on the dark nightstand beside my bed,
as my former lover, a mother,
as the final and last of my friends.
to me, cloaked in black, slow and cautious,
feathering the air, breathing into my lungs,
and concerning my head.
on the night before last with pain upon the heart,
a sentence or two, a line or few, just before
i laid down upon my bed and bled.
poetry came—and poetry comes—
wistfully, brisklfully, stern more than not,
a pain in the groin,
a wondering mind, a generation consumed—
and enslaved—by a house full of blitherings,
blown to pieces, into smithereens.
with my back to the day, casting a shadow of
haze amongst the fallen-down, moth bitten
drapes languishing in my den.
a day before now, i was shrouded,
and i was found
oh! it comes
for you, my lord, sick&stricken upon
your bed of lies! head of thorns! mouth so
it comes for solomon, victor,
and sings my lord
for meaghan too!
lying, dying, crying,
as love letters
in the words, by the mouth,
from the eyes i speak of you!
so i venture and
i vanquish all through
the night, myself
upon, myself scared but not yet
quick, inverted, amongst and about the
populous she criticized and vandalized
and fantasied for better use.
to me by the word of mouth, in the head
of a crazed son of a migrant;
ravished by age, by what he had,
by all that came undone.
so we languish, lament, and burn all
of our burdens to relieve a ton,
yet they repeat
but not worries, for poetry comes to me
it shows everything. everyone.
in the deep. washed out.
in a town by the sea (i remember)
by the sea,
as a child (i remember)
on my bed,
facing towards the world;
I stand alone.
I stand alone.
until the stars fade into light,
and a new day, a rebirth,
and shines all throughout
(&i forget what poetry
has done for me)
I’m still convinced that Her is the best movie in at least the past 20 years.
I have been considering the oddities
involved in meeting someone new.
Perhaps a dinning hall your sophomore year,
or at a frat party down a few blocks away
from your dorm, that house where rumbles
can’t be told apart from a passing el or a deep
base line. And the approach, an awkward intro
that inevitably leads me to shake, twitch my smile,
and say something just out of place enough to
make her uncomfortable. I regress, wish I hadn’t
said a thing and wish I never met her as soon as her
GPA becomes apparent. I wish I never met her
the moment I approached, when I realized,
for a brilliant spilt of a second, that I am not
the man my father was. I am the man that lies
beyond a crowded dance floor, gazing gently
into a passing girl’s eyes, just drowning for
a smile in my careful direction.
—ambling through the hall
her graceful manner—
positively marvelous today among the
among the pupils,
among the plaques
and chipped pain of t
d catholic school.
she saw the
tramps, and niggers, homosexuals
, and sadists.
she saw the
priests basking in sin
, she saw the lonesome birth
of a child,
the death of a nation.
she tilted her head
to the side,
and began to convulse
—it was such a time
just as the poor
little son of christ
approached her ear and whispered
midnight loves, forever,
the stains of saints
fallen behind the clouds
of charlie and I’s
lost romantic novel,
the sanctity of throats.
of horror and
insomnious apathy. )
so close your eyes,
my sweet yasmin,
(for I too am enthralled
I don’t have a drinking problem. I have a sober problem.