poem twenty |
For Lauren Zuniga and Jon Sands
When I die
After the funeral
And far after the craftsmen has finished the epitaph
I will haunt you.
I will live in your harmonica
I wil...
Posted by on Mon, 27 Apr 2009 13:54:00 GMT |
poem nineteen |
My favorite part was the crash
Your favorite part was when I called us monarch
Called you and I butterfly
You said that was beautiful
I said it was fragile
You said couldnt they b...
Posted by on Mon, 27 Apr 2009 13:34:00 GMT |
poem eighteen |
When we leave and spill ourselves across these states
I pray you not be gentle with us
Steal swallow grab everything that is our limbs
Leave us to crawl home broken and satisfied.
Wh...
Posted by on Mon, 27 Apr 2009 09:30:00 GMT |
poem seventeen |
I never meant harm
When I spilled out on floor
It was
an offering.
Posted by on Mon, 27 Apr 2009 07:21:00 GMT |
poem sixteen |
(this is no where near finished, comments to help it find and end or just to lend a hand at making this better are of course welcome)
First imagine there is a river in your chest
now pretend tha...
Posted by on Mon, 27 Apr 2009 11:02:00 GMT |
poem fifteen |
When you take your five year old
brother for ice cream
The girls will stare,
They will look for your ring
They will ask him his age.
When they find out he does not belong to you,
Th...
Posted by on Mon, 27 Apr 2009 07:20:00 GMT |
poem fourteen |
When the cannonball is fired
Its only loosely aimed toward its targets.
Death is not in trajectory
Its in the way it hits the ground.
If the ground is accepting,
If the grass opens
...
Posted by on Mon, 27 Apr 2009 07:20:00 GMT |
poem thirteen |
If we were badgersOur claws would be ridiculousFantastic even.We might dig in the dirt like we were childrenAnd pretend we were dirtyingOur new school clothesThat our mothers bought at the back to sch...
Posted by on Thu, 16 Apr 2009 07:35:00 GMT |
poem twelve |
i am no conductorYou have a steam engine in your throat.This is the part I love about you,The way your voice always seems to barrelIn the windows from the tracks behind my house.I feel your hurricane ...
Posted by on Wed, 15 Apr 2009 15:11:00 GMT |
poem eleven |
sundayI nurse broken with whiskeyThis time the entire bottleEmptied itself into my throatBut you still have my heartMy drunk heartIt will call you tomorrowWhen it sobersIt will try and be less monster...
Posted by on Wed, 15 Apr 2009 15:10:00 GMT |
