds dumb—
without a lord, no last
benediction, or affairs unattended. #20182019 #Poetry
praise be for that everyman barrier to all things too social and loud
that lets me peacefully sit and watch seinfeld on repeat
i could go out and get but instead i can use amazon and tweet
without extensive shoulder-peek and that’s why sacred is one frame two hinges a bottom sweep and solid oak
that keeps headphone-less music in and strange relatives out
at gatherings like the lock was my own personal st. michael
who fights crowded thanksgivings dinners at gates to hell
Rose petals are so beautiful when you rip them from the stem and throw them on the floor of the bedroom.
And its so romantic to chop logs and start a fire in the hearth.
Love is a powerful God that demands living energy #Poetry #20182019
“what’s ur favorite color”
ur soft words surprise me as i lay on the yellowing grass
i don’t respond
i feel my skin melting off my body leaking into the soggy earth
my brittle bones crack and fall apart littering the dying grass
the bone seeds grow into trees the size of giants
with 100 dollar bill leaves so densely nestled on the branches i can’t see the sky all that’s left on the dirty grass in front of the broken home on E. Covell St
is my moldy brain
and ur beauti
Wet azure and cobalt sky;
a tempestuous sea, that laps
against the rusted bricks. Amidst the thick cascade,
eyes catch the dance of
fragmented light. In scattered muddled puddles, with
ripples forming waves, unsubtle, An ambiguous reflection forms; I am unsure of who I am. The Clouds
sink, settle, slump, and slip. Clothes soaked, quivering lips.
Liquid pools into the sidewalks dips. Thoughts, a befuddled fog.
I am being smothered.
Feet walk fast
God steps on a broken bottle
between bricks in a tight alley
curses—lights a cigarette
leans against blood-red-blocks
and plucks translucent shards from his sole. Does the grass sob when the suns sets,
or does the sun set when the grass sobs?
The ground is wet where the small cat walks,
stalks; her incisors rip the rat into a Pollock painting. He casts a glazed eye to cruelty
as drip drops of rose fall from his toes.
He sheds a pitiful eye on the rat,
its fur matted
we break even at the bowling alley, symmetrical
destruction, seven-ten split in one of five unlit lanes, carpeted walls and a crucifix above the rental shoe desk.
there is someone outside in the car with a belt around their arm and another polishing their own bowlers, shiny and holographic
so their own face crests into two. it is history preserved, repeated, still the same scoring machine our fathers’ used, same footloose soundtrack
and box tv. the man at the counter know