Thursday, September 6, 2012

n/a

you're my every day.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

n/a

n/a

the sun was directly behind you
i could've (might've) mistook
you

as a stranger

distance felt more natural
fled the crime scene
burnt the evidence
confessed

& there's no invisible light.


just a sunny day with no end.

Friday, June 15, 2012

"futures"


wake up at noon
make myself a crown
build a castle
wage a war
tear down the banner
sleep on the couch
find myself alone











Monday, May 14, 2012

drafts

"drafts"

it's true what i have said--

that i am
             weary. misplaced.
still stuck in the stream
                                        of
monotony. by daylight
                                       my
legs drag along the riverbed.

day-dreamt of ghosts bound
to the fences
                    their brothers
& sisters
                   once sat upon--

at night i am
                     drowning.

unable to lighten the weight
of myself.
               
remaining a student, a son, a
child
           to the eyes of forever.


(title-less) from Michelle Gottschlich / edited/chopped from Josh Zoerner


n/a

i dreamt of lake michigan. dreamt
that i could smell 
                             foul water & the 
waste of the mill furnace. 

watched Bethlehem’s stale candle. 
                                         & sister, 
i dreamt of you. 
you

       up to your shoulders in water.

from the beach,
i watched mercurial waves lick 
your
        clavicle. 

saw a host of gulls circle 
                                        over us, 
& waited for their cries 
                                    like distant 
door hinges. 

i thought of the rosary 
                                   mother gave you 
&  sister, i
                   stopped 
                                believing 

but prayed to the gulls anyway.
& i couldn’t get to father. so i
                                                waited 
for you. i stayed

perched at your window, 
                                         watching 
the garden tremble. 
                               sometimes hiding 
under your covers.
& it's true, 

i can smell your sweat laced with the 
dirt of summer.

sister, i wondered if you had
                                              drowned 
or forgot how to swim. 
i could teach you again.

(i thought you might like 
                                       the water) 

on your side of the bed i reason 
to myself how you didn’t cry at 

our stepfather’s funeral. you’d find me 
rose-eyed 
                just staring at your ceiling. 

sister,
          you are a russian doll 
& i keep you safe. 

& sister, in my dreams i wait for you, 
i wait just to hear for 
                                 your footsteps to 
crack on our floorboards. 


Sunday, April 29, 2012

fledgling

"fledgling"

i sit in a hotel suite writing
                                           about fame
& tradition.  ramshackle
                                        assemblage of
papers

            trailed by the affectionate cuddle
of cigarette smoke. i must've
                                              seemed old
& grey from her angle.
                                     even concrete &
glass put me to shame.

but that's not what other people
                                                 think. i am
a different season-- a hugeness of fiction.
an unending catherine wheel, that goes
     

           & goes.






Wednesday, April 25, 2012


"letters of note"

marvelous,

you are fooling around elsewhere.

we shared interesting places &
       listened to one another's antecedents.
i am certain
                   that is where this comes from.
i am half as good as i once was
                           and you see well enough.

to hell with it,
                         this is what we do
when we are at our best.

i am sure
               you were wonderfully
                                        naked

as you both tumbled the way novice acrobats
tumble. my memory will
                                                  place the shit
in the wastebasket, but this time you
                                                          cheated.

then my head flickers & i remember some old
words: "we have to hurt like hell
                                                     before we
get serious."

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

heavy handed

"heavy handed"

hands give & give back;
calloused fingertips twirl
obstinate purity as it falls
in & out of place.

what i have is a dream of you.
a clock tick rouses an empty
feeling to which i can't relate.
when i wake the room is bare.

white gloom in our thirties
seems elegant now. does it
strike you as profound to
run in our hour of need?

employ a fortuneteller; attempt
to predict time- but never wind
back the clock.

i'll climb toward stars &
make a home in your hair.
then again, maybe i won't
but i might.

i say that because there is despair in
wedding bells-- a stream of pure discord
that would run through my head & roll
from my mouth like a long-distance train.

there is a price for paradise.
if you do not believe me, i
will show you the scars.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

recurring

"recurring"

it's strategy

the way you'd trade me
for better associations,

try to piece together everything &
realize that nothing turns you on,

to distinguish lies from truths & learn
of the secret, quiet places that i wander.

sometimes i wake up without your voice
and when i do, i always want to.


