Poetry
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Thoroughly wrung dry by this point I am out of anything interesting to say. I am reinventing meaning, less to makea statement but more to simply be. Be more of a person, and less of a poet, those wretched, godforsaken things. Wretches who write for the sake of Godwhile using their gods as placeholders. Place
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Fear comes microscopic. A number on a page, two letters in a text. In the cells of our bodies there arewords waiting to never be said. Stress and fear are ways we reinterpret the fightor flight response againstthe desire of two outcomesto intersect on a line graph. Numbers, numbers, numbers,falling like rain on a house
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a flat cap, a smushed shoe, the lawn cuttings left out orphaned and buzzcut bleeding steady, a brokendown car by the side of a cruise liner, a ship at the bottom of the sea,a cabin locked and floodingwith all of the world’s answers within it, like a child rubbing their stomach,a pot-bellied pig waiting to
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if the sum of two narratives is equivalent to a single narrative then all stories are like books in that they fold into themselvesand a universe of text collapsing like a swan with a folded wingshot down from the errant pellet of a slingshot-bearing teenager whose hands are filled with the instinct for frenetic kineticism
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this time, the flu has made its way past the front gate of my skull and nestling itself in the living room of my nose it starts to scratch and scratch at the walls, the wallpaper bleeding translucent slug-slime green-yellow-bile drip-dropping down the monotony of skin, and it is as though there is a fist
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I find that I cannot keep anything in recently / I open my mouth and gratitude pours / I open my mouth and your heart nests / I feel like theboundaries of my body are no longer enough to contain the entirety of emotion / Every sun is a spotlight cast on a glitter-covered wall
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a frisbee left in the yard, weedgrowing hair-like over the street,the lawnmower left murmuring deep into the night, cars swoop by looking for prey, as trees bendfor a better view, the voyeurs’leaves and branches, the houseis full of silence, and there is plenty of unlight, yet absenceof cold, as the mold deigns to become another
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there is a gap between my bed and the window a boundary to a boundary one hole begets anotherand this completes the picture in absence there is harmony complete completenesscompleteless completion increasingly, I am dreaming I did not predict this but everything falls into place the missiles tuck themselves into the sea politicians go to
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there is something buried at the intersectionof love and hope / for which we have left no tombstone, no marker, no nameplate / some things are best left unnamed / or rather, that we take them away / to name something is to give it power / to speak something is to speakpower / without
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hope is this ladder you build for yourself as you’re climbing it into heaven / every rung is a bone pulled from your own spine / so delicate that a strong wind could send you toppling into hell / hope is too much for me / sometimes the moreI climb the more I lose track
ugly stage 