I pluck pears and white flowers to survive these days, romping naked as La Danse, rotten
pastoral that I am, as a Ghost of Time cuts the last of your hair and lets me love you.
And I know what they mean by expressionism (and I did not before now), the sun setting
so brightly over shallow green peaks with its long shadow rays blacker than poppies,
buds I have held so close to my chest I thought we might both erupt from the earth and
form islands of our own; yes, right here in the valley (can you see the Summit from your
window?) . If I were only half as crazed, for lately I am drunk on my own blood , I might
tell you how I am Alive (this is not always true) and how your whole self reminds me of
the Delta as it shifts through silt becoming shale becoming rock and never decides
anything at all
but (2) things: 1) your love for Dance (I) and your dislike for fauvism even as I
cite the merits of Music and divide the sky into blocks of color, us both realizing
that 2) the worst thing that could ever happen is happening now, a sun ceasing to
exist, Orion like a eucharist as day is now dusk and
suddenly knowing that I will never be here with you in this very moment again
for as long as we shall live.
only writing bullshit poetry so that someday someone can gut the insides of your books out to show someone else how much they love them.
i have found the girl of my dreams and she yells at the moon every night.
now instead of biting my tongue, my jaw just breaks.
i have found the boy of my dreams but he is too whole, it makes me throw up.
there are too many umbrella heads around here, it doesn’t make much sense and a woman ran by wearing socks and crocs, reminding me of the boy who only wears green crocs and torn up swim shorts, producing puddles in his feet.
he told me it doesn’t matter, we all live under the ocean.
i have found the person of my dreams yet they still have not seen me.
i have found where i belong, it is in between soft hands and bruised knees, it is inside a dimly lit room with bright laughter coming from tattered hearts, it is in the gentle sway of love, it is in the realization that i belong with the ones who also felt like they never had a belonging.
a plate with 11 sides to fit everyone’s hands on, a fork so small you can shove it down your throat and pull it right back out,
crying at 7am after being awake for 24 hours and thinking you heard someone yelling from your closet, only to realize you are sitting in your closet, and you are yelling.
i feel my closest sense of belonging in my family as i cut their faces out of old photographs and whisper secrets in their photograph ears.
Maybe you or I
will find this poem
and hear a melting.
like butter n’ cheese in the sun
makes humanfriends / barf balls.
I eat everyday
Green-Bay Packer fandom
screamed into me like I scream.
The image of my father
fades into Brett Favre.
crossed christ say cheese
Crosses all over the house like in the lord's house? I didn't say shit about crosses everywhere. I didn't say hang
my dang crosses on everywhich doorframe.
I twipflitched all day
the horizontal wingslice of a bread middle schoolie ‘cept for whiles
and would forget about that thanks
I hangdangled all day
and those lame
Paparazi gentile post-grunge disciples, those avante-garde soft boi medium rares, and the like vapor-eye public say chritchcross daddly, your phrase. I got a store to keep
and the store front sign reads “SutchLuck” and hotdogs all in process
from that meat mill out in the wild wild the glass one where McCartney plays all day
and the vapor eye public says hey check this shit out on - the gritschmass, the slirch - mess of meat.