i listen to too many 8tracksi've never told anybody this,i listen to too many 8tracks by reflexively
but i'm telling you now that someday
i'm going to swim into the ocean
and never come back.
i'm going to swim so far out
that not even the largest lighthouse
could find me. i'm going
to let the seawater soak
into my veins until i'm bursting,
salty with the bitterness
of all the times i never had,
like the nights you rubbed
circles on my back. i'm going
to fight against the current, knowing
that i'll be defeated before
i even begin. it doesn't matter
that someday my body will be found
by either man or animal, for this body
is mere transport; my soul
will be of the sea, of the tides
that wash onto the shore and cling
to the sand. and maybe,
if you look closely enough,
you'll find me riding the current
probably a few weeks agoyou’re seven cups of coffee in and it’s 1 a.m.probably a few weeks ago by reflexively
the waffle house countertop seems
expansive in the dim light.
for the first time this night,
you deny your waitress the right
to pour you another cup.
if coffee can’t keep you awake,
you lay a tip on the tabletop when she is
bent over her phone.
she might be your age,
rings etched under her eyes
from a procession of shifts spent
waiting for the sun to rise.
outside, you spark the lighter.
smoke slides down into your lungs
then shoots back out your nose,
curls in haloes above your head.
wade out into the adjacent field of barley
where the plants are hunched over
in their opulence; teeming with granules
that beg for the harvest.
cup the soft soil in your palms,
mix it with the scintillating light from the diner,
and realize you are only just beginning to understand
the complexity of things.
Muon neutrinoSome number of daysMuon neutrino by glossolalias
become one: a thought bound together
by the number of pills I took, 12 on Wednesday,
you forgot Thursday, when God lets his head rest
a blackhole forms,
and you ask for your poems back.
Maybe I took a reflection gold like yours,
a few back hairs, the phone you bought, a German market,
your accent, but my hand was possessed:
I spun a new era,
knocked around plastic bottles
and shattered a dropper. My lines were perfect,
nothing like the fizzy bits of an atom,
when your car never started,
a roach on the nightstand,
my eye imploded,
but I send my poems back.
The ones on napkins, dollars, candy wrappers,
unduplicated sinews of sex, laughter,
or just an amphetamine,
You were always better. And better
is impossible to swallow,
light's always faster,
and when God blinks,
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.on clarity, seeing yourself as you are by diddlyhohum
and we're all artists.
we paint ourselves
onto someone else like
it isn't painful for them,
like it isn't killing them
in the process. we give them
ownership of our failures,
we lay our flaws under their
tongues so when they speak,
more often than not, we hear
some distorted version of
ourselves. we expect them
to love the way we love. we expect
them to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we're
all fucking artists, right?
and we're all individuals, of course.
we're all on our brave, one-man
trip to enlightenment,
we're proud of the way
our word has been shaved
down to feelings, and moments,
mood swings, and oxy
off the bathroom sink.
well i can't be the only fucking
one who's tired of being an artist.
i can't be the only one tired
of seeing my skin stretched out over
everyone i know. i am tired of watching
my reflection shimmer and fade in their
smiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becoming
silver in one moment only to tarnish in the
next. i am tired of asking