I Want Out
by David X. Hugo
i should have known
that they run you through
a filter every goddamn
day until you taste
pleasant enough to sip
’til you live dead enough
sit.
i should have known
that they run you through
a filter every goddamn
day until you taste
pleasant enough to sip
’til you live dead enough
sit.
Pulling out the
scratch-pad
to take notes on a
passing fancy
takes too damn long
to bother with,
despite the fact that
that’s why we’ve got ‘em
any damn way.
But we’ll carry
the thing
everywhere and
whenever we want to
look important or
look too busy to bother or
look like
we know
something
that we don’t
Out it comes.
Sometimes with a
fancy pen too.
pride fills my lungs (not air)
as i descend these steps (no elevator)
holding stacks of books (no backpack)
at arms length
at waist height
thinking how much i’ll learn (i know so little)
if i can plow through these (likely I wont)
line after line (not page by page)
of language i dont understand (its all tahitian to me)
as i write
as i read
lacking comprehension
eternally standing on the cusp of brilliance
never jumping
it just becomes so hard
to not throw in the towel
I suppose, but I
don’t understand
how anyone could
bring themselves
to do it.
After all,
you’re throwing away
a perfectly good towel.
Far footsteps falling
Play cat and mouse with silence
Whilst the candles burn.
put the towel on the rack
let the steam create him
as a mold
contemplate space and time
and how he can never get
it back
wishes he could go back
just to watch or give
advice
wishes he could sieze
the day and practice what
he preaches.
And me and Rob
would go driving on
two gallons of gas
with no where to go
we didn’t have a phone
we’d just drive and hope
that something
would happen
to keep us
occupied
for a couple more hours
until we got sick of
wandering around the middle school
and looking at instruments
we couldn’t afford
and finally had to
head home
where we’d sit in the alley
’till the cops came and
threatened to arrest us
if they saw us there again.
Those were the days.
i’m buried
deep in the ground
in darkness and doubt
reaching and breathing
dirt
but knowing there’s
something inside
fed by faith that
will be born when the
time comes bursting
through this brittle
shell shedding
this heavy skin emerging
into the atmosphere until
it blocks the moon creating
a new day from night
its leaves the sky its petals
the clouds its sweet center
smelling of mango
shining salvation.
all of you can rot in hell
‘cuz i know i’m right
about how little potential
really matters in the end
yeah i’m on top of the fucking
world and i aint comin’ down
for shit
all of you can keep throwing
your bricks about the height
of grass, we don’t need
any more carbon dioxide
yeah i dropped the box
and can see circles and
triangles
lovebitch why don’t you come over here and set me free i don’t want your sister’s disease i just want to kill kill kill kill kill
i just want to kill kill kill
First time for everything.
Don’t slip and fall and die.
But then,
there’s a first time for everything.
watching my man talk,
i felt a sense of pride
not because i believed
but because i liked
the way he talked
(and perhaps the way he walked)
and how there was no fear
to be disagreed with
so long as the conversation
kept truckin on.
old wives tales
heading advice we know is garbage
and choosing to wear sweaters
just because our mothers are cold
eating apples obsessively
because of embarrassing rhymes
unworthy of even the worst poetry
books
and brushing our teeth for three
whole minutes for reasons we remember not
but surely have something to do
with some sort of film of black and white
cartoon
narrated by our grandfathers
but forgetting all along
our bodies (be they ours or someone else’s)
still end up in dust
and mold eaten by that which even
we would not dare to eat
whether you help us out or not
we’re only postponing our inevitable
trips to that eternal golf course above
I’ll drink the orange juice
from the jug
and I’ll eat too much
cheese on my sandwich
and I’ll probably leave
the bread bag untied
and open on the counter
but I promise
I still love everyone.
watching you
i remember the promise
that you once possessed,
now squandered and broken,
lying on the floor in pain
like a girl regretting
her thrown away virginity,
like you regret
your loss of purpose,
like i regret
the loss of my way.
why would you kill yourself
over the same thing again?
those smiles look so good
from a distance, just like
everything else. there’s
nowhere you can get where
you wont be and there’s
nothing you can see that
you can’t see and there’s
no one you’ve met that
you haven’t torn to pieces.
and if you take the pill
it will just dissolve
in your stomach like
all the rest. just
like
all
the
rest. and you know how
much you hate all the rest.
visit after visit after visit
to lou.
you’d think he’d get mad
with people crapping all over
him
and i just keep wondering
with this much water coming
from back there
why do i pee afterwards?
hersheys squirts
we’re not friends anymore
like a drowning man
coming up for air i
step out of this building
and into winter’s sharp
wind dying to breathe
you in.
We assume it’s only damaged nerves
but there’s no good way to be dead sure
just stick your hand back in the fire
and tell me what you feel
So if it burns you’ll be alright
we’ll only keep you over night
but if you don’t feel anything
at least we’ll know the deal
but either way,
we’ll be able to tell by the
horrified look on your face
while i don’t know all the details,
i do know you weren’t supposed
to be there
nay
you were never invited
and that weed they slipped in
your pipe is the reason for your
blissful buzz
But if all the things
you ever weather
end up less then
fair,
consider me your
foul-weather-friend.
And I’ll tie me to
the mast with you.
they told me it’s rules
you have to
and slapped it on my face
it’s not my fault
i’ve been crawling in it
and still don’t quite get it
but you, you seem fine
with everything constrained
you make it work
she makes it roll off
her shoulders
and i’d like to know how
she keeps the soldiers
at bay–
with lips
like that;
and the subtlest breeze
knocks me down
where i walk upside down
and you, well
you’re oh so small
in this wonderland.
cant find the thoughts i left
in the room next to your kitchen
which i hesitate to call dining
or even den given the state its in
and the disarray is distracting
at best knowing i should have
written on something more robust
than a napkin thus making me
downright mad i was interacting
with such a face as yours
in such as house as yours
over such thoughts as yours
Scarcely do I find myself
volatile enough to spew
ichor from both my ends
at once.
Usually, it’s only one
or the other.
But recently, i’ve
been paying attention to
your technique.
Watch this.
I can walk in to
the same damn
conversation
three days out of
the week,
but even after
hearing the same
stupid arguments
over and over and
over and over and
over again,
I still have no idea
what we’re yelling about.
cage that free bird
you
miniature man
lock him up
business is good
they bring you
things on silver
platters
nevermind that
you could pick
those berries
yourself
nevermind the
virtue of patience,
staring at the
earth from your
plush palace,
a few aesthetic
degrees of separation
for comfort.
Let’s look together for the crest of our youth
Helsinki’s crinel, neither green nor gray
dancing into the winter’s wind.
Our parched skins seeking barmaids and wine carafes
cheap and full.
Nailed to the bar, we consummed our moons
whirling in the night.
Shattered and lost among the familiar alleys
we jumped on the wet pavements
dredging for gold.
“I thought I heard an aeroplane
it must’ve been just the breeze”
And that
Thought
Worries me.
Just the breeze. Just the
single most inherently
powerful thing that
touches us every day, but
we don’t even know it.
In the breadth of a single
instant, it could simply
decide to knock a car off
a bridge.
It could blow me apart.
It could blow us apart.
It has blown us apart.
And that
terrifies me.
But why worry so much?
After all
“It’s just the breeze.”
your finger finds the puff of
lint fallen from my pocket aged to
perfection through long hours
tumbling round my fingers gathering
tiny pieces of paper and fingernail
fungus never resting even
while being washed seeking lint
from new shirts gathered over
time slowing nearly stopping
aging growing happily
knowing full well it will escape
to my carpet and become an
object of crawling causing
desire for my daughter
