The Decadent Graveyard

bolts fastened to brick walls loosely dangling and creaking underweight that needs grounding,
every step taken pulls down on dangling wooden boards, lumber spines that broke this countries back,

yet these are the smallest steps we take lifts from,
where support shapes from difficulties and craftsmanship,
gathered twine and fibrous systems
held together interwoven complexities, holding out and holding on,
braids in threads only learned in high quantities and capacities
in numbers and quality,
keep it together,
"keep it together"

I look at the ladder and see labor, I look at the ladder and see years
of sweat and of tweaking and of fine tuning,
I see process.

I see growth from someone who has claimed to stop since the age of 13,
I'm 5'8 and still require some lifting, baffled by how we get high and remain low,
or how we seek to be planted and only find it when others may think I'm digging myself the most shallow of graves.

But I wanted this one where the roses will never die,where there's always more to feed, where the names of the days repeat each week and we stay stagnant except for our altitude,
and I've waited far too long for this
in a bleak, expansive, sort of way.

To Mute Morning

hours and hours spent without words, every motion to maintain the illusion of rest and a halt to uneven rushes as though he were becoming a clock, becoming a statue, becoming the rook

hours and hours spent hating these flowers that curl up from the mouth; chrysanthemum forced through chapped lips, periwinkles crawling steadily into my nose tickling giggling and sloughing rock from the shoulder

i can't feel it when the water passes by when i'm scaled and divided and split through the center by a rich green moss or when it's pressed to my face to my chest undulating in its bristled heave
i kiss it

i press my stone face to the morning and dare myself to feel nothing when it turns orange purple blue against my cheeks and i dare myself not to think of when this morning will find itself balanced and come to an evening

i dare myself not to imagine this gargoyle split its human heart spilling forth and tumbling and in its crashing to the pavement introduce the morning to red

Vonnegut Heart

I woke today at 2:30 after four aborted attempts at pulling myself from strange dreams. My stomach lurched with hunger and anxiety about my continued unemployment. "If you really need a job you can just get one." It runs through my head over and over, each loop a fresh strike to my lazy and spoiled brow. I want to throw up, but not really, so instead I read for a while.
By the time I get out of bed it's nearly 5:00 and I know it would have been even later had I not been extremely hungry by that point. I remember that my horoscope for the day said something about overwhelming creative energy so I start to do some art while I wait for my coffee to boil. I finish my breakfast and am honestly feeling creative in a way that I haven't in months. It was unbelievably nice so I stuck with it for the rest of the day, starting with an idle drawing of a fancy frame then moving onto drawing gay smut while I listened to God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.

All I wanted to say was that I spent my day feeling terrible for a little while but then feeling considerably less terrible later on and that's not so bad when you get down to it. I can spend a lot of time sulking around because things aren't the way I think they aught to be in my life but I don't think I should anymore. It's not helping anyone and doesn't endear me to anybody.

These sickly nights that turn to morning are all I've ever asked.

These useless words that aren't hardly poetry are all I ever intended.

Fell asleep again and in my dreams I was trying to write a poem
"If I had the guts to do it, I wouldn't"
written over and over in my childish hand. I drank some more beer then a childhood tormentor turned to me, whispered, "If you don't want to drink then stop drinking. Look over at me and know that I'm not as drunk as you are." Now there was something I could drink to.
I gave up on the dumb poem, the subject matter was tired, overly cathartic. Instead I watched as one of the class was exposed to be a prolific chemist responsible for a hazardous pharmaceutical. They threw their water bottle at the teacher; looked awfully upset. Could have drank to that too, but I didn't have the beer yet.

I had a beautiful and tragic dream this morning.
I was a dog, and my name was Max.

Maybe one day I'll tell you all about it.

Then again, maybe I won't.

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DAY

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DREAMS

I put on my old glasses; took off the too fine frames that had seemed so important, so briefly stumbled out into a week of heavy nights that looked warmer than they were and breathed easy I didn't seem to mind, if only for seven days out of thousands, that everything was exactly the way it was and goddamn if that didn't make it nice to be outside on a summer night.
That's all really.
Somehow those old square frames made my brain syrupy and sweet, not minding all too much about anything, just wanting someone true to hold and be held by.
Now I'm still wearing these old glasses and I don't feel too sure about what I want. Or, I know what I want, sort of but it seems so much like something I didn't really want at all when I found it a little bit on into one charged blue black night.
I guess what I'm trying to say's that I wanted something until I had it, and I guess that's not so strange, but I hope it doesn't work out that way again.