Monday, April 2, 2012

true widow

"true widow"

a true widow
stares into oven burners

& notes that love is the same as
writing novels for the deaf;
an epic soundless emptiness.

a true widow
stares into oven burners.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

n/a



eventually, all hearts will break.

Monday, March 26, 2012

n/a


Arches break.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

--

eventually something new will occur here... but until then(n)...


Thursday, February 23, 2012

n/a -- exit

poetry: no more

--

I woke in the woods. I slept with no one beside me. I was not interested anyone else. I was not interested in understanding another man or woman. The morning's early onset was brighter than the days before, even the months before. The sun was a giant cataract hindering me from taking in the tops of evergreen trees. Hindering me. I wrapped the torn remnants of blanket around my shoulders and spit blood onto the cold, black earth. My lungs have been degenerating for days. I can feel the ruby droplets collect and form a pomegranate within my chest. The blood-spit wrapped itself around a moss-covered stone. Red on green. Green on red. Christmas colors, I thought. It was a tiny present to the Earth, a little salutation after years of an existence that lacked a proper introduction.

This-is-me.-I-have-been-here-all-along.-Growing.-Shitting.-Dying.

The song of cardinals was a warning. In the silent hours everything remained still and the ferns, lilies, and mushroom rot hissed tiny curses as I stood amongst them. And in their curses I felt at home. I knew their hatred well. Their tiny leaflets and heads hung low as my feet passed amongst and over them. While I was an object of their hatred I was also undeniable a force that they had no control over. My existence, to them, was that of a putrid invader. A heart beating to drip toxicity amongst their home, amongst their young. My brain pulsed as I considered their innate, actionless hatred. My stomach lurched giving way to a guttural roar heard by none.

One could ask how I find myself in the forrest sleeping. I wouldn't resign myself to just a single, or even multiple answers. It was an impulse. I wanted to die among the barren and the godless. I wanted to meet my end in the month September, yet I'm alive well into the month of November. For a while I kept a record of my days by arranging the bones of the animals I fed on. For a while I kept a record of the animals I fed on by drawing lines in the ground that represented the names I had given them. I was thankful. They deserved names. But now the animals were migrating to the South-- and I could not survive winter here.

Amongst the swirls of dirt and broken sticks and fallen autumn leaves I surveyed the land. I looked across the mountains and into the mire of the clouds. Anything I could see, I saw. I noted the segments of an old, forgotten road to the South and averted my gaze. There were no men here and there was no place for them. Not even I belonged here. I wanted to die with no trace of me remaining, no trace of man, no trace of existence. The road was a representation of man's urge for direction, for meaning, for the lack of a personal compass or will. The road was a hollow, fallow thing. The cracked blacktop, partially covered in foliage and plantforms.

So I turned my back to the South and headed into the North.

To die as all men do-- broken & alone.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Eden

"Eden"

my love -
i admire
your unwavering spirit,
your romantic intent.
your faithless salitter.

i've forgotten how to think:
you've rearranged me.

though still,
no one is funny.

the air is empty but there is a light
coming from underneath your
door.

at an old oak desk your pen
scribbles words about touching skin
& remembering the way blood flows.
i've pinned your old poems to the inside
of my jacket for memory or for safekeeping.

but now

you talk in theories i don't recognize.
refining
speech
diagramming
words.
words
that measure me.

a strategy -
a scale balancing options:

calculating what i could be traded in for.

i'd better get a drink, before i get
bored.
bored standing in our bedroom door
drinking.

you'd never find me & i won't call
i'll just stand there
drinking,
just fucking
drinking.

Monday, February 20, 2012

unfinished

mark a new chapter.
the return of an old threat
my love - i admire
your unwavering intent,
your romantic spirit.

down the hallway past
the staircase i am walking
out the front door.



