It's ok to write poems and put them here

Nature Doc on a Loop

I want someone to grip my wrists
and look straight back at me
I want the clock to stop,
so I can take a look and see
that maybe I’ve been wandering
for a while too long,
like a loose broken turnstile,
spinning cleanly, unbound,
though not exactly uninhibited or free.

It’s not a tragedy.
It can be another moment that wasn’t meant to be,
the aftermath becomes the new normal,
the temporary is now the permanent,
a workaround to adjust to the instability,
to help cover up what is still wide open.

Do you see why I need someone to grab hold of my wrists?
Sometimes I need a moment.

It seems like a lot of people want this movie to end,
but I don’t.
The point is moot.
This theater plays films on a loop.
The lead roles shift back and forth
and with time, we all learn each other’s lines.
One of the characters is you.
I don’t remember where our words came from
but as you say them
my lips might move too,
knowing that it can and cannot be true.

I tried to run away from home once
I had internalized their arguments and
believed they were both right.
Missouri without a car is close to impossible
a child walking down a highway with a backpack
knows there is no point
kicks some dust off the shoulder
but isn’t yet ready to be picked up.

Everyone I know is overloaded.
Their clients are falling from the windows
and squeezing back in through the front doors.
Even their ledgers seem to be near their limits.

I feel a kind of total emptiness.
The grass grows back strong when
my weight is lifted off of it.
Turns out the blades are indifferent.

I’m one weird ass bird and you are the trees
Your roots are strong and I’m in the breeze.
I can put my home in your branches
and hide in your leaves.
I have no mouths to feed,
the worms I catch are all for me.

I’m on the tip of a feather, then
I sink heavy, far and deep,
the rush of living distilled into a moment of peace
under your familiar canopy.

I can never be late here.

for some reason i've been writing a lot recently, and i really don't want to have to get a MFA and wait to get to be published in a friend's book before i am credentialed to put a poem in a public space. maybe you feel that way too, so please post yr poems if you want. otherwise i'll just keep posting mine, who fucking cares

Loose Control

Sometimes I try to put myself in a state,
call it Loose Control, for now,
where expressive results are bent into javelined roads,
temporary paths getting all covered up
and forgotten under relentless waves of new stuff.

Imagine automatic writing but more visual,
thin and slivering lines instead of language,
the brush’s residuals replacing the text.

When I Loosely Control my hand starts to move
on its own, independently,
thickened water sloshingly flying
up and around the edges of a bucket
which is swirling in elliptical orbits,
the inverse of my motions,
the effects of my causes becoming
untethered from their origins,
and yet I know that I am part of it all.
It is from me and yet it doesn’t see me back.

A forgotten mark gets scattered up,
reforms as a ladder and tips
toward new directions,
one of many landing strips,
loud movement then stillness,
a flood and then a covenant.

I make my bed and I sleep on top of it.
My heart beats are uninterrupted.
They make me live so I listen,
five liters of blood in a circuit,
all sustained without a rhythm.
I barely understand but I know I’ll wake up.

out of this tape hiss comes some light

i've been dropped off here,
old train running on a fresh sea,
with fingertips all cut up and worn down from
constant use, my newer skin turns rough

I wanted someone to talk to but instead I had a beer or two.
it’s only more water pushing against my barricades.
we build ourselves back up and see each other off at the door.
I wonder who is watching who.
I wonder how long I can keep this up.
I think about what it would be like to see you stop.

I broke your locks but fixed your door sweep.
Your car was fine but I brought it to the shop.
I made your day easier and that was enough.

Tough love, that’s kid stuff.
I’ll clean the dirt off, don’t worry.
Your hands are blistered.
Mine are sweating. My glasses fogged up.
But I still drop them off at school.

Two-step around the room.
The drums and the singing
and I’m feeling warm again.
I’m stretched out and dry.
crushed in, drawn tight
I haven’t touched skin so soft in years,
my knuckles pop like firecrackers,
My hands are stupid bricks.
My WPM is 96.
The words pile up and I keep writing.

There’s a ship that sails back.
I can still see it.
I think about my sense of humanity.
I think I saw my spirit dancing
with the one that brought me,
the thought which took me out on the town and spun me sideways,
our long naps in the evenings,
unwarned,
unearned,
walking on air, enchanted.

a moving checkmark has caught my eye
starkly black on blue tinted gray.
2 birds to the left, 6 to the right
1 at the head
a flying nonet
not at all like a Monet
but beautiful all the same

you had to be there I suppose.

Hey look, we’re right on time.
This place has been designated for our recovery.
It’s sponsored by a local charcuterie.

You know I’m only kidding
and the bit is that there’s nothing to get
(everyone’s least favorite)

What do you know, we’re in another line
This place is dedicated to making money
just like pretty much everywhere else
now that anyone or anything can be a market
our dreams got commodified in the bargain

Remember those glow-in-the-dark ceiling star kits?
Did you ever peel them off,
or did someone else do it without your say?
And what happened to that dog we had, anyway?

Some kids recreate the solar system
at a 36 billion to one ratio
“whaaaah bakkken-mah day”, old man me may say, “o kai,
Pluto was still part of the solar system”
as if it disappeared from existence altogether when it lost its place
as the 9th and furthest planet on the way
to waypoints in other galaxies
it’s still there.
It’s still cold.

Old man me complains a lot, probably
I used to think about him every day,
trying to avoid becoming him.
The more I think of him the closer he gets,
so I drew a line and put myself on one side of it,
turned 180 degrees and went on autopilot
it means smoking in the sunroom and washing down
pizza crust with another beer on the way to the couch.
When I finally turn around I know what to expect.
Old man me’s shadow will be my own before long,
a long-scheduled appointment well met.
I shake his hand and we walk back into our apartment.
He watches the shows and I hit refresh.

That’s a part of our bargain.
It’s about forgiveness.

I have quite a bit to apologize for.
He at least acknowledges that it happened
Then he goes on and on and makes no sense.
I try to listen, but can’t.

That’s when I want to think of something else.

That’s when I think about what I think a home is
What we’ve all been through, and
Where have we gone, and
what my friends have seen, their new families are growing.
It’s aways the right season for fertility,
I see all their children and I think “what if that was me?”
And in every single case, I would be happy.
My friends mean a lot to me. They keep me going.
I think if I fall on my face they’ll love me all the more for it.
That means everything to me.
That lets me remember my inner child,
cartwheeling straight down the street,
sliding, careening, skinning a knee,
getting all bent out of shape
from anyone or anything I might meet
knowing full well I have a place for recovery.
Not my local Schnucks or wise-ass charcuteries
but with my chosen family, the ones who are really there
(and don’t charge an arm and a leg and a fee,

Happy anniversary to 1 of 365.25 people, on average, we might meet
Soon the shops will open with the year’s first work week.
I’m rooting for you, from the margins.
Unemployed by choice, that’s the jargon
I’ve rarely said “beg your pardon?”
I usually say “I’m sorry?” and regret my decision of words immediately
the theater of the absurd grows stale quickly
let’s break bread and dry it out completely.

