This is my culture. This is the great and all-swallowing regret that stabs and stabs and punctures little gaping wounds that crown my heart. There are better poets. There are better truths out there to hold onto. Better saviors. Better eternities.

This is stupid, I realize… There are boys I’ve known who wanted to be hip-hop artists and so they compose the same old ‘I’m the best’ lyrics. So here’s some from me. My style…

Stayed up late to watch the world die in my own eyes and all I see are strings of inefficacy. Battle wounds and old proverbs and when her father beat her she would whisper in the tune of all the songs that they had sung her in the womb. And she forgets that she is not the monster, she is only his daughter, apologizing for everything that life has taught her. Apologizing to me…

And when I see I see in colors made of patterns in her eyes and when I try to pass my strength to her it’s then I realize that she is living on a promise that someday she will forget all this. And on this tipping precipice she stays, serene above the wreckage, holding onto me but I can’t see the pain that pulls her to her knees and she is full of this regret disease and she squeezes my hand to beg me please don’t go but all I know is that it hurts.



July 9, 2011

This path is long and I am lost. There are so many wandering ghosts…

I only left this place because it left me first. This place is made of people. Resplendent people, beautiful and brightly lit, like canvas priced and framed. Righteously produced, my gallery was nearly full. All things are easily lost.

And I wander this hilly path. Here is ever dusk. The golden hour, when the world is as held in amber, pocked with delicate bubbles of air where my friends used to be. I used to own this place. Now I can’t remember it’s name. More ghosts than a graveyard here, inside of me. More ghosts than a mausoleum.

Ugly, awkward summer. Chasing down mountains for memories. Chasing down cars for some sort of sick release. I wear suicide like a keepsake. My own picture cut heart-shape, to fit, and glued inside. It is heavy around my neck when I am drowning in mistakes. I say it is a joke. I say “who wears a heart ‘round their neck when they have one already in their chest?” But no one really laughs. They see through my devices.

And the wind shakes the trees. No one ever asks for it. Doesn’t help the trees. Doesn’t help the soil or the sky or the birds in the trees. Doesn’t help me. And yet it is a constant. Pushing. Sometimes for, sometimes against. It does not judge. Instead, it billows at the ghosts around inside.

And I am here because there’s nowhere else to keep my body laid. There’s nowhere to hide this mess. Lost and alone on the broken highway. A boy enamored by the subtle touch of ghosts that only blink and cry their sullen tears. This place used to be full up to the roof with life and promise. Just look at all the boy I have become. This gallery is closing. All the art has moved along. And I am left to wander through the muddle and the clutter and the shivering of winter in this ugly, awkward summer with my heart safe in my pocket.

Maybe if you see me you could offer me a ride.

Sordid Collections

July 1, 2011

Uncompromised disproval. Eloquent departure from the usual recipes for broken stations. Here is the apex of the quarter-life. Ten million strong but none worthy. Corrugated dreamscapes, like children at the zoo. We watch from underneath and yet it’s shadow does not touch us. Non-corporeal. Separatist.

Ghostly, electronic voices echoing forever through hidden chambers at my epicenter. Delicate, though hearty. Iconic. Disembodied and prolific, like memories of dreams you never had. Panic shakes like carbonated ice. Collapse seems necessary for recovery. Fresh starts. New old.

Instinct, drawn through openings left deep in damaged flesh. Like corrosive children, bandaged and still screaming as the fire steals their limbs. I can touch the fervor. Hospital continent. Emergency world, in a sudden state of understanding, seconds before entropy breaks forth and cuts our ropes. Everything soft halts.

Hard wire, in braids around our arms and legs, dams our circulation. Loss of feeling like loss of illusions upon waking. Terrifying and pitiable. Empty Christmas. Godless churches burning, heavenward.