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.


I have only written one poem all year. My mind is taken by it’s own lack of hope and yet also by it’s unbelievably campy denial that there’s ever anything wrong. I am a broken machine. Nothing complex. Something like a typewriter.

I find I break easier than I bend. I find myself corrupted by dreams of utopic euphoria. True dreams but, nonetheless, dreams for now. I find myself confused and alone and unspeakably bothered to find myself without the people that I chose to push away. I am a contradiction. My girl tells me I ought to listen better to myself to hear the contradictions. I’m afraid I already can…

And they are manifest in each unsteady step already taken. My footprints in the sand look more like injured fumbling. Coming from a higher place, now lost in the rising surf as I stumble ever downward. I am a simple broken contradiction of a machine that stands alone on this far beach, gently rusting as the water salts my fragile gears.

Did I mention I’ve only written one poem all year?

Beautiful And Terrible

April 21, 2011

What a beautiful world it is when what saves us is worse than what kills us.

All these coping mechanisms, designed to carry us when nothing else will…. Leaving us defenseless, unaccustomed to the bright lights beyond our bedroom windows. We quake with righteous fear, and we break like china, shivered to pieces at the slightest of earthquakes.

Panic attacks. That’s what I get. My mind tells my body something terrible is happening, all that saved up thunder attacking when it’s finally not applicable. All that righteous anger, righteous fear shaking my body, taking my breath. Making me run without running. Beautiful and terrible, energy spilling through me, nauseating in its power, dangerous and proud. And I am powerless.

Beautiful and terrible, like a funeral or birth.

Second-Hand (3/19/11)

March 22, 2011

You are not very good at building bookcases.

You always get ahead of yourself.

But, in the end, it looks ok…