Poetry
like pottery
left me cold
as a pot of tea
in the studio

Shins

Whose thistle-blistered shin is this?
The other one must surely miss
Its criss-crossed country counterpart
If one is one and two are two how many shins am I to lose
To bracken stumbles cuts and grazes, nettle stings and turns of phrases
Sod this for a barrel of laughs
I'd rather use the underpass

Borstal sorcerers

Don't grouse on my greasy undergarments with your oleaginous jeremiads
Metastatic angst in the antechamber of Anthea Turner's tanning atelier
Hock your snot into a truffled fist, you sunny-spayed evangelists
Serve my sirloin on a praxis of half-shined rag-and-iron colliders
Billious squalls from the Gorbals bill tables while we celebrate Clark Gable's nasty garlic nails.
Slop a bucket of hot-steam gas on the coalface of the midnight mass
Sick chicks peck at plastic packaging
Dejected ingestion of a pupper's plaything
Rubber throats on the road start to rollick:
"Hen, you've had your fillet!"
You embattled borstal sorcerers

All mine were written into my phone while deeply hungover

(no match for KM's work of course, which I'm loving)

i'm just a doof in the wind, dog latin

Slow synth waves wash over 2am
It’s 1994 or 2024, doesn’t matter
I didn’t have Nickelodeon
I’m falling asleep
I might be falling again,
By all signs I am
(Each step is a kind of broken forward motion)
According to Laurie Anderson.
We can’t bothered paying too much attention right now
In the midst of the everpresent competition of the senses
with touches and smells and sounds and visions,
And on and on in bottomless provisions
The brooms grow arms and pick up the buckets
and flood their lair in lemminglike motions

It tastes like wine
It tastes like honey

Let’s dim these lights and turn up their hues
a degree or two warmer then cool daylight
The heat’s on 72
I’m sweating, through the sheets
I see you moving,
Do you see me watching
I hope you do.

We could just go.
We could go to the Blue Lagoon.
There’s a free layover at Reykjavik
On the way to Europe
or at least there used to be.
I haven’t really left this town in a week or three.
You sit in the sulfuric water and smell like eggs.
Weird for a minute but plenty-fine in a daze,
3-feet deep water, half crouch
The low-flying clouds of steam out the mouth
Hot stones on your cheeks against the North Atlantic breeze
For us it might be heaven
For others it’s a Tuesday soak
One to take off work and enjoy a float
facedown for as long as their lungs can handle it
Then flip and spread the arms toward all four directions,
The cardinals, the original sin,
Imagine you’re the tail of a lizard
Feeling left and right and centered
As naturally as our hearts beat and lungs breathe,
We’re so lucky to sit at the top of these complicated systems,
We don’t understand but we benefit from them
To live our lives in a way that honors that gift is to
repay back only part of what we’ve been given
To truly enjoy a sliver of the life
Is to be adrift at sea, at home with the upheaval

I was really sick on a small boat the open sea there, near Iceland.
We had paid a small fee to try to see a whale swim.
Now I’m the boy on the big wide cold open ocean for the first time since
his father drowned himself semi-voluntarily,
probably out of ignorance,
Out of a misplaced faith in his voice of intuition,
One voice out of many in conversation,
A form of improvised unpredictable organization,
Sorted starting with numbers a
Before the letters
I opened my eyes and my stomach went sideways,
I almost threw up but sat my way out of it.
I closed my eyes and leaned back my head
Against the cabin and the shapes inside my lids
Watching some puffins landing near a dark cave lit up
by a tourist captain playing an echoing woodwind
An alto saxophone with an unexpected soulful lilt,
A long quiet note held steady with tremolo flicks
Bouncing off the walls and my own index fingers and wrists
Tapping along to the the perfect story, followed by that solo,
the one I just mentioned.
I was haunted, what’s wrong with me, live.

unexpectedly
subtle black cat climbs the fence
leaves night incomplete

Dr. Howl

The moving men just finished
There are two of them, two guys, along with a truck
They’re dancing in the front cabin
and filling it up with vape smoke and laughing
hotboxing at 3pm, done with their shift

One of my neighbors is leaving
but I didn’t see who it was

There’s a beagle next door that I call Dr. Howl
The good doctor documents his agony
When his walker walks off to work
he yooowls to absurd length
caterwauls until no one can stand it

We all struggled with his loneliness
Those of us living within a 200-foot radius, that is
On some mornings it would go on for hours.
He’d clock in early then go back to bed
only to wake up again around 9am
to resume his fit at an even greater volume

I saw the Doctor Howl in his apartment’s side window sometimes
We’d make eye contact while I locked my front door
I loved seeing him in his window frame, looking at me
He single-handedly ruined my sleeping patterns
and I’d give him some more time, I’d give him a treat, if I saw him

Now the truck and the two guys are gone
There’s a large empty space where it was
I haven’t heard a howl all day
now to think of it
I wonder where that sad boy is

I hope he’s running in a big open space
miles away from any other property
barking and huffing and squalling
the doctor in his countryside residence, at peace

That's great

thank you dog latin! what is very strange is that when i finished that yesterday, i posted a video clip of me reading it, and almost the instant i hit send, i heard Dr. Howl going again and was assured that he's still around. I even saw him in the window looking back at me when i went outside later. it was really nice :)

the nice thing is that the poem stands up completely on its own, unaffected by those later facts

thank you aimless! you all should post some that you're working on, if you want. i've revised all the ones i posted above, quite a bit in cases, but i think it's sometimes a nice thing to have a place to post work in progress. i'm working on a decent one right now, i think. i really enjoy using my mornings to write poetry. it fits in really well with the rest of my day and it makes me feel very productive. i've never really organized my writing before, but i think maybe part of that was that i assumed i would be best at doing it at night, which is when my creative outlets are usually sparking. but with writing, i think i am a morning/coffee person. anyway, just rambling, back to the notes :)

and no joke, just as i post, the same two guys and the moving truck just showed up! i think they're moving someone else in? looool. well, i'm sitting here at the same window, on the same couch. unbelievable

The silence of a new apartment
Waving to the one you left behind and closing the door
crying and knees and hands touching the floor
Do I want to be reminded
No, but I wouldn’t want to forget

one more, sorry. this is the one i've been working on the last few days

Mary Lou Retton Skips

Look at him, skipping rope
He skipped up and down the full length of his block’s sidewalk
without a single slip or halt, not a moment of hesitation
If anything he seems to be craving a mistake
Not at all like Mary Lou Retton, you remember
a nation held its breath, it was the 1984 Olympics
the sprint to the vault pushes those watching to the edges of their seats
she launches, flips, soars, and of course sticks the landing
She demanded perfection of herself in a life full of limits
Now she’s waiting to see what the judge’ would think
Then we saw the score and she heard it and said Yes!
and we all said it together, Ten!, watching on our analog televisions
Moments like that certainly capture my attention.
One hundred percent of it, the career-defining performance
The tip of a spear dipping ever so slightly into transcendence
That’s the boy who effortlessly skips, in the moment, in this moment,
at the top of his game, when life seems so easy
His kid sister walks behind him and watches and smiles
now she’s spinning and he’s romping down the block again

