-
years later; tears.
We took percocet and wrote poetry. The whole bottle drained down my throat like a silverfish. But, he was smart and kept a few in both of his palms for later. "He's onto something," I thought. "I love him for this." I began to chase him with my eyes hoping to find inner-selfishness-awareness. Some sort of reflection. Like what a swimming pool does ( Read more... ) -
box me-up
something sighed in a "back-and-forth" kind-of "ah-ha"
movement. there.
up there.
it's you&i, always
smothered under heaven's pillow.
seeds that see the sun's flower against eternity's dust...
we, nestle
in the aftermath of us. -
(Untitled)
you are the craft
&moonlight dims
me/we
with sweeping grace
like a cat licking my tongue
to taste your breath
again. I am.
fever-ish, child-ish, fallen.
can i come to you
now, with breath as fresh as
shallow as an ocean? -
(Untitled)
...it is also that skinlessness which makes a poet. One must have the gift of language, but even a great gift is useless without the other curse: the eyes that see so sharply they often want to close.
( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
the mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. -
(Untitled)
Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured? -
(Untitled)
i am humble
we were mine, everyday
within a whisper
on the neck
just
hanging from my palm
so, the moonlight dims
to the tide
and forever is
a cup (of)
now
i sow
and talk to sparrows
"how dare we beget"
"how dare i let we go"
sl(n)ow sl(n)ow sl(n)ow
