deleting poems about snake oil
pant-less, dead bodies piled in
my closet. sniffing residue off
of the facts, and thinking about
throwing them out. writing the
letters about this period, cursing
because i haven’t thrown the
facts out the window yet. they cry,
i laugh. bought a skin cream
called “the darkness” and it
makes my skin seem ten fucking
years younger but i’m afraid
that it’s sinking into my soul,
also one of the ingredients is
snake oil. i can’t tell what
genre of humor the mind’s
assumptions fall under, and i
laugh but i don’t think that’s
right either. i think that there
is no need for searching
because all of the truth is
hidden under your nose.
turning around in my computer chair
thinking nothing.
Day: April 27, 2010
Desert
poetrythere is a desert in every soul.
A barren spot where tumbleweeds
tumble like a cheap prop in an
old Italian-made
Americana piece.
Where animals scratch and paw
the other animals’ burrows,
intent on only consuming so they
may live another day to
consume.
The sun never sets, but it
is a cruel sun. It burns and
boils the skin and blood. It
feels no compassion, and
knows nothing of the truth.
It does not rain here. It only
damps the flesh so the dust
can coat more thoroughly.
There is no respite in these sands.
Mirages hover in every distance
whispering softly of memories past,
making claims on futures will
never come.
It is here I next will meet you.
It is here I see you yet.
In this desert of my soul
I will leave you to be buried
under years of rolling sand.
“April is the cruelest month”
poetrywith flowers springing
ever which way
leading to joy, happiness,
serendi-piteousness;
all along the streets
suddenly they appeared,
as if out of nowhere,
coming forth from their dark confines
experiencing the outer-airs
with thoughts of “this is the life”
and unspoken thoughts,
even to themselves, of
“things are going to change,”
leading to springing dreams
of quitting it all,
returning to the wild,
as they cut their grass
trimmed their hedges and
kept the wild at bay,
except for in a memory
of a time when coming over the mountain
they saw a valley
filled with flowers
“red and yellow black and white
they [were] precious in” their sight
and through the flowers flowed
a stream from which they drank,
without fear or tablets,
and felt the icy cold water flow,
making their teeth hurt again
even in the memory
of the water rushing down,
down, down, down, down
through their depths
washing away the inner accumulated filth.
the sieve and the sand 