(sorry, that's supposed to go into this:)

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we all are bound to be, lost at sea in the knowledge economy
I try to push back against that drift
because I enjoy being enchanted
In fact, it means pretty much everything to me
When it feels like magic I don’t know what I saw
I know what it felt like, I don’t know it all
I know every spell gets broken, I know where I belong
Every day can’t be like this and this might not happen again
That’s why I hold onto this feeling tightly for as long as I can
when I can find it, when I can hear my voice and change it

(and then figuring out if i want to include this or work it into something else i've been working on. it contains many baseball references, which i'm sure will be wonderful for some and horrible for others, haha):

When the bus dropped me off, as a kid, I had a ritual
I would take off my bag and begin the great spin
Wielding my backpack like an Decathlon competitor holds a hammer
Feeling the slack of the Jansport bag’s thin straps tightening
Gaining momentum
A trapper keeper slammed up against polyester lining
Then I’d whip my book bag off into the air as far as I could possibly throw it
Often with a grand arc, as a performance
As the bus pulled off with some kids laughing from the windows
the school day was done, the home was still home

i changed the name to Skip to my Lou, and the last part is now part of something else. also revised a lot of things, after reading it out loud a few times and hearing where things needed to be

Skip to my Lou

Look at that kid, skipping rope
He skipped up and down the full length of this block’s sidewalk
without a single misstep, no miscues, no reservations
If anything he seemed to be craving a mistake
One to break the winning streak so he could move on to something else

Not at all like Mary Lou Retton, you remember
a nation held its breath, it’s the 1984 Olympics
Her sprint to the vault pushes those watching to the edges of their seats
she launches, flips, soars, and of course sticks the landing
She demanded perfection of herself in a world of limits
Now it all comes down to what the judges should think
She walks past the NBC cameras and we see
the pressure of theater on the brink of the rink
no one blinks, I think, no one breathes
Then we saw the score and she heard it and said Yes!
and we all shouted the number together, Ten!
the announcer, the audience
everyone at home watching on our analog televisions

Moments like that certainly capture my attention.
One hundred percent of it, the career-defining performance
The tip of a spear dipping ever so slightly into transcendence
That’s the boy who skips, seemingly, without effort
in the moment, in this moment
at the top of his game, when life seems so easy
His kid sister walks behind him and watches and smiles
now she’s spinning and he’s romping down the block again
His streak is still going
He can’t retire while he’s still on top because
he hasn’t worked a job
I hope he doesn’t have to for as long as he can

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we are all bound to be, lost at sea
in the knowledge economy or whatever it is that we call this
I try to push back against that kind of heavy drift
because I enjoy being enchanted
In fact, it means everything to me
When I feel magical I don’t know what I saw
I know what it felt like, I don’t know it all
I know every spell gets broken, I know where I don’t belong
I know most days aren’t like this
That’s why I hold onto this feeling so tightly for as long as I can
when I think about my voice and who is changing it

god, things can never be done.

last stanza now starts like this:

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we’re all bound to be, emptied into the sea
in the knowledge economy or whatever it is that we call this
every droplet of water makes its own slow way to the ocean

That Dr Howl one is pure late Bukowski, not a bad thing, I love late Bukowski.

Is this thread really for "works in progress"? Cus your standard and workrate is intimidating, and personally my brain doesn't work between October and like March or summat, so when I had a Big Day opening mail/taking a walk/reading the bible I wrote this down in full awareness I will not be fixing the meter and such until the sun hits my corpse:

I love my auntie's handwriting
It is genuinely illegible, but
It swoops and it soars
Long curves, that (to me)
Illustrate: birds in flight
Messi shots at goal
and paths never took
On walks in the forest
IN THE HILLS

Turf Hill
Scare Hill
Boy's Hill
Burnieshag, Gaerlie
These are high points in my life
(geddit?
never mind...)

Bellhangie
Shoolbraid
Bogton (fucken BOGTON)
These are apparently individual "woods"
But really
(come bosie up and I'll tell you a secret):
It's actually all one big forest
(also my life is one big forest)

But my auntie's handwriting was NOT ALWAYS THIS WAY
I know
Because of my grandfather's bible
His wife put it in my hands when he died, and
Inside
I found a slip of paper
No more than like 3/4 inch square
With a verse from Luke
Bland, rote, capital letters
I would have never known who wrote it
If it wasn't signed
Hilary White

I just wanted to get for my own records before I forgot 1) my Auntie's baffling handwriting 2) The names I googled of where I was walking, I thought it was just "up the forestry", turns out I traversed multitudes 3) the tiny piece of paper I found in the Bible.

Oh also when I woke up today I found this written "chase yirsel son, finish up your compendium of left-handed bassists", I AM COMPILING NO SUCH COMPENDIUM so my only guess is that is meant for song lyrics or poetry

wearing a t-shirt says "emo-adjacent", that's also a scribbling I need to put in something

i really enjoyed reading that! "also my life is one big forest" is something i will remember, hahaha

as far as workrate goes, i'm in a weird temporary thing right now for the next year or two where i don't have a job and i spend my time doing whatever the fuck i want, all the time. it's incredibly self-indulgent and i've only getting to do it by obliterating every dollar i've ever put in any location

for example, i have a list of TO DOs that are getting more urgent - your payments are failing, your prescription is ending, your insurance hasn't started, etc. but instead i'm going to spend the rest of this morning drinking my coffee and working on my baseball poem, because fuck you only live once

also j h m i appreciate your use of capital letters and you sense of parenthetics (in this thread it is ok and good to make up words)

gonna do a quick test to see if this works, using the formatting...