Saturday, February 18, 2012

n/a



"i'm too old to be so selfish." i said to myself over and over. my ears ringing. my eyes focusing on the light above me. my back as rigid as the piles of clothes underneath me. me me me, i i i.

but when it boils down to it...
does it even matter? 'cause
everyone is cannibalizing
someone else.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

n/a

sometimes you are so beautiful i could cry.

rest, you are the sun version 2

"rest, you are the sun" version 2

we sit hand in hand-
outside it snows.
the future remains a fragile thing.
we've built a house of cards. i am
reminded of your lipstick on my collar &
your reflection in my bathroom mirror
when i am alone. when we sleep
our hearts beat the same pattern.

each meaningful
event is marked on a
timeline we'll never see.
every single moment is alive.
our tighly clasped hands give way
to sweaty palms & we look to
one another and say:
"another year, another year"

early November

"early November"

corn fields of dirty gold reflect
the light dripping from clouds.
a boy's dirty feet remind him
that love is a different

color. on this autumn day
it pours and pours. water
sinks deep but is never
truly gone.

in his golden sea, he is
a ship that will never sail.




all roads lead to Heaven

"all roads lead to Heaven"

all roads lead to Heaven.
my cold feet touch
black earth. i

walk & crush flowers.
in angels' eyes i see
no hate. only holes
where memories

flow. her lips apologize
for dragging me through
last November but i

just want to drink from
her cup. no longer does
love protect me, nor release
me. i want to

cease to exist. beneath
the ivy archway i lay a hand
on her taut skin.

i am her keeper.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

rest, you are the sun

"rest, you are the sun"

on my bed we sit hand in hand-
outside it snows. it snows. it

snows. inside we've built a house
of cards made of hearts. our future
remains a fragile thing. i am reminded
of your lipstick on my collar, your

reflection in my bathroom mirror
when i am alone. when we sleep
quietly our hearts beat the same
while each meaningful
event is marked on a
timeline we'll never see.

every single moment is alive
just like the two of us. our
clasped hands give way to
sweaty palms & we look to
one another and say:
"another year, another year"

Thursday, February 9, 2012

in the lowest light

"in the lowest light"

she will not leave the house today.
her, the daytime poet.
her, the evening statue.
her, the nighttime dead.

bitterly written words
give way to a malice that
never takes shape. & so
her eyes get lost, her
teeth clamor.

a crow sits upon a branch
staring into at her unused
fireplace. it only believes in
omens found in piles of
dead leaves.

she sits unfed and emotionless
staring at an old white willow tree.
a staleness, rather a stillness of
winter air, sits like an irritable
sorrow.

alone she responds to her emptiness,
her fits of decay. as the sleeping stars
lay flat across the sky the dying rays
of sunlight seem useless to her lifeless
eyes. her pen scribbles the traits of a
crying thing that will never have a name.




Tuesday, February 7, 2012

white halls

"pulp"

i told you part with me,
your story will remain the
same. the world will not come
crashing down & notes will
not fold themselves.

i can still see where the margin
breaks. a life type faced in black
font. don't panic-
wake up every morning &
kill the same dream.

& when i'm gone i'll become
more streamlined; rather
i will speak in the way paper
folds. my poems will be as
flowers next to hospital beds.

paper are hearts hung while a
piano carries on. without you i
will bring back the dead.

Monday, February 6, 2012

dotted lines

"dotted lines"

years from now you'll write me a letter
on my birthday, explaining

that you lack a reflection in wet pavement.
just tell me your emotions have left you,
but in simple arrangements & less metaphor.

i'll write you back:
to let you know nothing has
changed- that my walls are covered
in portraits of people i will never be.

even though you've left
we're connected by a string.
in the middle of the day,
i speak to your ghost in an empty room.

i left the cadence of your words packed
away in a box, tied with a ribbon.


