nubthousands of wasted wordsand still no poems
lovemy joy in you was short livedmy sorrow everlasting
the open roadthe road beckonsand I will answerI will ride Highway 65until my gas money gives outand leave my tired Buickin a soft ditch with the kudzuI'll walk until I finda place that touches me a soft patch of cool grasswith a view of the whole big sky a quiet placewhere I can lay myself downand no longer weepwith wearinessthe stars will shine downfrom the sea of nightand I'll smile whenI close my eyesknowing I can nowrun onforever
Tank Away 11The winter solsticehas passed. Winter nights will shorten,hearts warming with hope.And from the soft, hushed darkness,a new sun begins to rise.
running errandsit's not theeggs or milkor breadthat I'm afterit's the soundlonelyis quietand whenthe silencescreamsI mustfill itwithother people'snoise
dreamerhe's goneever searching forgreener pasturesand she droopslike a flowerin the rainwaiting againfor hisreturn
incalculablehe's good to mewe eat at nice placesand never arguehe's gentle in bedbut he isn't youwe lived onpeanut butter,ramen noodlesand the world fadedwhen you cameinto viewdisappeared utterlywhen you took mein your handshe loves meyou almost killedme with your leavingbut if you roared backinto my world tomorrowhe'd be forgotten bythe time we reachedthe highway
lightlesssince you've goneyour memory lay upon my worldlike a shadow across the suna point of impenetrable darknessfor which there isno remedy
revenantsome nights,dreams aren't enoughwhen the acheruns deep,I need more thanremembered embraces,imagined trysts,more than hopesof tomorrow, next week,next yearI want the truthof your bulkbeside me whenI turnin the dark,the realityof warm skinnot my own,the unknowingof lonelybut you're not here(and no one else will do)so I willtoss and turnin the cold armsof my dreamingonce more
how to survive highschool: a guide. i.walk in, take offyour wings. these lockers are toosmall to hold anythingof value, so shove those dreams of yoursin your pockets andget your ass to class.ii.when they tell you that you'renot good enough,listen– it's not the first timeyou've heard it butit's the first time you'veagreed.iii.drown in numbers– slit your wristswith a graphingcalculator, choke on the pages of yourAP statistic textbookthat doesn't explain shit (just likethe teacher).iiii.try not to cry whenyou are judged for your GPA more thanyour character. afterall, it only getsbetterfrom here, right? somedayyou'll get out– but that's just what youtell yourselfto make these walls feelless suffocating.iiiii.and then it's over; you put on anoverpriced cap and gown andwalk your assacross a stage with all the kidsyou despise. all the girlsthat teased youand the boy who used to pull yourh
tea.hot steam pours itselfinto the cupdense with the seasonsof leaves,Darjeeling comfortinhaled by the morningas the city wakesitself to a brightnessof milk and honey.I smile and bring thesun's fragrant warmthto my lips.
AngieAlways a red dress,never a black...Angie took my handto board the boatto Italy (a boat,a shipwhich did not exist)"You have neverlooked so beautiful.Papa's favorite dress..."But Alice (her name for me)was dressed in whitethat night (starched uniform,no long red gown)as we packed(well, she packed)and she satand I came backafter doing my workto : "Alice, sit by me,it's time for the funeral."I sat for a minute(all that was allowed)and somehow,I saw that funeralover and overeach night for 2 years...the red dressand her family's tears...We sat by the boat(which did not exist)for two yearswith Angie's fearsuntil I had no timefor my Angieand her timecame to an end.
StarbucksGrid linesGrid squaresGrid carsWho cares?Sipping your fad of the weekReading what will be abandonedby the stroke of one tweetYour now sophisticated fochewill be considered the largest fauxpeby the time I am done writing thisTaking yourself so seriouslythe society your set yourself inIt is saddening to thinkthat this is the way I might beSo continue to dwellin your grid worldEnjoying your coffee flavoured fadwhile I sit herewriting in speculationof the life I might have
The Rainbow Yurt PoemEventually the Elder Lords of SkoogDecided to work togetherTo create a bold new worldOn the Skoog Astral PlaneThey decided that they neededTo create a special placeFor the heated debatesThat doubtless would ensueEventually they came up with the Rainbow YurtThat now floats amongst the cloudsAnd meanders across the Skoog skiesMost unusual to say the least!Its exterior of many coloursRepresents the many facets of their dreamNeeded to bring together all manner ofSpecies & cultures in peace and harmony
Suicide BirthFate sets the day you’re born,The beloved gods mourn,Since they know it will be rough,And hope you don’t get torn.Forced to grow up, and be toughJust a ghetto boy-Broken inside,No father, struggling motherWonder where the love resides.Doesn’t know where his householdSo he sticks to the streets,Where it all unfolds,Looking for quick bucks,And fast friends.But it’s cold in these streets,Fair weather friendsAre the only ones he could meet.He was thirsty and low on coke,But kept them around,They made sure he kept sporting,And they love to smoke.He hated his 9 to 5,But was tired of him and momBeing church mice.Stayed geeked up,So his momCould go to church nice,Now he stays with money,It should feel good right?This a game of dice,Born to fail,Fate,Heaven sent,Or was born from hell?Hearing those daily shotsHe could never tell.
(break)fast for dinnerim sitting in the cafe where you left meand the chatter is gnawing at my cochlea -growing louder and louder and louder andyour yellow kisses are pooling in my mouth, too much to contain.little people cant eat big wordsbecause once they choke they'll dieso they try to fit the way your eyes blink andthe color of your cheeks when you sigh and the twitch of your fingers when youre brushing snow off your shoulder into sonnets - comets rushingin the sky like reindeer - jingle jinglein my rib cage. you are a religion and i try to be faithful but im scared -- save me.the french toast on my plate is gone andsyrup sticks to my fingers the way your hands held onto mine. im missing you but you changed your status from jake to janetand now im sitting in a cafe with an empty plate and black coffee and it's 6:42 but it feels like midnight --save me.
Ode to the artistColours danceJust out of reachOf her grasping fingers,Her lips tipped upAnd her violet eyesGlistening with wonder.And today,So many years later,When her eyes have settledAnd their colour dimmed,When the curls in new hairHave fallen flat,Even nowThose colours danceJust out of her reach.She slashes at canvasWith wide brushesAnd dripping paints,Trying to captureThose perfect blends,Those perfect tones,That perfect feeling.Her works are masterpieces,Acclaimed by all who see,But not a single oneIs complete,Merely abandonedBy the mother who cannot cherishImperfection.And so she starts againWith new brushesAnd brighter paints.And she screamsInto her brushstrokes,And criesInto the glaze,And laughsWith the easel,Because that is whatArtIs.Not a blending of colours,Not the recreation of a scene,Not the likeness of a figure.Art isPain and joyMixed together on the same palette.Art is the reminiscence on a placeAnd the worship of a face.Art is lifeBl
out of ideasscrambled the words areunwrittenuntoldstructured sentences unfoldto convey nothing but atalentless, disarmedwriterthrowing his 100th blank pageto the bin
uprisinghe went back to nightsto buy a blue rayand her patience gave outlike retreads in Julyas she watched herchildren sleeping