Fresh Set of Waders
by saxsquatch
It’s such a strange
feeling
when you suddenly
realize
that you might be
in it deep
and you
might be really stuck
this time.
At least
there’s all this
Company
down here.
We’ll be just fine.
It’s such a strange
feeling
when you suddenly
realize
that you might be
in it deep
and you
might be really stuck
this time.
At least
there’s all this
Company
down here.
We’ll be just fine.
The glass isn’t half full
It’s not half empty either
It’s completely, dried out
Utterly bare and empty
I’m spitting in it
Scraping pencil shavings on top
Churning it into a moist residue
Caking the bottom of the glass
Charcoal mixing with saliva
I have nothing left to articulate
Rinse and start over
Tomorrow’s another day
Maybe I’ll care then, maybe I won’t
But at least I’ll have forgotten that I should
I should have gotten up.
Just five more minutes I said
I hit the snooze button
and rolled over in bed.
All I need is five more minutes.
So I went back to sleep instead.
i wrote into the void
words meant to create
feelings in you i myself
no longer wished to feel
hoping my vomit would
relieve my ache
and somehow what i rejected
would disgust you.
and as you cleaned yourself
of my refuse
i’d feel better knowing i was
no longer alone
Sunshine envelops
but for one last time today;
the night is coming.
…And away from home we stray
’till at last we find an old, quaint place
to gather near, and all but pray.
To garner our good graces
in between us, all together
and truly decide, one and all
to wait out foul weather
rather than attempt to sally forth
in to certain disaster.
Rain comes from the east
the tents are staked solidly
We will sleep in peace.
somewhere right now
a lump of love is being
born into the hands of
a father who never knew
he could leak water so
fast from his own eyes
tilt the earth if
you’ve not enough shine
it’s dark ’round here
about half of the time
why, tell both sides to
give up the fight
make the nighttime
give back your sight
but if no concession comes
or you can’t even try
waste your time alone
and cry, cry, cry
feelings like circles
like infinite lines
an arrow pointing at
itself ’till the end of time
as life, itself, is
a perpetual crime
but you can’t see!!
BUT YOU CAN’T SEE!!
WE ALL CAN’T SEE!!
we must be blind.
A life.
Fleeting.
Something so genuine,
so unique, like a memory.
A flash, a thought.
A tick, a breeze.
Brief.
Something so trivial
so minor, like a breath
Gone.
In an instant, a second
a beat, a blink
And I am lost.
At a loss,
for words.
We cause
quite the confluence,
you and I.
I swear I’ll probably
miss you. I think I
might already.
i sit,
in my watchtower
viewing hiked skirts
from a 2nd floor
pealing off the skin
crusssssssst
on my arms, thinking
“19″
i,
sit,
green from trees
invading,
pupils dulling,
life multiplying,
i in my infertile
watchtower,
above coffee shop
2nd floor,
watching hiked skirts
bounce through streets
the ghost of
charlie haunting me.
i’m down on my hands and knees
with a pair of safety scissors
’cause i ain’t got no weedwacker
o, i ain’t got no weedwacker.
Sustaining life
for extended periods
is much more difficult
when currency
is entered
as a variable
in to the scenario.
If I could, I would
live in the forest.
If I could, I would
sleep under the
stars, every night.
But, alas, I can just
afford the thick wool blankets,
and I surely can’t
begin to rent
a campground lot.
The earth spins on its axis
Dark wine, yellow ochre and blue
The spinster threads her needle
Through an endless spool of colors
all that wants you is my cock
an animal that says “go! go!”
teeth bare
rip through epidermis to find
pot of gold orgasm
from your silhouette
to your bone structure
to white blood cells
i want to hold you in my hands
cock aside, however, i will
let your breath titillate
my spine, and
keep a blueprint in my head
for darker times
i will name you stars
i will cement you in rhyme
i will not ask you to stay
how could i not be naive
when i’ve not seen it
finished yet?
the volcanoes
and asteroids
and hurricanes
in my chest
this sunspot causing
all of my duress
the gravity my lust
fights against
in the end we will
see what’s left
those were the golden days
surrounded by brilliant minds
babbling bull shit from sun peak to sun hide
giving me inspiration to sit
and write every first sentence i heard
for ten minutes in a crowd
furiously trying to keep up
knowing it would spring a poem
i could hope to find useful one day
but then digging through old notebooks
i fail to find you
To write
I mean
to really write
again
or
at all
is
mmm…
I sat in front of a
mostly-empty notebook
and a pen
for twenty minutes
But
to write
again
I mean
to really
Write
is
just
so
mmm…
tickled with the scent
of
already ripe
bitter tea leaves
in preparation
of what still is probably not the last
class i’ll dread
weekly
I demand
Inspiration
not
explanations as to
why you can’t deliver
and no,
I don’t
understand Chinese.
