This is love..

A misnomer on various accounts
threatened, enforced, paid off for
but not dripping from the banner of the shower

Taken over by pixelated monsters
who, zombiefaced, spout garglings  
shoved down the throats of the civilians they kill

A doctor’s doctor’s doctor says holistic
shines a grin with an arm around another
postcard worthy burlesque and makeup

Placebo of occasions, rainclouds
disguised as dandelions, forgery
upon which the daggers droop

All figurines, filtered photos
homeless catches without baseball gloves
those in enchantment every minute, spendthrift

..or a lack thereof.   

To John Ridealgh

It was the dark where you can only see each other’s outlines.
Although, the tractors, were so big, so slow, I almost felt underwater.
They, submarines.
We, some sort of flamboyant sea lichen, though always thinking of ourselves as coral reefs.
Humans.
Us, Selfish.

It was the dark where you can’t make out expressions, yet you keep staring at faces 
and it made me think that people just need to say something important.
Needless, it made me think of my hatred for elegance, nice dresses, and ta-da’s as fluttered tap-dances.

Now, we’re on a gravel path trying to figure out which way to go home.
Somebody yells at Danny.
We walk as a shell, hovering, trying to talk.
All your energy focuses on someone kicking a rock a couple of times until you both forget about it.

You always remember that echo.

You always remember 55 degrees or the stars or whatever of the path you can still see.

An Ambulance on the Highway

My father, drunk in the passenger seat,
complains that I don’t take Campbell St.
when driving back from John’s.
We move up one, take Stuart
and he starts to sag,
“There’s too many cars on the road.”
He repeats,
“There’s too many cars on the road.”
“There’s too many cars on the road.”
I told him, “Yes,
there’s too many cars on the road,
but it’s called humans,
people, life.
You’re not the only one to suffer
the consequences.”

New Air

If I were to leave this house
I would know exactly where to go.
I would go behind HCA in the forest
by the rope swing and pretend that
Chris, Sal, Mike, and Phil were there.
I would sit by that tree, and begin to write,
and maybe some girl would wander her way
back there, and ask me what I was doing
and I would tell her, “I’m writing.”
I’ve seen movies.

If I were to leave this house
I would know exactly where to go.
Who wouldn’t want to take more walks?
Clear the mind, breathe, forget that it’s never silent there or anywhere.
If I were to walk out of here right now
with my hair in my hands and acne on my face,
bags under my eyes that grow darker when I put water on my face to clean,
I would go straight there but I never do it.

I would go straight there but it’s all too familiar to me.
This town is small and so is my ambition
and maybe it’s not an issue of getting fresh air
but rather, new air. Fresher air.

23

I remember how easy it used to be
to take your bike out of the garage
and check the neighborhood
and I remember how easy it used to be
to have friends
but, now, happiness escapes me
like a game of Marco Polo
and I’m getting colder and colder and colder
and I hope for a third-person narrative
to take the reigns like a sandbox video game
and 23 looks like a tunnel full of smoke
and poisonous gas
and I don’t want to jump in
I don’t even want to move,
I just want to sleep

Battling Your Cold

I got sick of you last night.
I got sick of you, and sick off you.

You were in the air, odorless, and it was only a matter of time before you would end up on me, while the thoughts come,
sizzling, sizzling, sizzling.

Hall’s suppressants are 15 calories per drop, but I could still sense everything.
Medicine is temporary, a fiberglass.
DayQuil, NightQuil, a porcupine’s quill and alcohol
Levees that flood with emotions and sting.

[MAY COMES AND ISN’T IT FASCINATING STOP
HOW PEOPLE TURN IN AND OUT OF OUR LIVES STOP
WITH AND WITHOUT OUR APPROVAL STOP
AND YOU’LL NEVER GET TO SEE ME AGAIN STOP
IS THAT ALL? STOP
IS THAT ALL? STOP]

I can still feel you in the blue of a cold.

It’ll Take Me 30 Minutes to Describe the Beating of My Heart

I realize that being with me is
like a scavenger hunt of loose bones and
cement-less bricks where you
don’t know whether to leave them
or try to put them back together.

And I know it’ll take me
30 minutes to describe the
beating of my heart
because I don’t know what it is
or how it’s used, and even
doctors say, “It’s up to you now.”

And I know I look like this
and you look like that
and that’s the whole fucking blueprint
of this little gala, but
I’ve only been tugged down
one-way streets, and it’s a mess.

And I know you won’t believe me
when I say that this can work again
and neither do I, because
love hasn’t left a milk bottle
on my doorstep for years.

Wednesdays

Telling my parents I’m an artist
is as hard for them to stomach
as the flu, and it’s hard to be
unlike everyone else because
there is just you.

Long Title or No Title to Get Your Attention

I
only
had
a
sentence
in
mind
but
then
I
wrote
it
like
this
and
now
it’s
poetry
(please
feature
me).

Jazz Series #2 (So What)

So what if I’m in love with you,
You, looking for sly ways to enter the room
as rare as a little sunflower through gravel cracks.
We could find peace, we could be “us.”

And I’m not that precious myself, I’m desafinado.
You are the Beatrice leading me to Heaven
and the house of jade, through fog and drizzle.
“Just friends” is just. Too. Simple.

And what about things to come?
Let’s avoid all the small talk crisis.
Meet me in Central Park West,
to group our body and soul and mind.

Rough Draft

I am a rough draft
of a book that I’m working on.

An autobiography: a series
of lackluster events.

Scratch the notes
near my black eyes.

Move that heartbreak
to page 58.

Make that character stronger,
make that diction brighter.

What’s the theme? What’s
that underlying meaning?

Fix the grammar of that
dialogue, we need consistency.

Do it original, do it creative
Let them know when it sells.

Not enough details,
it’s necessary for us to have.

And I still haven’t figured out the plot
but I’ll get around to that.

And not many people will read it
but maybe one will, and that’s
enough
for me.

How’s Life Treating You? (Or a Short Poem I Wrote Yesterday on the Back of my College Schedule While I Was Drunk and Depressed)

I confronted life the other day
and he said something along the lines of
along the lines of
Nobody said it would be easy

and I said why not?
I don’t take everything at its
front barrier
I cut the sandbags open and look inside
whereas others graze up against it hoping not to get flooded

Does drinking and smoking count as suicidal?
I mean, you made it readily available
Where’s my prize?
Where’s my keepsake?
How’s life treating you?
Would you show me how if I showed you mine? 

The Bags Under My Eyes

I don’t think I’m alive anymore,
my mind breathes from a scalped head.
You tend to think what it’s all for
and the thoughts make you wish you were dead.

No.

I’m sick of being a part of the important ones.

GO.

I Wish I Was a Customer

withknowledgeofthesituation:

I wish I was a
customer of
this world, I
could come and
go as I please,
take my items and
leave.

But, instead, I
am an employee,
throughout all
the painful animosity,
I clock in and
clock out,
never to understand
what this world
is all about.

Love, Leave Me Alone

Love, leave me alone.
You’re an unwelcome guest
when you come into my home.
I didn’t let you in the door,
I didn’t call you on the phone.

Love, leave me alone.
Are you for real
or are you posing as a clone?
But when you decide to be true,
please, let it be known.

Love, leave me alone.
Even if I wanted to
I could never have you as my own.
And when you stumble around
all I can do is moan.

Love, leave me alone.
Couldn’t you tell that
this reaction is so prone?
And I’ll never be ready,
my heart’s as thick as stone.