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Literature Text
written on the back
of the fame poetic dream—
all the constants
& consonants rolling up
on their numbers.
I can see you on Main
with your pseudo-kowski
speaking fuel—
lubricant of social
sociology—
& I cannot fault
a fellow
outlaw in the land
of pissed off water
ed down interactions,
a hard modernity
w/o a place of home
between the psycho
alpha males & spitting
women w/their candy
flavored lips, the disconnect
in connection now.
I was my own aspiring
alcoholic a few years
back of a card wheel
spinning black & red
rites of passage—
holding vodka hostage
in the freezer
stomach.
we’re not looking for
Pulitzer to raise his
wobbly head & take in
the acidity of everything
we’ve never known
how to do except in words—
to be accosted with paper
bills,
green not pink
for me please,
all those final notices
in their eyes
unpaid
& we don’t want
to be famous drunks,
we just want to cocktail
the literary world & minds
in Molotov.
& on my own Main St.
it’s dark as leather
& rough as black
when I think of your
wine-leadened head
talking to the garbage
how I never could.
& how the world still
burns at both ends
despite itself.
of the fame poetic dream—
all the constants
& consonants rolling up
on their numbers.
I can see you on Main
with your pseudo-kowski
speaking fuel—
lubricant of social
sociology—
& I cannot fault
a fellow
outlaw in the land
of pissed off water
ed down interactions,
a hard modernity
w/o a place of home
between the psycho
alpha males & spitting
women w/their candy
flavored lips, the disconnect
in connection now.
I was my own aspiring
alcoholic a few years
back of a card wheel
spinning black & red
rites of passage—
holding vodka hostage
in the freezer
stomach.
we’re not looking for
Pulitzer to raise his
wobbly head & take in
the acidity of everything
we’ve never known
how to do except in words—
to be accosted with paper
bills,
green not pink
for me please,
all those final notices
in their eyes
unpaid
& we don’t want
to be famous drunks,
we just want to cocktail
the literary world & minds
in Molotov.
& on my own Main St.
it’s dark as leather
& rough as black
when I think of your
wine-leadened head
talking to the garbage
how I never could.
& how the world still
burns at both ends
despite itself.
Literature
Everything I Can Never Say
I open my mouth to tell you;
close it.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
I'm faced with a challenging problem,
can't even begin to tell you--
And I know, baby, that I can tell you anything--
something that cannot be said
in three words?
I struggle with this everyday;
Telling you my heart is afloat,
in boats, on oceans, through turbulent storms
(Not really, but the feeling is indescribable).
You see,
I feel like I've known you for years;
being with you is like coming home.
The feeling of slipping my fingers into yours
Isn't anything new.
no- it's a rejoining of self;
My soul finding it's mate, in
Literature
You say you love me
You say you love to hear me ramble, yet you always cut me off.
You say you want a future with me, yet you see no future for yourself.
You say you love to make me smile, yet you always make me cry.
Literature
love your mistakes
I've fumbled around with hearts before,
and let them fall. Cracked fingernails, walked into
doorframes, bumped into people and hesitated too long
to open my mouth. Moments passed me by, often.
Occasionally, I was brave, and fell hard on my nose.
Was bleeding and embarrassed for the pain;
and the proof of it, the blood.
Said "sorry, but," or didn't say sorry at all, ate my feelings
or starved myself for them, carried my guilt around with me
until it made me sick and lose my appetite,
drowned my hand soap in the toilet,
didn't stretch after exercise and was sore for days,
kept my distance to those reaching out to me.
Pushed my pain asid
Suggested Collections
written 9/5
about someone i don't even
talk to anymore
b/c evidently
when you don't allow
someone to insult you
b/c they're hurt by someone else
you're the asshole.
zero fucks to give.
this is basically word masturbation.
but it is a poem. kind of. in a rough way.
i've given up on trying to do poems.
inspired after reading
Poem To The Freaks by Jack Micheline.
read it.
here.
onceliving.blogspot.com/2010/0…
about someone i don't even
talk to anymore
b/c evidently
when you don't allow
someone to insult you
b/c they're hurt by someone else
you're the asshole.
zero fucks to give.
this is basically word masturbation.
but it is a poem. kind of. in a rough way.
i've given up on trying to do poems.
inspired after reading
Poem To The Freaks by Jack Micheline.
read it.
here.
onceliving.blogspot.com/2010/0…
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Comments2
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It has your particular flair for near impossible metaphor. Well done.