Saturday, November 13, 2010


The unequivocal equal sign wavers here a moment, not sure to walk away or shatter bone, stain knuckles Poinsettia and then be destroyed. We are unsure the answer to give the equal sign, who can neither choose nor abstain from choice. But it is only a moment and the moment passes underneath in the snowy night like fish underneath the ice we lost ourselves over and over and here is where we end. Not in a whisper but in a smile and a tear. I don't know why we cry anyway it spoils the paperwork. Running ink is the number one reason applications are denied. Equations are hard enough to solve without turmoil slipping between the numbers.

Maybe this is why, when the equal sign looks to us for answers, we have no voice.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


Blurred vision rubs the edge to a blunt knob. Devastatingly, it does not open an emergency exit door. We forgive we forget but sometimes we remember. This is the worst part about being a dog.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Everyone who reads this can fuck themselves

And what if I'm not that anymore.
If I'm not good enough or don't have enough blood.
What if I don't feel like writing because I don't want to tell the truth anymore.
What if I'm repetitious. What if my word choice is poor, my syntax shit. What if I don't want to care.
What if I just want to fuck you until my brains are dead rose petals.
What if I don't want to die.
What if I don't want to hurt anymore.
What if I'm terrified of leaving you.
What if I'm terrified.
If metaphor is reduced. Simile like Hiroshima or birthday candles or worse.
So that when we are ash it's a shitty child's lie, the cinder is turned away from, their faces bored, relieved at the intermission from grief. They will close their eyes and breathe in. This is called childhood.
This is childhood.
What if I don't feel like not writing because it feels good to lie for a while.
Would you listen?
How many times do you think I can ask to be great
Before I am not.
How many times do you think
Before you cannot/
Do you think
we'll make it?
Should I care should I have come back to this.
Should I dwell.
Is it okay if you don't have any of the answers.
It's okay if we're just quiet for a while.
It's okay to fill the room with breath
So that I can rest
So that I don't have to be that
that if I die tonight
if I
I won't be what anyone had hoped
I won't be their success story before I burn this whole fucking place to the ground
Where the dirt
the clay
and the black
are a pretty mess
This is how I prepare for winter.
Can we snuggle and be cute and make them sick of us
I feel so much compelled to disappoint.
So when the snow melts, there will be only us in this place, and no one will know where we are hiding.
Will you stay?
Because everyone who reads this can fuck themselves
and learn to cope with loss
and eventually we'll end this
and eventually we'll end.