I've been writing, not on here, am aiming for thirty poems this month, here's one. It's clearly a mess, a lot of it was inspired by walking through the suburbs around campus under the beautiful PNW sky listening to For Ash by Marnie Stern. Making a zine during this month and I want the correctly formatted version of this to end it. I promise not all of my poetry lately has been like this, messy and all over the place.
#1
Spoiler! :
what about the rest of our lives? this is the same hillside skyways, skyways, skyways i hid in my scarf & wonder how we'd fade my bones already dust my lamictal in extract the stomach is going to burst blood is only butterflies kissing in foreign cities it was all there was nothing else so i drew it the three prongs of my existence Minneapolis Portland Seattle they shit the same identical beings ive always left the gas running Anne it never killed mosquitoes or stupid fucking clouds i press my back against the gum wall, rose garden, skyways skyways skyways my hesitant breaths followed 3/4 throughout voodoo doll murdering a new creature born out of violence who doesn't masturbate to modern baseball what am i to them or what am i to them or what am i to a stranger or what am i to myself i don't know my will but i know i will know i will i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun i will set with the sun believe or infer it i do for once.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
the sun sets before i call in the child; before the child shoves a fist down a coyote’s mouth. their whimpers, his and its, flood a parking lot. he watches how coarse cement fills, like water running, like paint drying, dim bathroom park light shines his grease. three blocks away his mother, i, light cigarettes on the porch, ash graces the wood. it could be another house burnt down, other bathroom lights & another parking lot the child can turn into a boy and fold into a man. as fist muscles grow, the area of the coyote’s throat does too. the boychildman continues to be swallowed, the boychildman continues to kill to the sound of nothing & the moans of two animals.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
love is what love is; i've always spoken it into monuments. their eyes would be pearls among cheeks captured in marble, and i spent a lot of time time tracing bone to bone over the bridge of my nose thinking if my touch is the same as others'. love is what love is and i've acted as Midas. under all the suns kisses are dandelions, we run through the blossom. in the scratched blackheads there's pollen and i lie fetal as a raisin and whisper "suck it out". break my shoulders, whiten your hands, suck it out.
love is what love is; I've started to wonder if raindrops fuck. intimately, so the pollen pours out at paint's pace. love is what love is what's real is what's slow. i can count blackheads among vacuum suction marks. water trickles down the post, jogs after each other 'til one catches the other in matrimony. i wonder if they fuck, if they love, and if the rising action is longer than what i have to live. but love is what is, slowly but surely. moments in time can't be lost if rain fucks forever.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
a/n: I have been wanting to write a poem with this metaphor for a few months. Finally got to it, and it's better than I expected, but still, eh.
Spoiler! :
There’s a house Anne built with a crumbling frame, she’d eat the paint chips off the wood and dream of a sun set she’d parallel as an identical being. A life cycle of dissolving lithium batteries in vodka, chasing doctor death by staying still. Carbon monoxide filled the cavities in her brain and her corpse, a beautiful foundation destroyed in broad daylight, do loved ones say goodbye over the remains.
And in blood visions I see the home I’ll put together and tear apart. Is what’s inevitable a tragedy? If I stay in the garage and let the car run, the wood in the floorboards would still be fresh. Anne, my future is in all the architecture I’ve admired. If they’re all delusions, then reality’s a great impressionist and I’ve been picking off all of the yellow paint.
I will set with the sun, I will set with the sun,
when day time comes to an end. and over what’s left standing,
say goodnight rather than goodbye.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
So, I stopped posting because I was hospitalized for a sinus infection, however I have been writing on and off since the last poem. Here's one I wrote today, I'm somewhat proud of it.
Spoiler! :
City cops, either all pigs or all fathers, break cement curbs with rubber as the shin of a warm body brushes a front bumper; warning sign clearer than headlights.
I stand arrested across the highway. An idle ghost, mouth agape, eyeballing the Record Courier parking lot, officers breaking cement breaking kneecaps of a civilian.
Where he kisses the ground I once analyzed the black of the sun, diseasing slowly from time and the light. I soaked the now with a present mind and active heart, living for life
defined by want. I recall Impressionist interpretations of Carson Valley sitting on the windowsill of the Courier, a hand wrapped around my wrist
using its nails to pick off my skin naively, so I’ll bleed out through my scabs and my corpse will be captured in that moment. Handcuffed, legs pressed
between my shoulder blades, but seconds still pass. Divorced from a faded past, I wait until three uniforms shove a man into the backseat
and drive to the station. Separated from when his heartbeat was the loudest, we’re now shadows of our former selves in the lights of a cop car.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
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