A moon poem

assy

I like the snow.
Its clean and non-committal.
The leaves aren’t brown, all wet
and daring your periphery.

93

My page.
Oh my god,
My number.

I married a She-Donkey?
What does that mean?
How am I here again?
Returning
To the scene and the lines

Time flies when youre having fun

How many couches have we done this on before?

Coma like mouth breathers

Let the music and the insides be

Sitting in the dark
On a hand-me-down sofa in a basement
No windows
Black walls

Or in a particularly luxurious dorm room
Two couches, a flat screen and the fan set up right
The whole shebang

Or that old lumpy thing with books for the missing leg

Always there after work
But not for quiet or a moment to myself
Not a second’s rest

Now we’re in a swank bar with Billie Holiday on fine leather sofas

Now its more expensive

a bitter night

Cast iron hexes
Delineate definition
Between the green
And the castles of the fortunate,
Asleep between their studies.

I
A young man defines his brand of opulence.
So full and self assured,
He carries on without a thought to the world.

Sun to grass,
Shadows sun bears.
What thoughtless observation.

Not a shadow in the sun,
But the careless in the shade are far from overseen.

II

Your time is straight and plain.
There is nothing waiting on the other side.

All that remains is stringy and dry,
The pickings grown slim on your fat.

These shadows have shapely edges
And the sun doesnt care if you stare.

I just remembered that the world is a beautiful place.

A fresh new comer, the winter air blown in past early spring
Caught my breath, lifting up the garbage pales at one AM
Because I forgot to take them out earlier. I’m glad I forgot,
Otherwise these fucking stars like solid stones I could touch
Wouldn’t be up there in the sky for me to touch and I wouldn’t,
If it were not dark, have let my dog come out with me
Without clipping him to the runner. I’m not sure why.

He would not have followed me
As if he were an old hunting dog
And we had been doing this for years.

He wouldn’t have lifted his tail in attention
And hurried his feet without me having to say a thing.

He wouldn’t have been there to recognize a feeling I could only barely feel myself.

so, i did try again?...

i've been trying to write some poems that have patterns and rhyme and all that boring shit, this is one of the least embarassing attempts of many; i wrote it down as i sat on the dryer waiting like junkie for more warm towels to fold... god damnit.

nick/gNack-salesman

Don't have friends in high places
My rich uncle's on the dole
I don't know any famous faces
Not even on the totem pole.
That's alright though
It don't get me down
Got my pen and paper
Jotting like I own this town.
From where I'm standing
I can see it all so clearly
Don't care if no one's understanding
Still I'll clutch my scribbles dearly.
It's not a job, it's not a hobby
To just see while others do
That's why I sleep out in the lobby
Spilling ink so black through eyes so blue.


...and then I folded like 10 washcloths.

i don't feel much like writing...

...these days. but if i must then here you have it:

some dumb words


too much shit on my mind
to think clearly
let alone write?
don't mean to seem bitter
although i probably am
just ask margot
who stakes claims of sedation

oh bother...i will try again tomorrow
(when i finish packing)

It sounded like paper tearing

Is she alive?
The blood does not say for sure,
But she shows it to me,
Brought up from underneath in petals
on her eyes and on her arms.

-Some thing within which reaches
and remains always unseen
-Wrapped about it but independent,
behind tired and drifting eyes
-The point which holds the body,
Or body holds,

She shows mostly from her eyes,
but today from lines that cross
crosses across her arm.

And Jesus Christ, help me, she bled.
She bled for each time I spoke with certainty
On such things that one could never be so sure of.