Jonah was tossed overboard
    and Jesus walked upon a sea
            of expectations and Kurt Vonnegut’s reminding me
            so it goes, it’s overflowing, the need for emptiness
            to continue on as your body craves activity
            blood vessels carrying oxygen and nutrients

A Dead Armed Pitcher is Not Yet a Man

The path of a pitched baseball 
can be curv    or sl
           ing      urv
                       ing
          t
narrow or a  
          l
          l
cutt        n
    ing or k u                    arc's
              ckl              the      f
                 ing      bends         a
                 the wind               l
                                        l
slid
    ing or drop
               p
                ing 
    like a sick stomach
    having just reached the top
    of a rollercoaster ride that screams like a rocket until the bottom falls out of it and comes to the most sudden
                                                                                                                stop

Instead of throwing the ball like any of that
I throw it right down the middle
as hard as I can
My ass is handed to me in front of an audience

I grunt when I throw because they asked me to
because if I don’t they’ll ask why I didn’t
because they thought it would add a couple miles per hour
to my cartoonishly slow and extremely hittable deliveries
The other kid grunts back as he slaps a loud smack
The crowd roars because our team is away and they are safe at home
We’re 13 years old, I sucked
I got roughed up on the usual
but our team had no reliable bullpen
so they left me in to soak up the remaining innings
until the 10-run rule arrived, the rule of mercy

Pool

Movies on black and white tvs in barrooms
Fred Astaire smiles and a man plays a flute
I was watching him dance in a musical on mute

When a coquette with a curly q
sticks three quarters into a table which removes
a stop inside of it and prompts sixteen balls to click
together as they roll down a slope to her waiting hands

If I’ve seen it twenty times here, I’ll see it again
but I’ve never anything resembling this
she takes the 6 ball and puts it in one coat pocket
the 4 ball is flipped up in the air as the 9 ball is
touching the floor and now it seems like everyone’s staring at her

Cue ball in her left hand, 8 ball in her right
the green felt under the hanging billiard light
tinted with oranges and yellows and grime

She wound up like a pitcher in the bottom of the 9th
like an old-timey pitcher with the long-winded wind-up
We all saw where she was aiming and where this was going

He started running toward the door
when she finally launched it
where his body had been only a second before
the mirror exploded and the shattered glass scattered quick
as his shadow was seen down the corridor
She grabbed the coat he left behind and walked outside
with a flick of a cigarette

Later that night as the owner cleaned up
and grumbled about the cost of pool ball replacements
there was something that caught my eye
a clear view to the sky, ripped through the ceiling
the size of a cue ball, when did she make that happen
what else does she make happen
i’ll take a manhattan
she paid less than a dollar to make things plain
that’s a good deal in most centuries

You lads <3

Oh you're "on the spectrum"?
We're all on the "spectrum" that's what makes it a spectrum
But some of us use it as a synonym
For "I Act The Dick On The Internet"

Some of us get pennies threwed at our head
In those horrific high school corridors
But (bosie up, I'll give you a callback)
You can feed your family off the subsequent coins

No, we don't use that term
It's ugly, pointed, dismal and tawdry
Don't listen to me, a Doctor will tell you
But that doesn't appear on your 5 year plan

It's like Peel said
on first play of New Puritan
IF YOU THINK IT'S ABOUT YOU... IT'S ABOUT YOU
Let's just go back to bed

6 years into my 5 year plan, and I'm not where I said I'd be
So I live my life in Comic Sans, a forced attempt at levity

3 years on this sofa and still haven't got no sleep
But I live my life in Papyrus, cus I'm ~mystical and deep~

Had my eyes closed when you wrote that note, but I took a sneaky peek
Try to live my life in Futura, up to date and somewhat sleek

So next time you need to move your shit just give me a shout
I'm whatever font but Sans Serif, nae fucking about

Sorry, that one is pretty bad, closer to a party game than a poem, but this is a safe space, right?

I wrote a poem about my REDACTED but then it seemed too TW-ish to post so I replaced every use of the word REDACTED with REDACTED and now it seems creepily sexual? But in a humorous way so here yis go:

There is no honour in this town
But there are a lot of REDACTED
mostly plastic, yellow and black
how can I respect you with that toy in your hand?

My REDACTED was my father's REDACTED
Maybe his father's REDACTED before?
I dunno, we don't speak
The REDACTED is my father now

Stanley 99E, for whatever that's worth
One side half decayed, but then increasingly shiny
At the top end, rubbed by my fingers
As I grasp it in my pocket

The other side, only the tip is burnished
Where my thumb resides
The knife hides secretly as I listen to your tiresome anecdote
Waiting for the bigoted punchline

My brother visited my mother
Whipped out his REDACTED, to prove he's a big man
I just stood back, smirked
Knowing I had the superior REDACTED

And when I sleep tonight
I shall hold the cat against my chest
But the REDACTED will be in reach
Just in case

It resides on the other side of the bed
Vacant, except for the REDACTED
But the REDACTED's presence reassures me
Because I live in REDACTEDTOWN

Fuck I missed one

Better:

There is no honour in this town
But there are a lot of REDACTED
mostly plastic, yellow and black
how can I respect you with that toy in your hand?

My REDACTED was my father's REDACTED
Maybe his father's REDACTED before?
I dunno, we don't speak
The REDACTED is my father now

Stanley 99E, for whatever that's worth
One side half decayed, but then increasingly shiny
At the top end, rubbed by my fingers
As I grasp it in my pocket

The other side, only the tip is burnished
Where my thumb resides
The REDACTED hides secretly as I listen to your tiresome anecdote
Waiting for the bigoted punchline

My brother visited my mother
Whipped out his REDACTED, to prove he's a big man
I just stood back, smirked
Knowing I had the superior REDACTED
And when I sleep tonight
I shall hold the cat against my chest
But the REDACTED will be in reach
Just in case

It resides on the other side of the bed
Vacant, except for the REDACTED
But the REDACTED's presence reassures me
Because I live in REDACTEDTOWN

And that time somehow I deleted a verse break, but I'm not pasting it thirdwise

I’m out of milk, out of butter, and eggs
But I don’t think I’ll be headed to the supermarket today
I‘ve eaten and smoked, I’m partly dressed
I haven’t washed the dishes yet
I’ll be broke soon if I can’t sell something
and I just broke another french press
it fell with a cracking splash into the sink
as I closed a kitchen cabinet
My pointy elbows poked it off the ledge
I’ve been making a lot of clumsy accidents
and it all started after I started wearing glasses
now I have three plastic plungers and zero carafes

Not all messages are displayed: show all messages (371 of them)
Can someone tell Batman why not?!?
Reply to: pers-164487✧✧✧@craigsl✧✧✧.o✧✧
Date: 2006-05-25, 8:25AM EDT

can someone tell Batman why not?!?

Why he can't luv Batgurl? Why can't he luv Batgurl? What's wrong with luving Batgurl?

