i write like a five year old.as we were driving, a satellite sent me urgent messages to be a home for you. they were hidden in commercials for new houses. the messages said they needed to be sold now now now and filled with people eating and loving and sleeping and leaving it and coming back. everyone needs a home. i turned off my radio because i don't want you to be reminded of what you don't have.it was quiet then. i liked the silence, because i can listen to you breathing. if we were silent long enough, i can imagine your warm breath filling up the car, mixing with mine, until what was inside of me could be inside of you. i think you would find that creepy, so i promise myself never to tell you. you hate silence, and a wave of irritation crossed your face. it is fascinating. i almost hit a car, watching.watching you.i parked and we walked. i walk too fast for most people, and it's annoying because i don't slow down. i expect others to speed up to my pace, or risk becoming a blur in the past. you are not like
i am being empty i am point byou are likea communications towerdirecting signals across an oceanto radio receivers on the other side. andyou are beautiful.there are two kinds of people in this world:people like you andpeople like me.you are like two grammes ofsodium nitrate in my bloodstream.so small and so subtlein terms of volume,but nevertheless killing me.
this is the endwe stood still and watched the earth rush towards us.the train tracks looked like a ladder,ever star a step. life stole so much.every passing moment greeted by another. fluidand constant motion, escaping from our grasp.stay close, and we are time ticking. we are passion. for once,we are not afraid.what for, you asked. why anything.your eyelashes spoke symphonies, systematic and it sent me shivering.how could i be so hollow and so full? i am nothing that you are.i've seen many dusks and few dawns.there are mountains i hate and birds i envyand stones i throw. i wish for morehands to hold. i only love one thing thatcan't contain me or i contain it. i feel electricityin palms and fingertips, and it's pulsing. it's brilliant. it's killing me.my breath is stale. i am lost,but in the darkness you felt familiarand i just want you to hold me for a while.the train will swallow us, whole,if we're lucky. look deep into the blindinglight and step forward. this is ourlast breat
when you paintI am fightingto be a building burning to the ground.you are a lover. you are my lover.you have cans of gasoline.you have matches.you have no causeand no pity.I am alight.
obsessionsstone manyou don't look me in the eyes anymore.and sometimesI really wish you did."come alive (I want to be someoneyou could live for. I want to beyour reason.) move.anything, please. just once,just for me."(I carved you to besomething beautifuland I can destroy you into something better.with a hammer in a heavy hand,you'll be in pieces scattered aroundand I'll never be alone again.)stone manI made you a stone heart.and stillyou can'tlove me.
directionas life grows coldI head for distance.wandering dusksettles on my shoulders,searching for it's beginningand my end.I'm so tired. I needyour warmth.(some nightsI sketch your handsto remember the lightfor a whileeverything is good.)
make new friends, keep the oldI have many friends,and they are lonely.They like alcoholand cigarettesand pills and powder and fuckingand they don't like being toldwhat not to do.they are poorthey are nicethey have each otherand that's enough(until they need more.) they say I'll be an alcoholic.they say I'll become a chain smoker.they say I'll live in a shitty apartmentand all I will do is write.(I ask them when the fuckapathy became an emotion. they don'thave an answerfor that one.)I say we all die eventuallyand being a writer is terribly cliché wayto do just that.They ask me for more money.I give it to them, usually. I don't care.I don't need lonely friendsbut they need me.
spaceI sank.the worldlooks betterdown here.empty. dark.quiet.my ghosts can'tfind me.this is my placemine alone.(until the day I need to breathe.I hopeI neverdo.)
soundwavesradio towerscounting hoursfor every static lettertransmitterand make-shiftladderlike fingersflying downspinesrealignedlike thoughtsstumblinglike watches andwindowstumblingand electric timetickingrhyming and lying(I lied) tied,side by sideby myself.
