Do you know what your problem is?

poetry

You do not understand passion

So, when it overtakes you,
you feel as if you are crazy
and you became disgusted
in your uncontrol

Then you make up reasons
that you hate yourself
and you sit quietly on a sofa
with the television loud enough
to dull your senses

and you wait for every feeling
that you do not understand
to slip away from you,
not realizing that they
are what could save you
all along

Dreams of efflorescence

poetry

Not even a line
To say: i don’t write anymore
To 2014, I lost
lost to fear, inaptitude or insecurity
A student of life
always failing

But if I were a tree
I’d be beautiful and inviting
my branches
perches for many a colorful bird
My leaves lush and green
a caress call for the wind
and my sap, a dizzying sunshine sweetness
gods would come fill up their cups
And when I’d bloom, I’d bare my soul’s essence
a soft luminous scent floating into space
My roots would run deep into the dark soil
a bond dating to the early song of beginnings
when the sun was young and life new
And if I were to be cut down
I’d become a chair, or a footstool,…

If I were a tree
I’d know
what it’s like to be useful
What it’s like to belong

 

Amidst eternity

*~* Alternate title and word of the day : Jeremiad

 

 

 

these two weeks I give you up

poetry

for these two weeks
and these alone
I take a break from you (unwillingly)
and want you to know, if they weren’t making me
this would never be a thing

you’re made to be held
you’re built for use
every smooth and rough finish therein
but these folks consider you a risk
and I have to pretend I agree for a time

tin, leaf, bowl, bit, and only tobacco be ye
pot would be more quickly accepted
for it is nicotine free

absence will make my heart grow bitter
I need you to be strong for me

April 13

poetry

Sometimes biking back at night
I cut across a nearby church parking lot
and as my wheels spin beneath me
with the darkness around only broken by
the dim burn of nearby streetlamps
I imagine that I am gliding
across a sea of thick, black ink,
poured over the world to cover
all of its cracks and pock-marks
and eventually dissolve it down
so it can more easily melt back
in to the empty space it hovers in

the ant trap

poetry

at what point do
you know
that it is poison
that you are
eating?

you stupid bug

that smelled
your way here
as you were born
to do
looking for
something sweet
to take a little
for your
infinitesimal
self

while the lion’s share goes to your master

it was i who put that poison there,
you bastard!

for you and your kin
because it
disturbs me
to see you
i am repulsed
by the
very site
of you

you should know better
than
to be soft
and dumb

and fall for an easy trap
placed
conveniently
within your
reach

April 12

poetry

This back is racked with nerve pain
from somewhere in the hip I think
Making it harder to stand up
under the weight of gravity and
self-doubt and all the other things
that so regularly and traditionally
tend to pile about the shoulders
and dangle from the neck

Perhaps this pain will dissipate
in time, or perhaps it never will
and I will stand a bit less straight
until the day I never stand again

my soul has been subtracted from

poetry

in my apartment

there now is an aching, negative space

where you used to be

my dearest friend is gone from me

my soul has been subtracted from

time may never touch a final loss

like a burning, phantom limb

that the mind looks to for comfort

now left there only the aching, negative space

i will forever miss you tiny sinclair

i will remember you in sun beams on windowsills

at 5:30pm when you would wait for me

when i just can’t take the silence

and when i am consumed by helplessness

April 9

poetry

I can only collect stories
to shout at people over
the din of too-crowded bars
as they half-listen half-text
someone they’d rather be talking to
or sleeping with or staring at
from across a mostly-empty room
pretending that they are being coy
but mostly just hoping they
will be noticed by a person
who will make them feel more whole
instead of all these other ones
who touch their shoulders
in the heat of drunkenness
and shout their stories
over the din of too-crowded bars

And if they found that person
oh, what a story worth shouting that would be

April 8

poetry

Snow is falling
In a half-attempt to make things
Look clean and white again.

Maybe if everything looks clean
It will be clean, is the thought I’m sure

It never works anyway,
But the snow falls nonetheless

April 5

poetry

Some men are made of brass
that is bent and flexed
and pounded with hammers and
treated with heat until
a form is taken

and it is hardened from the work
that was done there

Other men are made of
similar stuff, but laid
upon mandrels and pressed
with sharp tools
on spinning lathes until
a similar form is conjured forth

but this is a soft, thin form
born of ease-of-production and
dreamed with cheapness in mind

It is a reasonable enough facsimile
of the part it is meant to resemble.
It will even do the job it is slotted for,
more or less

One day, though, this form will flex;
the ends will crease and the lengths will bend
so that it is useless to its purpose

And though it could be straightened out
and made to serve its use again,
scrap is what he’ll probably beceome, as
such cheap parts are always better off
replaced anyway