lift off

the shower’s a warm blanket
but the cold lives in my spine
if only i could see
then i wouldn’t be so blind

tell me i’m not fine
tell me not to cry

the president’s a virus
and my family is the host
they pull all of their pants down
to get lashed by the holy ghost

castigate my mind
tell me that i lie

my father is a rapist
and my mother cries all day
the sun dances in the window
but has nothing much to say

i’m starting to unwind
i’ve nothing but the time

let up
lift off

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weeping at the visage of our glorious leader

be wary those that are born
into this prison
and straighten your spine
and look forward
for all eyes belong
to the great gods of hell
who filled walls
with your dead brethren
and covered them in
the faces of their family

eat love and pray
under their holiness, I say
although
it may pick at your soul
to do so
the sun will shine on
endlessly
but men can
block your view.

discovered 2

inspire my
pencil fingers
to trace your
crooked spine

write stories that
never resolve
that we both hate them
should be enough

lay ruin to topsoil

dig for something

underneath

that never

on 27

your bed is broken

and ants crawl across your desk

900 miles and 20 years

compensating for the earth’s spin

you do not move to see them

if something is not in it for you

just like the ants

when you go outside they are

there, too

the sunlight hides

all the terror in the night

that is still around you

being white is to wish to never have been born at all

being white is to wish
to never have been born at all

it is necessary
to apologize

to defer all understanding
of real suffering

being white is to be wrong
and to grovel in apology

to be born a foreigner
bereft of origin

on stolen land
with borrowed time

inheriting bloody tools
meant for laziness

being white is to be guilty
by association

of placing guilt
by assocation

on those guilty
of associating

with your father’s
brown brother

neither of whom
anyone has ever
met.

for things like this – an apology to historians

my lack of works surpassing
a single syllable seems consistently
to lead to poems with lines nearly
or at least visibly
unrelated
but the thoughts seem so tangible
when my fingers move and they spit themselves
out
before i manage to complete the thought
reminding me

i cannot think without these words
my thoughts do not form without me
speaking
farting
or writing

and button after button this
idea makes it into history.
something i’m writing
because i’m unable to simply
dwell on it

inspiration – once a necessity, now a mere luxury

mud
sweat
beers
the many words they help to conjure
rides and runs and
bitter cold
with blue sky – and snow
benches dedicated only be filled with you
– together
street lamps lonely and frozen
out of place
off the grid
mysteries
water balloons shot at distant trains
epic battles with snow balls
with fevers
overheating and overeating
the “phew!”
the proud
the in-betweens
and you

muse you are and muse you do
now life can be lived without you

Craft

Although, I trade in words,
I long to make writing my craft;
craft like a carpenter of old,
finding beauty in the mundane
and glory in the dull.

derailed delusions

the railroad tracks behind my
old house
remind me of the roads i

used
to

want to take
and how i left many of them behind
to write and to run

writing brings my fingers joy
and running brings me delusions
filled with grandeur

i don’t write too good
my england nor so too powerful

but i’m probably the best runner in the whole wide
world

when i run
beside the railroad tracks
behind my new house

my fingers are happy now
i need some delusions