no such thing, no
i cant remember the last time i saw the sun last night was fine but those were only streetlights or cigarettes & the temperature was warm i guess but felt more like a threat in the end falling asleep to yr voice & a pillow over my head the wind whipping up dust clouds like it does now every time i think i can conjure up how yr shoulder tastes
filling up the hump: a reflection or two
amber mood lights & ceiling fans shadows blocking shadows all the world reflects onto the window id rather be looking out of i can feel the cold seeping into our warm womb of an art haven tortured & maimed we wander in from random predetermined suburbs speaking of art in nonspecific & incorrect terms theres nothing like the hum of traffic to help lull me to sleep youve got to believe this has got nothing to do w/ fluorescent lights & whos got the foxiest hard drive my record collection could beat up yr record collection there was something abt flashbulbs and pinky rings & so much to be said for smiles & first handshakes but forever the parking decreases until its too late to ever go home id rather be writing in the dark or in the car where its not so open not so obvious but i wont bother saying whats obvious the cameras on & people keep passing by the window & whenever the dj finally drops the fucking beat it better be in time so i dont start worrying what shit he thinks he’s pulling tonight i wont drink myself into oblivion bc i dont believe in it or bc ive got to drive home & either way ive nothing to stand beside or behind & it doesnt matter anyway which direction i face id bet those snowflakes are more or less original like these name tags we’ve got this time im running out of words im running out of ideas im running out of bra straps & window cleaner yr sense of smell reminds me of sunsets and piles of dirt in broken pavement i dont know yr name & i wouldnt remember it anyway forgive us our broken promises & unfaithful faceless lies we base our days in words we cant think of our nights in neverending worthlessness & never mending broken hearts
disobedience and the moment
burying the buried
where the bonanza is beautifully balanced ive broken backs or promises & occasionally held a grudge its greivances & geriatrics my ancestors will forever forget my name i leave rhyming dictionaries in place of bibles like that hotel somewhere in mississippi like the broken phone in the visitors center like its raining in panama city like that girl at the McDonalds drivethru like every single time i can remember trying to use a pay phone like are we m-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-n-g from history like how many times can i say the same thing before everyone i mean anyone starts listening
ive left so many at the alter i think theyre beginning to form a club for courteous curators of ruined lost love & recklessness remember how you spoke to each other remember how it felt we’re fearful that the end is near & even more that it never will the destruction we cause is proportional to how many showers we take but you can wash it all away with a night of staying up too late after its all over the only thing too much is on my kitchen table but i dont have a kitchen table so why is it still here i can hear heaven outside my window i can hold hope with honest abandon
i remember bar mitzfahs & drinking from bottlecaps i remember yr name on my class notes & i know i dont have the attention span for rap songs bc i also remember a saturday afternoon to chicago i think i saw the sunrise this morning mumbling idle monotony between kisses goodbye but i also think theres more to memories than thanking them for always fading we’re often saying theres nothing for us but arrogance & eventual truths even when i wrote it all out on a post-it i couldnt keep from wondering who
first person narrative
i must be setting myself up for some kind of cruel karma rugburn ready to bury myself in everything i never forgave me for the thing to remember is that not believing in god’s infinite wrath means youve just got to do it yrself & theres no need for poetics or primitive grammatic maneuvering the only worthwhile metaphor is in regards to the way we last stood at the base of a few steps leading up to nowhere particularly relevant but i was not facing up the steps in fact quite the opposite maybe thats important & maybe thats making too much of things like setting or detail in set design & instant gratification through all the interruptions & meaningless conversations as always im left trying desperately failing to pull myself from yr eyes
for audrey hepburn and the women that love her
where weightless wondering or blundering blushing brings tears or pinched lip smiles while searching for bathing suits or card key passes i forget abt drinking i keep repeating everything until nothing or nothings left to sink in i write source code on train cars fill my pockets with portable derailers pulling dirt from unknown corners or shadowless windy afternoons
nothing sinks in like a sunrise or interrupts like diner food what was i dreaming this morning how many of us hit snooze again or i worship dainty fingers almost as much as everything abt you two sips of coke & a fluffy pillow know more than i ever could when its roll call or ringing phones open windows & unshaved legs i guess i cant help pony tails & unforgiving out of town restaurant bills or what abt that sign at the door step or which newspaper stand needs to be filled not screaming at the top of yr lungs not phased by a sunset & neon signs not a jukebox on autopilot not the waitress refilling ketchup bottles im only washing up after myself & order dessert when theres reason to stick around but tonight its gotten so dark & the corn stalks are creeping so high or this swing wont go high enough so much empty space in this room & yet the couch is just too small smelling kerosene for years in every finished basement or waterbed jumping timelines & burned bridges im always indiana jones to yr audrey hepburn im only washing up after myself bc even you dont know when youll be back tonight
this is again silence to the sunset & which direction will i drive home tonight towards potted plants & cornered tv sets settling softly for trick shots with too much english indoor pools & wandering maid service or yelling momma down empty halls
the cheesiest line i ever wrote is going to be this one: its so easy to miss someone and so often so hard to find them.