Thanks! kisst plus kisses for Batgurl

* this is in or around manhattan
* yes -- it's ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

164487171

There was a quiet family in a crooked land
and a series of bad hands which came to surround them
They lived within a kind of bewilderment
but thought they were outside of it
One day the heavy fog fell on their porch at dusk

They were watching the oranges and blues
and noting the range of lavender hues on view
but mostly they were listening
to cicada waves piling up on each other
picking up the patterns in their rhythms and
getting their whole story and then some
the decayed phrases phasing and fading in and out
papering over the seams of the loop
so there are no beginnings and
no endings

only an old dog’s tail which keeps wagging
every which way smelling like wet grass shavings
Come and get it while it’s still hot
A person that never really was
Their family lives on the corner of a block
You might find near the end of the book
as a form of epilogue
when the rising tension has been resolved
when the plot no longer thickens
They see their friends and warmly thank them
It’s as cold as the dickens out there, isn’t it
I guess some things never change, do they
These are the ones we come home to
the ones who have been missing us
That’s the story we like to tell ourselves
not how it really was

The quiet part has been said quite loudly
Can we roll the credits now?
Can we hear an old favorite in a new arrangement?
We know something’s wrong
but we don’t have the same explanation for it
but do we have to have the same explanation?
I remember when we did
Do we at least agree that the sun has gone down
Nobody says anything
We could all use a breather

When we step outside the shadows are detached
from the objects they used to represent
they fill the valleys with a sense of dread
and grow strongest where there is no light at all
I think they’re leading us to the bottom of a well
and I’m strangely compelled to go along with their plan
to put a lid on me
to be covered up and let it sink in
that I don’t have the faintest sense of what I’m dealing with
the window is closing
Purple and black and darker still until
the chill of my breath is the only thing that’s moving
Something small to take full account of

I’ll speak to you in the morning
the rustling wind under your door, whispering
that something inevitable is approaching

King’s Highway

I saw a dog at a bus stop
but she wasn’t waiting and neither was anyone else
she ran through the repair shop’s lot
and everyone was moving away or staring
She worked her way a bit down the block
And was soon back in the traffic
all the tires squeaked but no one honked
she weaved through the cars like
water through a sieve and
wound up west of the King’s Highway

I watched all of this in horror from the driver’s seat of my car
from the very center of the same King’s Highway
traffic rushing toward me from the left and away from the right
trapped from all sides in a left hand turn lane, waiting, having to wait,
how long could it stay green
she was running out in front of my wheels

some of the cars began to come to a stop
I looked for anyone who was running toward the dog
and found someone holding a leash
her hands were in the air, frozen like me it seemed

The dog was back out in the street
tire squeaks and still no honking
I put on my right-turn signal
and felt the seat belt sting against my neck
as my right hand gripped the passenger headrest

like thin rice noodles squeezing through a colander
I couldn’t believe I made it through
the moving automobile lines and off of it
to a taco bell parking spot
and immediately leapt out of my car like a fool
who still remembers to lock the door with a
remote key while scanning the periphery

I ran down the street to the person with the leash
Are you the owner
Yes, her name’s Nala
Which way did she go
I knew the answer before she answered
I saw it
Nala had turned off the King’s Highway down an alley

My black jacket made rapid plastic swishing noises
I was wearing gray mesh allbirds shoes
with gray pants and a gray shirt
my hair was lavender and yellow and orange and brown
I’m a complete mess, I know it
I took off, completely

She was looking at me, she kept looking back at me
while still barreling down the alley
I turned the corner and ran like the T-1000
that I used to be, for about a minute
probably closer to thirty seconds
it was a longer sprint then I can remember
since the pandemic
BC AD BCE CE
before and after
when meeting people was easy
Nala was on a leash and now we can’t find her
but I’m on her tracks, the only one with the sensor

I couldn’t catch my breath, I was panting
I went over the fence and through the back gate
there are no woods
the alley was grass, then dirt, then concrete
Nala stands at a pass and looks both ways
She instinctively manuevers t-bones at top speed

Somehow I’m at the main street,
the person holding the leash
says to me, Her name’s Nala
I’m Emma
She won’t come to me
She knows we’re putting her away
A postal worker overhears us
and is filled with disgust
We are one of the obstacles in her day
and I see the leashholder’s face is filled with bruised spots
Emma, she’s laughing and her eyes are empty
Nala’s running toward the trainyard
I keep chasing

the same landscape, again and again
the gas station, the restaurant, the intersection
the tire change chain, the telephone lines hanging over
the cars, everywhere cars, starting the cars
starting the story in a car, gradually exiting a car
everyone else is in a car, or otherwise waiting for something
This is a Thursday afternoon, this is a thousand places
this is a hero with a thousand faces
sitting in a car

I almost caught her
I was out of breath
she was down the block
about 200 feet off and I called
Nala! Nala, please!
The same words from before but with a different texture
now I was down and Nala was the young pup
more than ready to run for another hour
Nala, please, Nala
and she came to me with her leash dragging
on the ground behind her
I could see the whites of her eyes
in the prime of her prime of her prime
and no discipline
she came within 5 feet and I jumped the gun
with no discipline, I missed

I reached for the leash but it was beyond my capabilities
and I saw it disappear down another alley
there was a girl watching and she asked
is that your dog?
and i said it’s not my pooch but I’m helping
and felt so silly and I sprinted again, off

I never did find her
I was eight blocks away from my car
I walked back. to my car.
the car, the car.

I ordered 2 cheesy bean burritos
I was out of breath and
forgot to wear my mask
and the man at the window hated me
I think
I never found her, I ran out of breath

The street is cold the dawn is gray my heart says no but my head says stay

What a mess.
What a horrible mess.

The rest of it, shortly to follow.

Where to begin?

The ending started as a walk
with talk of the “immediate future”.

It started in the garden of Eden.
Adam dreamed of an Eve
and was relieved of some of his burdens.
He needed help and they felt no shame.

Dead end street.

The people in the steeple are dying to meet
the one-winged angel with mangy hair and sores on his feet
to be blinded, to be brought to their knees
once and then twice again.

Dead end street.
Dead end street.

People are dying here on Dead End Street.

Here is the rest:

It’s a mess and we’re out of time.
An archeologist digging through our wreck
might be disappointed with what they find.

They won’t find these words
long since windswept
the way we were
the way you are
cannot be captured
I wonder what I have left
and when to leave

I am starting to believe in some things
that didn’t make much sense before

I love your poems Ztbd

This is tough going, trying to write poetry in a foreign language + still keep the flow + also establish new words as needed which must follow the etymological formula. Kansky = maybe. Framty = future. Cordy = remember. I've retranslated "undre" to "preem" as new details emerged. I've wrote 4 lines in 6 hours. I need like 8 more whiteboards and a gofundme.

Foory sol kansky nunky de foory
Voo framty mig, forfanny da hey
Jully preem, sunnerary por preemy
Neme cordy tally por "bank"

So I spent all morning trying to translate "numerical midfield superiority" and eventually came up with "siffry park vint", and now I've forgot why that was important. The other thing I got today is "dalto" means "sum", in case that comes up.