Monday, January 30, 2012

hallways of always

"hallways of always"

i begged for one last summer,
my lover but there is a darkness.

your voice no longer carries in
the hallways of always. goodbye
is only a word, so keep your
head from your hands-
our love has never spoiled.

you stand naked with uneasy eyes.
through life, i've given you the stars
but now all i can give is my jacket. babe, i
want you today & i'll want you tomorrow.

if i had a father he'd tell me that
there is a light that i'll meet,
that'll vindicate me. but darling,
it is surely no home for me.

the bottles are empty & money spent.
as the curtain is drawn, i've made amends
with past lovers, my brother, & friends.
before i hit the road, i should say goodbye,
'cause surely it's closing time.

love is a possessed word; a false
clock that ticks out of spite.




Wednesday, January 25, 2012

n/a

if you're sick to your stomach
pull out the knife.

Monday, January 23, 2012

n/a

eventually i will be gone
& you will be alone.
ellipsis.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

n/a

rotten corn bled of worms

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

in my decent skin, this is all i am version 2

"in my decent skin, this is all i am version 2"

i lift my eyes toward the sky
& inhale the bleakness
of midwestern snow.
my eyes get lost in flickers
of white heaven scraps
that fall & melt on my
pale skin.

one day, i tell her, i will be an old
man drinking coffee & reading the
newspaper in an old wooden chair. i will
be content until my coffee becomes cold
& my joints ache.

flakes fall quicker now. her green
eyes staring into my grey eyes. i know
what is implied though in truth i
resign myself to the facts of the matter:
i am young though i am not what i am.
the snow is pallorous but it does not carry
light the way her skin carries light.

i rub my hands to generate warmth &
i start to speak to myself but the sentences form
backwards & the words tumble down my throat
& crawl into the tips of my fingers.
the old man groans within me & tells me precisely
what i need to hear. but for now i am young
& i do not heed the warning.

all good things version 2

"all good things version 2"

words i speak are the structure
of goodnight kisses. my tongue is an
architect & my teeth are a workshop of poets.
my eyes have searched for
a muse with a subtle urgency,
though never desperation. now,

i want time to hold me hostage.

i see my friends' faces in moments
of writer's block. i speak sentences
about the simpleness of money & the way
snow comes when it is needed the most.

you have made my warm blood
retreat to the corners of my body.
this is not a love poem nor is it a
renunciation. this is a heart's noise-making.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

n/a

i can see the future and there is no love to speak of.

all good things

"all good things"

the words i have spoken are the structure
of all goodnight kisses. my tongue is an
architect & my teeth are a workshop of
directionless poets.

my eyes have always searched for
a muse with something of a subtle
urgency, though never desperation.
though usually i see through glass;
now my vision is clear.

i want time to hold me hostage.

i've spoken the truth over a hundred times
since the day i encountered then
reencountered you days later.

i have seen my friends' faces in moments
of writer's block. i have spoken sentences
about the simpleness of money & the way
snow comes when it is needed the most.

i cannot compare these things to
the way you have made my warm blood
cool & retreat to the corners of my body.
this is not a love poem nor is it a
renunciation. this is a heart's noise-making.

in my decent skin, this is all i am

"in my decent skin, this is all i am"

i lift my eyes upward toward
the sky & inhale the bleakness
of middlewestern snow.

somehow my eyes get lost in
the flickers of white heaven scraps
that fall & melt on my hardened
pale skin.

one day, i tell her, i will be an old
man drinking coffee & reading the
news in an old wooden chair. i will
be as all old men, content until my
coffee becomes cold & my joints ache.

the flakes fall quicker now. her green
eyes staring into my grey eyes then
shifting to the door of her car. i know
what is implied though in truth i
resign myself to the facts of the matter:
i am young though i am not what i am.

the snow is pallorous but it does not carry
the light the way her skin carries the light.
tired, she climbs down into her car
& shuts the door, closing out the hiss of
snow & the chatter of voices from the outdoors.

she drives off. i rub my hands to generate warmth
i start to speak to myself but the sentences form
backwards & the words tumble down my throat
& crawl into the tips of my fingers.

