Poetry

Which Frame Do You Want?

If I should want a house,
I must write it into existence,
every word a dart I fling at a penny
in the hopes I make it mine.
What is this accounting thing?
How many dollars does it take to make a home?

Oh. Oh my …

That many?

If I should want a house,
I might have to build it myself,
with all the skills I do not have
and money owed to institutions.
Paychecks won’t check any mortgage boxes.
The seeds of this dream may be fruitless.

(And I’m one of the privileged ones.)

Time and want do nothing for me
except riddle my bones with anxiety.

It will take decades to approach the dream house,
each step a monumental task,
and I’m running out of energy.
Lethargy has taken me.

I used to love looking at tiny homes.
Maybe that’s the best answer.
Though I’d love to grow huge gardens
and plant all kinds of food.

The dream, the dream, please don’t
wake me up.
My headspace is free, my brain
has no need for rent.
Rend my lungs and liver from my body
and sell them where you can –
is this down payment enough
to organize a trade?

If I don’t need to breathe,
a coffin will house me well enough.
I suppose I can finally have my own place
when I’m dead.

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Poetry

Sunday Despair

what does it mean when i, i frequently think “i want to die,” to where have these thoughts descended, or have they climbed, for things to be ended in such undue time, fucking kill me, he whispers to himself as he checks another dating site, and stretches his wings for the final flight.

for it’s time to go. vast silence and nomenclatural violence hast turned me into an observer of myself. i place my body on the shelf and walk three steps back. a view to a kill, but i’m not that active – a view to a slow death, more like, like the elongation of time when that guy ran into me with his brakeless bike on the fourth of july when I was nine. i think i had scrapes all along my back. i don’t think i was thrown, but what is known in the midst of immense degradation and embarrassment?

i’m sure that guy felt like utter shit for the rest of the night. i feel sorry for him now. he didn’t fix his bike and he hurt a kid. sorrow piles upon unending sorrow.

on the morrow, my sad wings will have melted. the wax that holds them, i mean. i shall fall into the churning pit of the workday. threshing teeth and maniacal demon laughter will cut me, hot breath smelling like old cash and cigarettes badly hidden by gum or mints.

i don’t have the will to climb to the top shelf, but i have to get there. for these wings must try. to throw me as high as they can, to be blessed or damned.

for it’s time to go.

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Poetry

Verve

Flower child outside the fields,
your wand’ring home will be
these paths that skirt around the stacks
and end up by the sea.

They wind around the sodden downs
through air that’s soft and sweet,
a walk where you avoid the crown
and spy good stalks and leaves.

The asters, they will kiss you there,
samphire will sing to thee.
O flower child outside the fields,
come join this panoply.

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Poetry

Preen

No more carrion crows
a-carryin’ woes

Give me a baby lynx,
some fine-tuned hunter
without the strength to kill

Teach ’em all to cuddle
before they have to gnash and tear

I want to be there,
when they all huddle
for warmth

A crow caws in the distance

They know the cold,
they know
the end

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