“got,” is a strange word.
tells you of another’s
ownership, or your own,
but has a fleeting
connotation. “i got
mine,” “i got time,”
“i got that,” but for
a bit, not eternity.
seems to be the pre-
sent perfect of, “had,”
but what do i know?
i’ve got nothing but
words.
Posts published in “Poems”
with an endless, unbounded amount of miles to go
before i can say i’ve seen it all, or even
a little bit of what i want to see, i
can say, truthfully, my life has gone some
sort of way; not sure, still not sure, if i’m
exactly where i want to be, if by floating point
or random assignment. can’t say i care, either.
Just think–
Candi & Chris
were going along
through life
on their separate ways,
and somebody
up there
somewhere
must have said
these two
need more–
they need
someone who
will make their lives
whole, so
why not
one another?
i got a plan,
i swear i do,
i got a plan
to be with you.
i keep telling
myself it’ll be
another day i’ll
tell you how i feel,
but maybe tomorrow…
i keep telling
myself you’ll be
better off with
-out me, but the
way you see me i
can’t let you go.
i keep telling
myself we’ll be
better when we’re
older, wiser, had
more time to be
misers, forget
that way and
move on from it;
but, we’re
moving more now,
faster than
walkin’, from
where we were to
where we’ll be.
I want to be buried,
to let my bones be
as my skin leaves;
I want to be buried,
to let root a tree
by nourishing seeds;
I want to be buried,
to one noon feel
dance of shiver’ in breeze;
I want to be buried,
to be, by beauty,
of one with thee;
I want to be buried,
so we will, in
light’s graces, meet[ again].
terrible thoughts
take their toll
when we wander-bout,
walking where
nothing, no,
nothing knows
we exist.
all i can say
i’ve said before,
but something more
is on its way.
hairy wrists
the hair of my wrist
bends with movements
made by warm digits
over a body frictioned
into place.
i write with
nothing ahead of me
and want the world to
forget so
i can continue
unhindered,
unhinged and
unrelenting.
i’ve
forgotten more than
i’ve learned
about writing and
that suits me
just fine.
i’ve never been selfish,
try to
include you
more than my own mind, but
now i feel like
why the hell
waste so much effort
on being clever
when being
me makes
much more
sense?
what is this need–
a
necessity
to be
accepted?
statements, made
for context, yet
seem forced–
is
the forced the
execution, or
the requirement?
i got more drama than the daytime,
keep grindin’ like it matters and
i know it’ll make an impact eventually.
forgot more about myself than anyone should.
forgot why, so i try to rebuild Me, but it’s
difficult when i’ve got no building blocks
from back in the day– shit, i can’t remember
yester’, let alone then. but, she keeps
me working harder at who i am so i can
provide a life for our children, so they
can know more about Me than i, and i’m
okay with that– being better than i
was when she told me to be. helped
a thousand others be who they are, so
can’t be that difficult to do the same
for myself. or, more profoundly, can i
put enough worth in Me to be a greater
human being than i otherwise would
have the opportunity to be?
so long as We build We, i’ll be following
along like shoreline with a river rollin’
got a million in the bank;
basing wealth on morality
and not greed, right? right?
just kidding, i’m flat
broke and hopin’ for a breakthrough,
but i’m not sure through what or
if i’m strong enough to break any-
thing. it’s hard to see the future
when i’m so stuck on now and how
nothing ever goes my way, when i
refuse to get up/get out and get
somethin’. anythin’. maybe i
need to wait, and keep waiting
because those who are still get
run over in the life lanes by
those who bother to start their
engines and go; maybe i just
missed the cutoff for luck, or
maybe i subtlely sabotage myself
by lettin’ the fuel sit long
enough to go bad and i’ve got
a yard to care of, but no house
because i’ve been sitting in
the same spot without bothering
to get up and be a benefit to
anyone.