basketball has lost itself. i don’t get it.
everyone’s running around, knocking people
over, holy shit, that’s a foul.
he tries to stop the hemmoraging here,
a little bit. that piercing look right now,
when there’s a struggle, 59.9 here in the
quarter. well over 500, the battle on the block,
the more, the merrier.
through december i grit my teeth. i pull in
the big lines, call time out, i don’t know if
i want to take that.
we’ll be right back, we’re intrigued,
we never had a chance.
I spend all my time looking for that
fucking sea turtle,
the kind the locals say died off when the tourist boats polluted the reef,
the one that will deliver the message when
god has forsaken me.
I don’t have much use for satan but I found him,
bleary eyed under a bay rock,
waiting for the next reason to excuse himself,
sink his teeth in and parasite,
just as scared as the rest of us.
I french tip my nails, french kiss
the only love I’ve ever known.
Pardon my french, but fuck that sea turtle,
I want to save myself.
Winter hardens, freezes over, flakes off,
I am most inspired by interstates,
cosmic-like tunnels of snow or stars,
it doesn’t matter which.
The boxes are packed, I find mostly angler fish,
the light at the end of the tunnel and
sharp teeth in a sunken skull.
I drive forty-five, I can’t see the lanes,
but the rear view promises headlights,
wheels in the tracks of my bald tires,
suggesting that possibly, maybe,
their operators trust me to lead them home.
When you are scared you just have to buckle down, let it engulf you and then… Let it go.
Beyonce said that.
The pursuit of happiness is the programmed goal, most people are too stupid to realize. Everybody is always trying to sell it to you in cellophane packages.
All the famous people, the millionaires, they’re not thieves. They were just smart enough to say:
I am better than this.
Most of the time when something nags on your brain, you should pay attention because it is trying to tell you something.
This is why I don’t understand money problems, or why my coworker remains half of a volatile relationship.
I’m not better than anyone, I’m just saying its better to have a hawk’s perspective, rather than a dove.
Hip hop occupies no disheartened grooms, no four years of silence, no verses of self-pity.
It’s just, you can’t stand them, so you drop them. It’s just, they’re scared of the future, so you hop in a DeLorean.
I am just learning to let thoughts consume me, without feeling the need to express myself. This is not one of those times.
Your attitude, not your action, determines the outcome. Don’t get greedy, take what you need.
It is okay for a song to ring in your head for the remainder of the day, it is not annoying, it just is.
I wear the flowers in my hair, the frog pin on my grey v-neck that shows my tattoos,
I roll dice for fun.
In slate grey combat boots, black mascara, I step to the plate,
Bold as always, to say: Tupac lives.
submersion comes first
your arms as lead
water pools & calloused feet
the mirage of your face
for the first time in weeks
then there is hyperspace.
light moves, a wormhole
but less eternal and
no one cares
what comes next
you want to say
“i miss you”
you don’t know how
you can’t miss someone
you never had
quiet when the heater clicks off
google all the answers
you turn your head at silence
wishing on JPEGs of shooting stars
frozen in time
at least yours to keep
at least this picture can’t leave
does not possess the capacity
half off salads and sandwiches, bar & grill
busy with college kids and bears fans.
home has a humiliating loss, i am losing tips,
most people look for a every reason to be mad at the waitress.
there’s a guy somewhere distant and we trade
illness like collector’s cards. it’s my turn to be sick.
hearing parallel with the evening special,
i spend more time in my head
throwing limes at the fry cook, thinking
of course there’s one that got away.
fear is a damn good cyclist,
and i am turning pages
on thought forms, learning
any one thing can become the
only thing. pyramid tiles
in the kitchen, cold fronts,
pads of my feet laughing at
figures of buddha and
salem hysteria. thinking of
years ago, the age i believed
by now, of course i’d have
a better life.
the world doesn’t want a story of apocalypse
so i caught guilty saline
on the edge and talked them down.
turned them into drops of quality paint,
foreign exchange professors &
dead leaves on canvas.
i dreamed about blue-grey bodies for a long time.
on the sidewalk, their silver cords
dangled northwest of the figures,
floating like ballooms or plasma.
it was brilliant. the air in 5-D,
when was the last time you looked around like that?
i wrote mostly from the confines of a bed,
a fan churning at the foot even through winter.
he doesn’t understand.
i stay quiet,
let him talk of work, the car he almost bought.
we get sushi, extra wasabi,
the waiter asks of my diet like its something offensive.
i don’t care about the soundtrack here.
i trade currency for more tattoos,
others twist my arm like its their own,
not unlike pretty much everything else.
we threw away the grey towels, pistachio-
romaine and baby greens salads.
i could not be bothered to love you.
my deadset attitude readjusted,
like you said it would. i could
not see the light,
nor watch the movie, condemned in
i want to learn judo, wrap
my nose in
strong language, half-added
heartaches, just for the taste.
& i would not settle for the
half acre taste in june,
nor the orville centers in light switches,
the longing essence that would not
be okay with just enough.
i am pieced together by fragments of a longer tale, recording not what i want but what i can.
i always believed truck drivers honked at every woman on the interstate, and that every woman was unmoved by obscenities through the passenger window.
persistence seems worthy only of astronomy, because cosmology is the only thing that goes on forever.
third degree burns to the knuckles are trivial in the scheme of things.
the catalyst for the shift remains a mystery- perhaps i was lost, too exhausted to continue on the material plane. perhaps i could not bear to think of you for another second.