So
just
read it to me slowly
because even if I could,
we all know I
can’t decipher
your fine print.
…But Goodness knows I’ve tried
Made in person and should by accompanied by
The presentation of this
Otherwise it cannot be removed without prior notification
Safekeeping is essential
Announcements should be immediate on discovery
As it has been agreed
By the regulations received upon conception.
We settled
near each-other
on the floor
(it was the best place)
near the door
(in to the next room)
that we hardly used at all
And we squeezed
of one another
and we laughed
(and fought and kissed)
until we nearly
(I, completely)
fell asleep where
one ought not
And she smiled and
(bit her lip)
while we drove
all the way crosstown
to where she stayed
(and I dismayed)
on weekdays, though
it was Four-AM
How odd it was,
I can not start
to fathom.
beautiful prose,
no i settle for worse
words written while
playing the ‘i dont care’ game
words i mean but must act like i don’t
words i scribbled with a knife in the slide
in that town that doesn’t mean anything to me
the one near the border of mexico
you remember
where we first discovered that people do illicit things in parks
then carve their names in the slides
mine said
roger was here
The baby’s crying
No
It’s the phone ringing
His neck is rung
The clothes are out to dry
The river runs
A marathon in the desert
With a cherry on top
It’s a spinning carousel
With horses and ponies
But then she grew up
And we’ll find out
I’d rather be in
Hotel or motel
Models?
With bodies
Of water by the bank
There’s a hold up
I’m stuck
I’m only two feet away
There are two feet
Walking to the phone
Four now
I am a cat
The cat?
Who let the cat out?
Eight legs
A spider
Spinning my web
And wait
There is a slumbering giant
Not sleeping
Awake
He is hunting
I am hiding
In the mouse hole
They are fighting a holy war
The mousetrap kills them all
In the kitchen underneath
The sink
The waters running
I am running
I am drowning
I can fly
I’m a fly
Must get out the window
Did you say widow?
She’s watching television
And hears the phone ringing
The phone has my feet
I have no feet
It’s still too far away
The water seeped through the
top of his shoe, but
the slight wet did not
phase him, as he
strode so purposefully
towards the door.
He loved to have his
key to this, his
home and haven,
just the place to
hide away from
rain.
The lock unset, the
door swung wide, he
stepped inside, and
just as he would wipe
his head, a bolt of
lightening struck him dead.
There is a poem
just beneath this surface
of jumbled thoughts
and nonsensical moments,
banging against the walls,
burning the roof,
huffing and puffing
and threatening to blow
my mental house down
(as well as my mind);
but in the end,
the walls, they hold,
and the roof, the roof
is not on fire,
and the poem slowly grows silent
succumbing to the stronger force
of indifferent apathy,
dying along with its
potential beauty.
Coincidentally, we
haven’t got a clue
what to do, but
we’ll do it. Or at least
try to get through this
fucked up bit.
Demonstrably, they
tear our side to pieces
caring less and less for
facts and more and more
for deeper and deeper
cuts in to our
collective consciousness
and,
possibly,
(and perhaps cliche’)
our collective soul.
But
I
Don’t
Want
To
Let
You
Pro
Tect
Me
From
My
Self.
And Anyway,
how do you know
what’s best for me
any god damned way?
soil sifts through fingers
as sunlight warms my neck;
imagined futures brilliantly bloom.
but should you fail
know the poetry committee
will be coming to hunt you down
and you’ll never get that last
signature or graduate because
turns out there’s a whole math
class you haven’t attended this
whole year and there is no way
you’ll ever pass the final
so we laugh at you
because you are one test
perpetually in your dreams
away from a real
prepetually in your dreams
graduation