I eat poop for breakfast
I eat poop for lunch
and when it's time for dinner
on poop I munch
I love the texture
I love the crunch
and when I'm feeling fancy
I eat poop for brunch

what were you thinking
what were you drinking
when you signed
on that line

they appeared in your video
you name dropped them
on the radio
right on time

how can we trust you
seems that you will do
anything for
money

product placement
paid for your basement
rumpus room

Lying on the lino, 6:40am, I'm bringing sweaty back
You walk in the back door, look down and roll your eyes
YES I've been to bed, [rapid scan updown your body] unlike SOME
Yeah, sofa sounds good, there are cigarettes there

Stop your nipping, I had a heavy day
I touched three dogs on the head
And went in two different shops and zero freaked out
YES accompanied by "Her"

Also established the bigger eggs are laid by the rescued chickens
Squinted and Columboed that out

I wish you'd been there
Just so I could see your approving gaze
And the mildest of smirks

That's how I know you're proud of me

I walked in late for the drummer tryouts
Lit a fag, said "give me a mammydaddy"
He did it perfect, I said "you're hired!"
And went to scrounge up a drink

My hands don't work right, at least the destra doesn't
So it was always mammydamammyda
Which sounded fine, but was not what I wanted
We need someone with SKILLS

I never turned up for the PA interviews
Started drinking from stress, walked the hills from stress
But I precoached my preferred candidate
Smoke? Cats? Just say "yes"

But, like, with more enthusiasm

No, not that much enthusiasm

OK perfect

The Young One says I swear too much in front of children
I denied it, then with unintentionally comedic timing immediately shouted FUCK OFF FLY!
And stumbled, gesticulating wildly
Because some beastie was trying to investigate my inner ear

Oh yeah, I do recall barking WOULD YOUSE PAIR OF CUNTS PLEASE NOT!
When two flies landed on the Moscow Mule that I had painstakingly prepared for you
But I only swear at insects
And anyway, there were no children present then

Exhaled, went to wipe my shades on my shirt
Aw shit, I'm not wearing a shirt
Is there any way I can flex my way out of this?
Prolly naw

In fact, good point! Why am I not wearing a shirt?
I'm sure I was at some point
This heat... [turn towards sun, wipe brow dramatically]
Makes SAVAGES of us all...

HEY KIDS! Did you ride on the tractor?
Pronounce flykiller like it rhymes with Dracula
Pretend to know the difference between a Jaguar and a Jazzmaster
btw, the name of this band is IMMEDIATE VOID

Spurn the GUITAR children, sus chords are sus!
But minor chords are my old friend
Who I love but don't quite trust
Not to fuck me over in the end

Sorry for the swears, all youse Mammies & Grammies
I know you don't see me as Father Material
I'll just give a sly wink to those two Ladies
Whom I'm PRETTY SURE I fathered their children

Oh, this star, saying "REALLY STRONG"?
I stole it from that cheese stall
I think I merited it
Damn, I'm somewhat drunk...

Woke up on the sofa at Stupid O'Clock
Stumbled to bedroom, The Livingston boy snuggled into me
Never opened his eyes, just said I smelt of perfume
Yeah I do, he knows fine well why and fine well of who
He smacked his lips like a schizophrenic
Laid on his back with all limbs askew
I slept for like 2 hours
Woke up to LOWING, is there cattle in that field now?
Could do with a Caprisun
Who's gunna fetch it for me? No one
Get up as gently as possible
Still disturbed the cat and the kid
The feline ran to the kitchen, expecting breakfast
The human flipped on all fours, muscles tensed, ready to fight
He denied it later, but he DEFINITELY reached for a non-existent knife
I worry about him
But I know he worries about me more

There are many reasons against suicide
Like, the lives left behind that it ruins
having made no sense of it
it wasn’t our fault
many reasons not to do it
it was no one’s fault
we live with it
pushing the glass off of __
I’ve had that crazy feeling too

It gets so quiet
we don’t need to believe
because it already happened
we saw it together

I worry that I have forgotten the wrong things
but I am happy to forget so much of it
The scorekeepers lost track
How many steps until the next switchback
They’re already up there
I wave up and they don’t see me

Junkyard kids
Tripping mom on the restaurant porch
they’re going wild at Dodger stadium
no one wants to leave

Miranda July
asks where to find the bodies
making it through life

I thought why not me
knowing some of how to cope
after revivals

One becomes the sea
wearing down the thickest rope
all-encompassing

On thin lines of smoke
lifting above fingertips
reliably vanishing

Or going for broke
fully expecting hardship
quick hands stuffing coats

Sick of the clinic
Born apart from the wild
more or less alone

Life is no picnic
it is an angry child
with dry hungry lips

Now I feel riled
— stomach is sick, truth be told
two steps from a slip

Please stay a while.
Or go back out in the cold
funeral trial

Too young and too old
I asked for nothing but money
through the turnstiles

Oh, the last time we met?
The Pig Racing and the Ferret Roulette!
He can smirk all he wants
We both decreed it UNETHICAL

He's away for "a think"
I think you're meant to buy me a drink
I assured him we're not fucking
Though we occasionally touch thighflesh

I hadn't worked out who to hate
When he asked me to "collaborate"
Threw me off my heels when I was Going Through Stuff
"Just take what you need, I hope it's enough"
You're welcome

I need to go for a stroll
Try and track down that secret grove
Sit on that stump, prolly smoke, maybe cry
No particular reason why
Maybe die there?

Yeah you can enter, but she can't
Cus this is MY FUCKEN HOUSE, I KEEP IT PHARISEE FREE
Yeah I can parse further, but not til she takes THREE steps back
Cus it's also MY FUCKEN PATH

Don't mardyface, I'll stab that right off of you
Just cus you share the same daddy as me
And a former bedroom, just not THIS ONE
I remember your sobs while I was being abused

Also remember the last time (he) was round
You LITERALLY hid in the backyard
I made polite, for twothreenine seconds
Scored more Korean gear than you

You had the better hand that time
I think?
A socio wife
I maybe pick my life

You spied my cashcard, called me out by my government name
Yeah I go by my middle name, what of it?
My first name gets me punched in the head round here

My first name designates me as Catholic
I mean, I'm not, I grew up CoS
But went to Catholic school in a Catholic place

So my middle name is safer, but then obtusely
I wear my medals outside my shirt
So still get beaten, but at least I'm asking for it

I secretly appreciate it, it helps me focus

I need to focus
To clear up something
Somewhat easy to miss

Some would say troubling
In its insidiousness
Insular forms of reasoning

Insofar as it can be glimpsed
At all, the new calamity
Calling out to the senseless

Coalition of the willing
Fools we have known
Knowingly voting for cruelty

No one answering their phones
So some polls got unreliable
Unrelenting pessimism soaks to the bone

Unreadable offenses to thoughtful souls
found in the local paper’s op-ed sections
set aside for professional trolls

Suffice to say don’t read the comments
where the point is to keep the lies aflame
Afloat and unextinguished

A fly could feel more shame
Slipping in while the window is closing
Clinging to clothing and lacking a name

I Share My Bed with a Large Dog

After I’ve rumpled the sheets
wrestled and tossed and turned
After I’ve seen you shake in your dreams
and pulled you back from your apprehensions

