Posts for June 6, 2021 (page 2)

I wonder how many words
I have erased in my life,
how many phrases 
I have tweaked,
how many ideas
I have thrown away.

Check the erasers on my pencils,
shaved to nonexistent stumps,
or the backspace key on my computer,
worn from overuse,
or the ink in my pens,
dried out from scratching through 
ideas that seemed so good at the time.

I bet that I could write 
endless stories and poems
with the words that I’ve erased,
the words that I’ve let slip away
to wherever the forgotten ideas go.

I wonder
if I looked back through them,
would I wish 
that I had told the story differently?

Thirty minutes lost
writing about your body.
Couldn’t do it justice.

when things go so bad
that the only things left
is to either do what
your grandfather did
and fail at leaving
this place
by sending a bullet
in your brain
or find some place 
that you can pretend 
is home until things 
stop making your insides
vaporizing in your stomach
and condesning as mercury 
seeping in the brain

your aunt’s white carpeted 
living room
with a wooden bowl of chips
that she wouldn’t even let
her husband eat
watching G.I. Joe

or

among your cousin’s white pines
laying in the branches aching
from the things she did to you
letting the wind lull you to sleep

or 

a couch in the third floor of 
the library facing a large window
with dark green trees and a muted
golden sun

or

in thier arms deep in the night
covered in sweat listening 
to them breathe not remembering
who or where you are

or 

in a car with the windows down
with honey suckle on your lips
mixed with bourbon and heat
water out there in the dark 
lapping against the shore

or

scattered across the galaxy 
stretched so thin that the warmth
from that massive explosion 
still vibrating in our atoms

anything
because it’ll be better
than where you were forged
by violence and rape
on a road
where people called themselves
good folk

It hits her like a blow
the moment
they spot each other
across a sea of friends
and strangers. His eyes

drink her in, lights
dim, music bright
and the rhythm
already with its grip
around her ankles

and reaching up,
it tangles her emotions
further. He sees her
and he wants to curse
her. But he can’t do

that anymore
than he can resist her
tide that pulls
him, and so he smiles
back. With force,

breaks eye contact.
With effort, she
doesn’t touch his skin,
both breathless
as the first song ends.

Eats the middle
of all the cinnamon rolls. 

Makes pancakes
on Wednesdays–

aims to break
flip records

in the kitchen. 
Tears the top off

blueberry muffins.
Eats just the streusel.

Is allergic to eggs. Dares
to scramble them anyway.

Picks at last night’s 
brownies. Calls it breakfast. 

I like a man who eats 
pizza in the morning. Cold. 

I was going to not get high tonight so I could write a poem that makes sense.

But I did. 

It’s been a couple of days since I was happy enough to stay sober.

I feel like a failure.

Being with my family reminds me of everything I would rather not think about. 

Thank god Rebecca is here. (shoutout to her Lexpomo page)

My uncle gave me a mini ice cream sandwich, so for now I’ll slip into a more seductive reality

filled with sweet morning kisses 
and dark red wine nights.

There’s a pilot light burning
a flame in a tower turning

a hope still preserving
for an unquenched yearning

waiting for another

Dear people,

The world is filled with finite
resources that we are literally
using at an exponential rate.

Want to panic?

Guess what,
we’re running out of

everything.

Sincerely,

Fed-Up-With-All-This-Bravado-of-Panic-and-Hoarding-and-Shock-Supplies-are-Short.

PS. And climate change is real too.

The time between

When the sun says goodnight

And the moon says good morning,

The sky fades from raspberry pink

To baby blue in seconds

You catch everyone’s eye

Like a flashy car in a small town

You’re the model for everyone’s camera

You’re the heart of the hot summer

You stay long enough

For one cup of tea.

The cotton candy sky says “see you soon”

As it passes by

(after Mary Hannah Terzino)

whispers of supplication echo
in the chapel of the written word,
where every poet kneels, yearning
to transcend the imperfect self