after the night owls
sometimes i dont know how to start so ill sit silent twiddling fingers over & over putting on the pencap taking it off a sentence starts & ends w/ each motion i cant keep a straight thought let alone a straight face i walk uneven across drunken matted down snow seeing nothing through these future fogged glasses were all too dissimilar holding hands under interstate overpasses sexy & swindling digging our toes in the asphalt i think theres nothing less forgiving than a familiar exit ramp or a dusty back road in some state youve never been in a rented car you cant maneuver under a mignight rain yr drunken mind cant pierce through u-turns on unlit curves what are those headlights up there ive got no patience for the uplifting & ill always waste yr time worrying abt time gone or remaining
haiku-ish
blind to all fault, destiny
can be ruthless at one’s
slightest distraction
our likening to memory
we wanted nothing more than nothing no more give us something to want something to love besides each other because we cant hold on to another less wicked wishful world our nights melt into the days we left murmuring to sleeping lovers & silver lined lepers like rush-hour accidents or missing spare tires im hawkishly gawking at roadside damsels diminishing selfish desires & always forgetting my past or my path we keep taking the wrong exit examining too much wondering who’s left & who left us standing or cowering on couches torn of any will to ever again reach out its a sin we cant mend ourselves as well as our bodies can we love to leave love dangling from a moment we’d never return to & the way we all know each other through the pain we keep inflicting
there’s only one truth we must learn there’s moments we cant return to but whats more important is the moment we will never return from
there’s not a cloud in the sky & the clocks keep twisting my shifty eye watering from this pre-autumn air im seated in the ruins of an ancient train graveyard the nights move too fast & dreams never come (here)
titles are for suckers
the burden is as follows:
holding this poem to the sky
i realize
all the world can see its gravity,
lay their wretched
unforgiving eyes upon me
their wavering
dutiless teeth grin outward at me
& say
so sympathetically,
oh isn’t that clever.
pastimes
atop the merciless snowbank
atop the abandoned emotions
rested atop these vengeful sement risers
not yet sliced clean of all strangled decisions
even with the sun at my heels it finds all ways to place itself in my eyes.
the eve beckoning us to take another step closer.
deeper into the night, our minds wander aimlessly to the pleasures of darkness & even then we will find a way to soar above any distiguishable definition.
and yet, as the sun sets, my words fail to find their way out of this shadow.
it will stretch farther along the ground finding more as the night drags on.
trees grow faster than they ever imagined, covering each thought i attempt to set free.
many times over i have wished that the day could wash away the shadow, leave me alone to hand over my sentences to you
& too many times over i have tried to send the morning away, knowing that once again, i will be left in the dark
emotions drifting into the snow at my feet with your damp finality, forever remaining the same.
the allegory of the wealthy and the silent
i cant type as fast as i can write and sometimes i think maybe its in yr best interest not to read these things that are for yr eyes only its not dark yet but we’re past the point of no return and we know the night is coming tho its only 10am and the sun is just sneaking through last nights rain and thunder even flooded downtown streets and interruptions always lifting our heads to the sound of worried mothers wishing for nothing but to wish for nothing but to wish for nothing
my coach is going to kill me
i know all my mistakes by heart & i can list them chronologically or by various themes though they’ve never varied much in that way & ive named each of them after the middle names i could never quite recall on this day in two years where will we be and will our story ever be told, left deep in a desk drawer or on the red carpet kitchen floor passing exit one-seventeen on the I-96 & i want nothing more than to only write songs abt my cats
11.14.05-ish
this night like any other & my fingertips have that same cold sweat shakiness i feel that raised me & then theres that familiar urge towards reaching out in a stranglehold combined so cleverly w/ the thought yr neck would forever freeze quicker than i could control