After the deep breathing and chests heaving
stretching and whining and wide yawning snores
After the first sun shows on the ceiling
slips down the wall, the dresser, the floor

After your nose starts to sound like a whistle
I raise my phone to check in on the weather
After you have seen me move you feel better
Your brown eyes wide open and paw pads like leather

only after that —
and after the your sharp elbows rib my core —
only after all of that could we crawl out of bed

I’d stuff my pockets by the fistful
With stones known for nothing less
Than cleaning hearts out clear as crystal
Returning them new and baby fresh

I’d unclench my fists and feel a new absence
Tension loosened like overlong lasso
The sense of heaviness vacating the chest
Like long sustaining chords on a piano

I’d tear down the dust choked carpet curtains
Open the windows and let the cold thin air in
Take away all of this furniture, I don’t want it
Let this space take a full measure of its emptiness
Unadorned and full dimensioned
Strip the paint off, every last bit
Leave it to be whatever it is

version 2

I’d stuff my pockets by the fistful
With sharp stones notorious
for cleaning hearts out clear as crystal
Returning them new and baby fresh

I’d unclench my fists and note the absence
Of age old tension like an overlong lasso
Lying on the sand and dripping on the fence
The sense of heaviness vacating the chest
like hanging chords from a detuned piano

I’d tear down the dust soaked curtains
Open the windows and let the cold thin air in
Take away all of this furniture, it’s not needed
Let this space approximate its emptiness
Unadorned and full dimensioned
Strip the paint off, make it raw again
scraping straight through to the empty canvas
The underpainting shaping the form and the content
Unrelenting waves confusing and enchanting us

Drills and hammering and echoes and shivering
We left too loudly and came home whispering

rain as a noun, rain as a verb
rain on the soaked wings of a bird
rain on tin, as seen through a thin umbrella
on the cold lake
on the cold tent

rain in 4K, osaka at dawn
rain on the drought patched lawn
rain out the game which won’t be replayed
bouncing off plastic helmets
muddy puddles on hard clay

rain so i can evaporate
rain on the spot where he lays
rain like it has never fallen before
coming in under the door
pushing up against the floorboards

rain scatter our travel patterns
slippery green, serpentine
rain filling up the old ravine
up to the ankles deep, trembling
rain make us clean

rain unaccountably
overwhelming the systems of registry
overcome efforts to understand
rain and suddenly go, freeze on snow
overwhelm the world we don’t know

rain down in the catacombs
rain drip off our lips as we kiss
offend the dead and spirits unseen
we dance the dance of unforgiveness
rain on my suffering, rain on my last chance

rain until we are entranced
rain on your wedding day
break me up then steady my hand
cover my sidewalk, make me slip
peak through the door and see me sullen

keep going and going
scare off my daylight
give us a free carwash
cover it up, rain make it okay
rain keep falling, rain wash us away

I’m embarrassed by what I might do
If you would like me 2

Everything in me is now on sale for free
There is nearly nothing I would not rearrange
Without question, quite openly
Everything within may be removed or amended, without hesitation or prior permission

I held a grand reopening of my body
And it was poorly attended
I overheard them noting that there didn’t seem
To be a significant change in my construction

I hoped the ease with which I discarded my beliefs
Would be described charitably as adaptability
And was glad when it wasn’t part of the conversation

Would I disavow what I knew to be true
If you would like me 2

There is no coherence in the center
Of an oblong shape with a wavy perimeter
Unevenly balanced and laboring strangely
Like a pilot at night with a broken altimeter

So tell me what to do and I will change
I’ll preemptively meet you halfway
Repetitively, paradoxically
Until our atoms are just about touching

How I’d latch onto your line
If you would like me 2

The old bastard pretends
He can’t use his phone.

He holds it far away from his face, dramatically
Perches his glasses on the tip of his nose.

He objects to speed. Ethically. Aesthetically.
He doesn’t understand that speed is a form of simplicity,

Which is happiness.
He is a poet.

love that, treeship

at the speed we’re going
it’s hard to believe
that an hour has passed
long telephone poles
pass through our window
keeping unreliable time

i want to be full of wisdom
like eight toddlers in a line
holding onto a rope
on a sidewalk stroll
who don’t care where they’re going
and the teacher who is pulling

-

we’re both on the fish oil
mine fills a soft pill
yours pumps in uneven lumps
from the slippery bottle
I keep in the fridge
by the milk and the eggs

knowing our moment will arrive
and it can never be too late

in support of my mental wellbeing
whatever that means
and to help your muscles weaken
at a less rapid rate
we swallow fish oil

deep sleep under my feet
i’m wide awake, listening
to the dream of frisbee in the teeth
running back toward me

fuck man, stop doing this to me!

haha, uh oh! hope it's a good thing, or at least not a bad thing :)

Genuinely, you should talk to a publisher, or at least get them out there

oh, i feel very lucky to get to know a zine/poem/art/music crew recently. they make a zine where anyone can contribute, so i submitted something recently and usually read a few things out loud every month or two. i get to play new music for that same crowd too, and have joined a couple new bands, shows coming up, etc. it does make a world of a difference to know that when you're working on something new, there are people to share it with soon afterward. i haven't really had that outlet for a really long time so i'm holding onto it for dear life now :)

nice!!

my limo arrives with blown out back windows
covered by plastic and spattered by rain
driven by a man in a santa hat
whose beard is black and patchy with gray

when the wheels stop spinning I step right in
to a coniferous interior with Christmas tree scent
where thick vines grow in place of seat belts
and soft pine needles thread lines of indigo

his grin is crooked, his sunglasses tinted
the dusty dashboard is scorched and bent in
a disco ball jumps when the light turns green
and the bumper sticker on the crumpled trunk reads

may we meet again

we were flies in a beehive
carried by transparent wings flickering
and unheard in the swarm’s buzz storm
looking for an exit to the building

we were drawn into the mystery
by its qualities of ambiguity

these leaves aren’t dead
they found the ground and leapt
around toward new homes
on fallen trees along the riverbed

those were the days
when we cared less
about lost sleep because
our dreams were frequent and vivid
and the wakeful life loved and lived in

i see. the ac exhaust pushing the leaves
my broken toe walk tilting heavily
working down the shallow slope
like a slow drifting toward the deep
end of the pool past the last black stripes
undulating on the surface of the water
but still at the bottom, the lower the pressure

from here you can see the sun rise
now I’m on a pleasant streak
i may never go to sleep again

pay what you can for a diy
electro show in a basement

the upside-down singer bit
down on the mic and offered
noise stabs from their abdomen
ear plugs absorbed some of it
what did pass through was too true
to be heard in quiet rooms
but struck a chord in mosh pits

the smoke machine shook and pushed
waves of silver tipped clouds at us
the bruise-kneed crowd wanted more
heavy chains to whip at feet
standing still along the wall
boozy lips and rose-kissed cheeks
want for water, thirst for sweat