AnswersI don't write poetry.I just let the pen DanceAcross crumbled pages.I let my soulBleed into ink.As my way of askingStatues and glowingScreensFor answersBut They never answer.
we used to fly togetheri've got a good memory,but i was surprised to find the box;full of our scribbled conversationsand protestations (no, that's not right)declarations, no, dreamsof what the future might look like.we were young, vibrant, andbeautiful (and inseparable, once)and we thought we knew how totake hold of the future.for my part, i struggled withage as if i had a chance of winning;our battles were the talk of the town.you, you took to the passing of time with an eagerness that showedjust how ready you were to put away the notions of childhood.i've got a good memory,but it's easy to be selective,pick and choose the momentsthat i want to relive.we were foolish, confident(and oh, so alive)and we fell into our roleswith a predictability that is near miraculousto behold.i doomed myself to the role ofthe forever-child, always looking back,always dreaming of the carefree days.you quickly ran out of adventures,and set about finding new myst
Empty But Alivebreathing you in, octoberi taste the numbing agentseven on the very surfaceof your conspiracy, thisprepping of the patientthis unworking of the earthsealing it as-ishardening the sitesof future graves, forced shallownot harvesting, just weakeningarranging late-year stacksof blurry panic, while disablingthe defensive responseso much decline to wagebefore the winter killsoctober knows i'm a foolfor the dark underbreathof its dead open airthe howl of the breezethrough its night fields, emptybut alive, and so very not emptyits rhythm of silencebetween barks and callsstalls my heart mid-beati used to pray for its enginesto restart, before it hit groundbut now i realizethat there is no floorto this dreamand no bottom to this fall
decodei pinedunequivocallyfor the quillin soft shadows:the swallow's smileand toothyflightthe curveof treebowsrotting-freshto planta buduphigh andhemlocking-mebetween a dreamand sleepand sleepand sleepyou musn't worryI have foundan ink-sourcethus:a quibblingcreek -my soul!It willblossomlike poppieson the pagebefore me,myfingertipthe pen
To The Boys Who Died In Their SleepTo The Boys Who Died In Their Sleepc(h)ords s n a g cadence in codasplaying andromedawaves over tideswashing lives into over timesitting ondeadlines dead lieson the otherside oftimeand time folds like old laundry over clotheslinesfade into two endpoints like closed lines this is ad nauseum not ad infinitum adding sicknessto
hummingbirds only fly in the sun hummingbird girl,you are the sunlight twinklingin my eyes. a letter addressedto no one ended up on nobody'sdoorstep, dancing around odysseusand his iliad. the gods whisperin your ears at night, lending youtheir words to paint onto brittleparchment. you are a mysterycloaked in fragments and fabricatedwings, the taste of the universeon my tongue. if i could unlockthe cage i would set you free,but my nimble fingers aren't goodfor anything except tying knotsin heartstrings that aren't my own.
ten.why don't we sit underthe hangmans noose;contemplate lifefor a bit.watch the crows hustle aroundthesefrayed ropes, and listen to thewind rustle dirt'sleaves.there's a cool breeze comingthrough,almost too cold, its...bitter.so let's just walk away and seek thewarmthunder these charcoalfeathers.[its a comforting feeling to have life, anddeath in your control. ]
dextrorotatory doxologiesI once was a heavenly body, I think.A sharp crystal in the veins of God.I swam about in bliss fluidand rambled all truthsin new shades of deep blushas he brusquely introduced meto others more potentand livid.I felt myself nearing the heart of all matterand panicked, lodged painfullyin vein, dangerously ingrainedinstead of ascertaining thatthe truth of self is not heldbut given.And as I ventured slowly closerI posed but one query:"Tell me, what powerdo you haveto spare me?"
My Personal PreferenceI don’t careFor pretty heartsI like the onesThat are scarredStitchedAnd taped togetherBecause those are the onesWho have been through HellAnd have the courageTo keep beating
catching upI'm spent andsitting. broke and bleeding.within my memories,your hands arecaught.I can't forgetwhat time forgot.