[ 07.27.2011 ]

I filled a bottle with my sweat,
and it meant nothing at the time;
I just had better things to do
than write poetry with rhymes
or talk philosophy among tedious strangers
and tedious friends.

Sometimes I wish I were a tree
so I wouldn’t need to have friends;
I’d just stand tall
and sip on sunshine all day,
ignoring any birds who tried to speak to me
by pretending to be deaf.

I would reach skywards,
trying to catch clouds in my branches for fun,
and I’d wish my leaves were hands
so I could grab at them better.

The sunlight felt like electromagnets
and radio static on my face this morning,
reminding me that the sun doesn’t mean to sustain us
but to claim us as casualties of chance;
it made me sweat.

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[ 07.26.2011 ]

Your baby teeth are falling out;
our baby girl is growing up.

(I pray she won’t be a whore.)

You try to act like a woman,
but those fangs coming in give you away;
what did you hear in the snow
that made your tongue turn so brittle?

Slow deep breaths,
I can see your life disperse in the cold air
and it’s making me sick with
retained smoke,
choking me just to escape my chest
to freedom
like miasmatic renegades without a purpose
or consciousness.

(That shade of red really is lovely on you, though.)

[ 07.25.2011 ]

As we fled from relation in symbiotic muddle
like a mutual hit-and-run between strangers,
I thought about planetary orbit
and entertained the idea that maybe
the world revolved around me.

Our combined gravity overwhelmed us,
and it sent the earth crashing into my surface to
crater my flesh and rearrange my landscapes
before drifting back into space.

I mourned those craters
and peppered them with stardust
to make myself feel beautiful, magical;
my geography became a mosaic,
finger-painted by the stars
to capture the adoration of the universe
and the love of a woman.

[ 07.23.2011 ]

This moment has been written
before; it cluttered my arms
and feathered the pages of my notebooks
for years, yielding only
faint scars and dog ears
and a fondness for long nights alone.

Those words become as
a rough draft, prelude
to the moment when your pacific eyes
and trite charm withdraw
to be written of as myths upon my arms
and the pages of my notebooks.

[ 07.21.2011 ]

Two thousand strong,
dizzy, dislocating joints
behind and beneath
the refuge of careless confusion
to be reassembled
in more beautiful patterns
by the light of day.

Giving away ephemeral purpose
to bring aimless permanence
and lesser (greater) things
to visit me in my sleep,
where I dream of rivers
and oceans.