Saturday, January 8, 2011

waking up

I wake up on the floor.
The door is halfway opened using it’s frame as a bookend,
but my thoughts are illegible.
Carpet fiber skyscrapers.
Looking through my bedroom window.
The desk
the closet
  the bookcase
the door.
Weathered wood.
Two cardboard boxes packed in slipshod.
The silent alarm clock.
The pages that i’ve ripped out.
I have nothing to steal.
Everything I own is broken.
Daylight’s winding down;
everything outside is soft.
I self-scold with a dry mouth upon waking up mechanically.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

the evolution of mass murder beyond ants and a spyglass

Hunting boots of untied sneakers.
Keen eyes.
His spine goes electric.
He's pulling smiles upon salting a city of slugs.

life inside a snowball

crystalline, crystalline, crystalline visions.
eat your meals in strict provisions.

climbing hills in winter

It’s hard to make sense when you’re climbing a hill.
Fragments of thought take form in harsh whispers to nobody.
It’s best to find landmarks.
A landmark is a destination.
Rest against a tree.
Wiggle your toes,
over and over, 
Let your blood know to go down there.
A dog will make a fine companion for climbing hills.
A dog is not a coward.
Dogs can even laugh at jokes and keep you warm at night by hugging.
Cats are stubborn.
Do not climb hills with cats in snowstorms.
Build fires at night.
Snow melts away at the radius,
leaving mud behind.
The antique skeleton of summer.
Winter always overstays her welcome:
You lose all interest and then she gets all clingy.
You tell her you’ve grown bitter with the way she talks and sticks around.
You’ve already packed her bags and all.
She stands far away from you with red eyes and spit flying, 
drawing your verbal caricature; a silly sight through tears like party streamers.
You watch from the window to see her taxi peel out; holding a mirror to a dead man’s mouth.
You smile all night.
You sleep like god.
And then She’s back at four o’clock in the morning,
tossing pebbles at your bedroom window.
It’s funny when you get to the top of the hill, 
and you can still see your house from up there.

Monday, January 3, 2011

toothy grins and nap time whispers (revised and expounded upon)

Lindsay draws a portrait of a child for me.

We used to be seven years old together,
sitting with crossed legs on colorful carpets.
Getting rough with you in gym class, in hopes you’ll understand.

You still had running in your legs,
and I still had jokes to tell you. 
With my playground pistol lodged in my belt line,
employing techniques of television gunmen,
We left the park in half-efforts of single file.

We were given thirty minutes to rest upon our nylon cots.
Bubbling maniacs;
shooting toothy grins and nap time whispers in the dark.

Making you laugh was a lunchtime custom.
Enjoying milk and crackers for comedic fuel and concentration.
You never forced me into being silly when observing a wave of shyness.

We laughed at math in class together,
sharing hopes of new maturity in possible homework assignments.
Me next to you; all smiles in line for the water fountain, and
My stomach turns colors with the thought of coming over after school.

Our fathers were planets with tools of big weathered hands.
The godlike grips on steering wheels, 
navigating trips to soccer practice,
to school,
your big house.

Your dad's blue station-wagon has seats that face the rearview window.
Sharing daydreams, we watch the driven road behind us.

I was nine years old,
planting kisses on your neck upon backtracking oceans.

pretty girls

Dim girls don’t pen thoughts on boys that they find beautiful.
Those frightened boys scrawl pages.
Dim boys sell pages on pages.
Pretty girls, pretty girls, pretty girls.
Everyone likes to write about pretty girls.
Men sit at home alone,
reading books on the subject.
But girls are smarter.
And Women labor over clay molds of the world.