i gave myself
a few more times to
see how things might be
when i’m all i’ve got, but then
you had to come back and show me
how life could be if i were responsible
; if i became forever indebted
to someone, not just my
calling– this plan i’ve
tried to be, i.
Posts published in “Poems”
i’m at a loss for words
and you’ve got plenty.
we still sit, feet off the
floor, fingers twisted
with palms flat to one,
another. i’m so glad
you left me to see that
life without you is life
without body, just eyes
walking endlessly through.
b-sides and rareties
are what my life has been;
never been on the LP,
but i’ve sure seen some play.
i cannot sacrifice the words
for their reading; no, i cannot
give in to what is specific to
only the language i write and
not the world; the world speaks
in sneaky breaths, holding
us high only to let us down and
rise again.
will i go farther
reaching for the stars
or settling for what’s already
ours?
my mind says i am
more than this; i am
so much more than this,
but still i sit
and, more, i wait
to be told i am;
to be told i am would
only give credence to
a thought so buried i
can barely hear its cries
for freedom from these
bonds of socially-created norms,
like money and mortgages.
i am more than this.
i am more than what i pretend to be;
i am not an angry ape,
pounding my fists in the dirt
to become an annoyance just as
life has become mine;
no, i am
more than this; i am
searching for what i will be
when you read this.
being
taken for granted
makes me bitter
but it
makes you lazy/
dependent upon
all i do to be who
you have nestled into.
Don’t put it back the same way
you found it. That only means
you never existed.
A good king reveals problems,
but still despises the very notion.
Patios are for guests and bird watchers. Star gazers need a hill. Don’t ask me why, but I think it’s just social assumption; that oldest trait we still attribute genetics to.
I always find speed to be less a knowledgeable outcome, more a byproduct of being wreckless in earnest.
Preparedness should never be defined by the variables.
finding out you’re inadequate sure hurts, but so does finding out you’re just adequate. all told, you have to look at everything the world has to offer before you subscribe to the notion that, “one wrong is everywhere.” just like a hitter may need a different rotation, a quarterback a different receiving corps, a coach a different team– just like each of those, you cannot feel as though you are not good enough for all. you’re great for someone, for some team. you just have to find that team, show them you’re worth their time, and grow.
That’s what many fail to realize, really. Growth is not possible in a static/stagnant place. You either cannot expand, or you’re just spreading filth.
define:me
so,
i don’t think
you can.
i think you
see what
you want:
a spot of text.
‘ but not
‘ who i
‘ am.
‘ (a
‘ man walks through
‘ an open door,
‘ he doesn’t look around
‘ or
‘ stop to turn the handle,
‘ he just
‘ walks through and
‘ you take that to mean
‘ he knows it’s open,
‘ but what if
‘ he’s just walking
‘ and doesn’t
‘ know it’s a door?)
Baby, you
Just came home
ANd all I can see
Are your eyes
Calling me in
To be your cover
From a long/hard
Day.
Baby, you
Just woke up to
Me rolling over
To be closer to
You, and all
I can see are your
Lips/your eyes
Saying to me,
“Welcome home,
You’re right where
You need to be.”
And I say,
“Ah.”
This technology bores me.
And, yet I am sitting here, on a cotton couch,
Stabbing at an object way too close to my eyes
For proper focus.
I feel as a digger, knowing more exists, but only seeing dirt
And my shovel.
Perhaps, perchance, I am lost to this time– a relic,
Or a modern knock-off of one,
From a time when only knowledge mattered
Because spoiling only happened to food and the privileged.
I know myself, but rarely think of what I am capable of.
Does that make me timid? Do I rely so heavily on the mystery of what I can do that I forget how to do it?
I once wrote a poem describing impending death on a battlefield.
I became that character through words and the revision of lines.
Now, I write whatever nonsense I can stop to remember or make up,
And hope that I will, eventually,
Bother to be who I saw a glimpse of then.
I’ve written one play in my life, and yet feel as though I could measure with the best.
Why? Because, I see myself in their times and think, “I am capable of what was done.
I would have made an excellent contemporary.”
Then, why don’t I bother to be the best /now/?
I can be. I just let life get in the way. Life.
That muse which outstays it’s welcome;
That burden that weighs so much, we feel ourselves lighter and, thusly, worthless without it–
And, yet I sit here, stabbing at an object
That is little more than a sandstone, repurposed when the energy fades out.
I sit here, cold and uncovered,
While your scent of warmth
And memories tickle my nerves.
Yet, I still sit here. Like a fool.
Love is when she fills every memory– even the ones she’s not in.
In conversations, held, I
Pitch myself to death for
Escape of responsibility;
Duck from ‘mobile, lunge
For precious pain in fre-
Edom’s endorphins/laugh
Without sound, and pause
In flight. Returned to seat
By time’s greatest love,
Rationale, I breathe to forget.
Sometimes, when writing, you have to take into account multiple translations of your work so that no one can say, “well, they meant…”. That’s difficult, especially when trying to maintain a convention. For instance, using fre-edom instead of freed-om will highlight the red of death, while freed-om highlights the release of death, the ritual that death has become due to the human condition of grievance or commemoration or celebration– which are all the same, really. In the end, it’s what I want to portray. Om is pretentious, but will affect someone much differently than researching biblical regions, which can be… alienating. But, learning that what we know is translation and not historically actual (think of the word Dolphin later translated into Rulfine) makes sense for a word like, “freedom,” when describing death. Will anyone get that? No. But, it’s important.