Ghost Stories.

poetry

We told ghost stories
while driving down a
mostly-abandoned midnight
stretch of I-94.

The truck hummed familiarly,
keeping a semblance of
comfort as our minds Raced
back to places where we
didn’t know what lay
quite beyond the ring
of our flashlights.
When gates swung
for no good reason,
and toys came on
without a battery to
power them.

the thoughts of forgotten
fears gripped us,
memories of times spent
in dark places we
probably ought not
wander through.

And without the comfort
of that constantly
humming motor,
I’m certain we would
have driven ourselves
Insane.

Conformity

poetry

Going home is strange
and nearly, almost always
leads to regression,
not within me
but within my dad
who mistakes me for the child i was
and forgets that i can make my own choices
but instead expects me to join in
to whatever the action is,
whether that is eating
mylanta for upset tummies
or drinking water
when i don’t want to
or taking a dump
at the appropriate time,
so that after i leave,
i never know how
i make it on my own.

i’m losing my mind

poetry

these things sit very
firmly like the earth:
money
institutions
the thoughtless
american dream.
you cannot budge them
they do not need to be
emphasized
we’ve already bought in
we are no longer
on earth, we are
in a country. we are no
longer a human being,
we are a caucasian male
american. we are no longer
singular. you walk outside
and you’re not a human
standing on the earth
breathing in the air
your standing in the middle
of property, names, buildings,
commerce, shit.
but it’s fact
and
anything else
would
be
crazy.

i’z

poetry

my eyes alone
my eyes are alone
i see through them
as does no one
else
i see through them
and am solitary
yet a person
like everyone else
but i don’t know
what everyone else
sees because i
can only see through
my eyes alone
you know me?
how could you
know anyone else?
you didn’t exist
until i saw you
through my eyes
alone.

So Good.

poetry

Lackadaisically we
found ourselves submerged
within the folds of our
own self-indulgent malaise.

All confidence aside, we
faltered all too willingly
into a sultry – if sordid –
Non-movement.

It’s the worst thing we
could do to ourselves,
but damn it,
sometimes,
it feels so good.

afternoon lull

poetry

strings of thoughts and things
i stand and grab by bag by an arm
strap as it lacks a handle and i have
to bundle it in my hand to keep it
from scraping the ground as we walk
because i’m too tired to go on sitting and
we talk about philosophy, theology,
life, and trees and the things you used
to make people do because you thought
it best but have since learned that while
sometimes it was really quite beneficial
it turns out most of the time you were
beating your head against the wall
uselessly discovering the texture therein
through repeated brief bouts of contact
with your now bloody forehead

i’m glad we’re standing now
i was so tired just one moment ago

durn classmates

poetry

stumbling over words stuck on a single
letter reminiscing over second grade
when i learned to read aloud and not sound
so much a fool as my classmates something
i chose to hold over their heads apparently
to this day now disgusted at my inability
in a new tongue to complete a single sentence
without a pause to think what this word could
possibly be and how it might should fit into
said phrase knowing you’re laughing
as i would if you were reading this and
knowing those second graders would laugh
too at me but i have to stand with grad students
who are mature enough to hold in their laughter
but bad enough poker players to keep me
from seeing it all over their faces