As a law abiding citizen,
I should start as many lives
as it takes for me to stop feeling
bad that I can’t spend a minute
without caffeine. I hear you’re sinking,
or so they say — how can I help you?
can you help me help you? help you?!
help me! There are thousands of ghosts
hanging out in broad day light
so I spend all my time hiding
in bath water so they don’t know I’m here.
They question: my use of dying so
I can haunt you, why I never
seem the same each tomorrow,
why I’m hiding from a million dead
me’s conscripted in dreams to try
to get to the me that swallows
spiders and gets chased
by machette’d apparitions and remembers
fathers of fathers with no context
and flies but immediately fucks up
as soon as he realizes it
and falls into an elephant tusk
moon and waits for a morning
that spills across me like snow.
Through ruthless “Mean Girls” style tactics and lots of eye gouging. Who’s got time for poems these days, amiright? When someone wants to do all the work in compiling and pitching it, just let me know where to sign. Because Yeezus told me to go hard. At the bottom of a Cup Noodles, floating in the broth along side regret. Favorite robot:
16 Jun 2013 / 19 notes
After a prompt at Brooklyn Poets’ YAWP last night
Your dead, their dead, our dead dangle
like cigarette smoke we stumble into
on our way out the bar, the decision
to live wanting to have some flesh
in it if we cough up enough —
do you wanna split one is a dumb
question after all the years thrown
into empty cans filling with rain
water stained from spent matches,
and that could be our new
science experiment, seeing how many
yard sticks we could mend together
from egg to chick to chicks to omeletts
at an overpriced brunch (I know
there’s a billion pounds of fair trade
nonsense running through our hearts
but shit I can’t taste the difference,
can you?) and hey, wanna split
that and something else, and
we’re back at the original
question like a phantom whisked
into the neon punctuation pummeling
my head into a menace that would
gobble this whole city up like a cupcake
with a side of Advil and another smoke.
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10 Jun 2013 / 4 notes