Fuck the Dead

I woke up and forgot how to write a poem
and decided that writing poems was stupid.

I couldn’t think of anything to love
and thus decided love was stupid, too.

It was one of those days when you wake into the world
and can’t imagine a place in it.

All I’d done up to then felt pointless and absurd,
and future possibilities seemed equally so.

I went outside and the streets clanged with loneliness
all the people dulled and drunk with suffering;
some blatantly so, others
going through the motions of hiding it,

and I decided that suffering was stupid because it was useless,
more useless even than poetry,

and I suddenly felt outside it all, bigger than
the living and their suffering, better than the smugness of the dead.

Fuck the dead and the living alike, I thought, what
good are they to me?

I wandered through it all like some stillborn ghost
a thing unto myself, inscrutable and alien.

But within an hour I was tired of that
so I fell in love with the next useless thing I saw
and wrote a hundred stupid poems about it.

Last night I had a dream that I was headlining a poetry reading. It was kind of a big deal, it was a large space, and packed with people. When I walked on the stage and tried to start in, the mic wouldn’t work. Nobody could fix it, so it was decided I would read without the mic. But then they had to tear down the stage, so I could be closer to the audience, since I wasn’t going to be amplified. So I waited around while they did that, and then tried to start reading again. There were groups of hippies in the audience sitting in circles, chanting and singing. and playing drums. I told them they needed to keep it down a bit, since I didn’t have a mic. One hippie girl told me they couldn’t stop, because they were doing it for the “union”. I had no idea what that meant, but I really couldn’t argue. Eventually the hippies quieted down a bit, but when I started to read my stuff, a dog started playing the piano. In the dream, it didn’t seem that strange. There was a toy piano on the floor, and a dog started playing it. everyone was enraptured, of course, and a girl shouted, “Just like a human!” Eventually the owner of the dog apologized and pulled it away from the little piano. People were getting a bit restless by now, and starting to trickle out of the place. I started reading my poems, but they were scribbled on crumpled up pieces of paper, and I couldn’t read them very well, or couldn’t find the second page to whatever poem I started to read. I stood there for maybe twenty minutes or so, just pulling unintelligible crumpled pages from my pockets, trying to read them but failing. I couldn’t make it through a single poem. eventually everyone got bored and left. and then I woke up and had to go to work.

Hungover and bored and unproductive on a Sunday afternoon. And I don’t give a shit about the World Cup. Please feel free to entertain me.

The Things That Frighten Me

She says your poems don’t
make you holy

they absolve you
of no crimes

they don’t make you beautiful
or clean

you’re just as bad
as the rest of us

just as ugly
in the mirror

just as mean

your poems
are just places to hide
from the things that frighten you

you write of life
through the eyes
of strangers

but have no stomach for it
in your own home

I tell her I understand
and know
all of this

but she does not believe
she slams the door

and now
I am here again

I don’t know
where else to go.

The People You Try Not to Look At

I awoke with the terror today

usually it comes and goes
with the night

but this morning it lingered
in the unmade bed
the dirty dishes
the bathroom mirror

and through the day it
dogged me, blooming
in the corners of everything

I saw it in the man on the bus
and the woman in the grocery store

and wondered if they saw it
in me

some people you see
how the terror has taken
hold of them

and it will be all they know
for the rest of their days

these are the people
you try not to look at

most everyone knows the terror
more than they will say

we’ve made a collective decision
not to speak of it

except in books
and poems
and other things we
cast aside

the young know the terror
only through stories
and the faces of the old

they don’t yet believe

the rest of us go about
our lives as best we can

we lose ourselves in crowds
and pray it will not find us

saying
let it take the others
let someone find a way
to save us.

Fuck.  I’m totally glad I reblogged this. Fuck.  I’m totally glad I reblogged this. Fuck.  I’m totally glad I reblogged this. Fuck.  I’m totally glad I reblogged this. Fuck.  I’m totally glad I reblogged this. Fuck.  I’m totally glad I reblogged this.

Fuck. I’m totally glad I reblogged this.

(via forever-a-wasteland)

A Query

And what if we’re not much
after all,

despite everything
they’ve told us?

What if the emptiness
of a lonely afternoon
is the only truth there is?

What if we’re just these
broken, selfish things

flailing about
the indifferent days,

drowning in these uselessly
beautiful moments,

these oceans of tombstones,
dreaming someone somewhere
weeps for us?

For want of any more inspiring content: An image of myself I actually really like.

I Was Going to Write a Poem About Longing

Instead I drew a picture
of your face,

remembering the soft darkness
of your room as a refuge
from the angry sun.

And if you bothered to ask
I might tell you how those days
when you imagined me beautiful

were stolen scraps of heaven
wrested from the hands
of bitter gods.

This is a trailer made for a short story of mine that is currently available as an e-book here. They did an amazing job, and the trailer is actually better than the story. But in the story’s defense.it only costs 99 cents.