a horseshoe hangs over the front door
a traffic light over the restroom
a barrel with a checker board
sits in front of the fireplace

on mother’s day at cracker barrel
the parking lot is completely full
browsers crowd the old country store
and behold the forty dollar snow globe

our eyes scan the decor
the new menu features boozy drinks
third verse same as the first
chicken fried chicken
early online check-in
chicken fried chicken

it’s 11 am, the server has three stars
she asks about cream and sugar
as we play tabletop solitaire
I leave three pegs behind and i’m just plain dumb
hashbrown casserole for the breakfast side

home is where

the propane gas grill
still has the price tags on
string dangles from stainless steel
handles by a freshly cut lawn

roasted bell peppers flaking
on the cooking island station

chromium plating control knobs
porcelain enamel wire cooking grates
made to complement any outdoor space
the backyard, garden, or terrace
the balcony or the courtyard

the lights in my home
are bluetoothed to a phone
sometimes i move to turn them on
but minutes pass in darkness
and notifications keep me alone
as i do chores in bluish tones
from my sofa

the checklists fall into my bottomless pit
that’s not at all like the world we touch
more like the interior invisible thick

i switch my lights to red
and the effect to candle flicker
dimmed to thirty percent
the insides of my lids are fed
a prehistoric ambience

i never write poetry but had a thought today at work....

If I was a record,
you might notice some fraying at the corners,
minor ring wear, and
light surface scratches.

There might be a small split
at the center of my spine,
some spindle marks on the labels,
or foxing to the back panel.

I still play fine,
with mile surface noise,
but groove wear is becoming audible
at the end of each side.

"mild". but okay

must be that country magic when
a twist makes blinds open and the trees sway
like great masts tilting against sea waves
limbs and trunks alike bend with the wind
with flapping leaves of flickering sequins

https://i.imgur.com/JSWLpdF.jpg

we want to play
we’d rather not be apart
i don’t want to leave, i say
but it’s not my yard

it’s yours, wet nose pressed against the window
soft dog gray ears folded
in under their own weight
perfectly old, your favorite shows

i seem to have turned into a pumpkin
forgetting how to walk
beginning to crawl in the tall lawn

-

widening path lined with
dreams steamed in cool baths
don't leave don’t come back

see the chests holding breaths
waiting for the real forgiveness
from voices inside of their heads

it’s a long walk
the way they talk
and don't talk

-

i drove so badly the guy in
the car behind me said
what is wrong with America

-

butter soaked texas toast
lands on the pan
and starts to sizzle

garlic in oil, old water boils
a cup of hot tea
with honey drizzles

your hands are candles
aloft and soft
tapered and chiseled

your warmth melts me

real slow out the window
part-time barflies
do fine on bells and whistles

https://i.imgur.com/oRWoRcI.jpg

shovels in the
sky marine blue
bleed viridian green
on the treetop canopy

at a glance it’s broccoli

feed the thirsty vampire kid
popping wheelies in the backyard
hoping somebody is watching

the puddle waves are parting
as they swerve through to get the wheels wet
and leave tire tracks in the garden

riding pegs in the sunset
in a straight-leg kneelocked stance
matched by their fading silhouettes

tucked in shoelaces and rolled up pants
why hold onto anything
don’t forget to give it back

if I knew how to act
I’d sell a million books and a half

I read what you write instead

if i knew what was wrong
i’d make it right if i could

i wonder if i’m in over my head

hallelujah for the stars
thank you for being here
for being exactly who you are

thank you for making my cheeks go red

when he sang the dictionary
— bless his heart
it landed spot on
in parts of brain waves
that are hard to make much sense of
but still, lodged in there all the same

long after, the echoes of his words
bounced around in our thoughts
the high F to the low G
impressing us asynchronously
to the day of his performance
lulling and surging independently
of the original occurrence

my memory of it kept changing
until it no longer resembled his song
and i no longer believed what i thought

he might have sung the telephone book
the addresses, phone numbers, and zip codes
he would convert each line to a melody
and belt out the surname especially loudly

i believe he may have been the first
to sing the world book encyclopedia, 1997
just the last paragraphs of each entry
he told me but i no longer remember clearly

critical update:

~bless his heart

when he sang the dictionary
it burrowed into parts of neurons
that are hard to make much sense of
but still, lodged in there, spot on

i'm told he sang the telephone book
the addresses, phone numbers, and zip codes
converting each line to a melody
and belting out the surnames especially loudly

i believe he may have been the first
to sing the world book encyclopedia, 1997
only the last paragraph of each entry
he told me much more than i could ever
trust myself to accurately remember

long afterward, the echoes of his music
bounced around in our thoughts
the high F to the low G
impressing us asynchronously
to the day of his performance
tunefully lulling and surging independently
of the origins of their occurrence

the sounds in my memories kept changing
until they no longer resembled his song
and i no longer believed in what i thought
i'd heard so clearly

Reading in the morning
Reading at night
Reading old books
Reading new books
Reading on the bus
Reading on the train
Reading on the stairs
Reading

People
Wherever you go
People

still writing a bunch! here are some that i wrote a while back and still like:

i can play most songs
if you give me a minute
lumped in the tub
filled to the brim
watching the shows
stretching my toes
swirling the suds

here’s the life cord
wrapped to your wrist
it gives us the minute

here on the soft downy
lawn of the back of your head
we don’t check the weather
so much as stepping so lightly
shaking like an overwhelmed witness
speaking of growth of goodness
please come home now
and make your nest

when it’s warmest
we paint each other’s dreams

-

what is wrong
the words i chose
when is the show
don’t stay long

squinting in the parking lot
waiting on a shoe to drop

who are you
frozen august
ill and dogged
tried and true

torn up tickets at the gate
laminated student rates

don’t be mine
no good money
unbecoming
until the time

to arrive in the smoky glow
of unknowing unraveling

-

you had hardly knocked when I said come on in
wrap yourself up in my heavy blanket
it was a gift
we can share it

i lifted the fabric
up and over our heads
from the darkness we peered out
through crocheted stitches
in air which was warm and thick

we were furniture
for a long time it was like this

the leaves try to fly
for the first and last time

i like you as you are
sunset landing from afar
i like what you’ve run into
and how it changes

--

things i do now that i know you

i make sound effects when i walk
i keep my right foot planted and pivot around
i stretch my arms long to reach the ground
up coffee and when i pour it say “pew pew!”

https://i.imgur.com/lApSyFV.jpg

I think you’ve got about 10 poems there bro

i didn't even post the others! there were like 30 poems there

limbo is a container for time
where one waits for godot
and knows how low one can go
how long one can hold onto
a breath before it hurts in the chest
with pinprick moments of silence
hanging in the upper halves of windows
like potted plants watching gardens
glow in the twilight, wanting to know

https://i.imgur.com/1J4OtLS.gif