the old man groans within me & tells me precisely
what i need to hear. it will snow all day long, he says,
so you'd better go indoors. but for now i am young
& i do not heed the warning.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

we have the truest believers version 2

"we have the truest believers version 2"

this is not our America, this was
built by James Dean & Liz Taylor.

drawn hearts abbreviate emotions.
while hands carry short stories &
are the voice of common life.
cuts & bruises are footnotes
in our American lives.

we burn effigies &
deface our progenitors
to speak though all we've said are
words pertinent to ourselves.
we are cashing in on
the backs of cast-offs.

lovers subtract rationale in lieu of
stuttered, cinematic romances.
"lovers" are hardened silhouettes
veiled by apartment windows.

we bleed but not until after we
sit on a park bench & breathe cool domestic
air saying over & over: "this is home, this is home".

-----
an unannounced companion piece to Vince Bauter's "Graffiti Westerns."

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

n/a

i want to tell you something you don't want to hear.

we have the truest believers

"we have the truest believers"

in a hushed voice she whispers,
"this is not our America. this was
built by James Dean & Liz Taylor."

in spite of the sun hanging over my
head i am cold, i am frozen, i am
weeping. if i drive down the highway
will i reach my destination or
burn up into dust? fated to become the
Saint of Our American Dream
or "something as equally
important".

in this America,
our hearts abbreviate our emotions.
workers' hands carry short stories;
they are the voice used to capture
the essence of common life. all cuts
& bruises on our bodies are footnotes
in the story of our American lives.

in this America,
we are allowed to burn effigies and
deface our progenitors as a means
to speak, even though all we've said are
arrangements of words pertinent to
ourselves & only ourselves. we are
social thieves, cashing in on the backs
of the cast-offs.

in this America,
our sexualities are hard to judge. we
take lovers the way a candle takes a
flame. men & women stare intently into
the eyes of love & fate & fear. they subtract
rationale in lieu of stuttered, cinematic romances.
those we take lovers are just hardened silhouettes
veiled by apartment windows and fists
thumping on walls in ecstasy or in anger.

then i remembered the truth of it all:
we bleed black blood, but not until after we
sit on a park bench near a river &
breathe in the cool domestic air saying over
& over as the pigeons crowd our legs:

"this is home, this is home".
-----
an unannounced companion piece to Vince Bauter's "Graffiti Westerns."

n/a

“Life is beautiful” my mother used to say.

And I’d respond, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Each time I commit pen to paper, finger to key, I write about the Midwest. It calls to me, after having lived here for so long you could call me committed. Committed to our washed out landscapes of gold, broken corn. Committed to our half-toothed diner denizens. Committed to the way snow attaches to the ground only to leave it dark and wet. The pale Earth stretches out for miles and miles in every direction. I am far from the coasts.

I am very far.

These worn and weary people grew up on stories about Jesus and his followers. Biblebeaters calling out that Heaven was waiting for them and condemning sinners. Kneeling in pews contained by stained-glass windows they watch their daughters confess their sins and smile. Their smiles are nods to the tradition that they are keeping even if it is entirely insignificant to humanity. It keeps them in unison.

News flash: no strangers wanted.

The Middle Western states are ugly and beautiful. They are as timid as they are forceful. Filled with killers and heroes. Farmers and pseudo-yuppies. Between the grey sky and the playgrounds with chipped paint there are cities that rise like archaic lamplight beacons in the horizon. They are reminders that time does pass, that deviance and tolerance may progress in a traditionally-minded region. To the old the reasons for a metropolis’ existence was something that could never be explained.

What could we tell them?

We lack perverse beauty pageants but make up for them with social stigmas and intolerance. Even the oldest person in a town couldn’t tell you when they originated.

Laws against men being out after midnight, sundown towns, segregation, and against womens’ rights to their own bodies. Traditions that separate us, yet bind us intrinsically. You chose to submit or you chose to fight. Some would call it an offense to partake in either side. Eventually, the lucky ones realize that they’ve created their own eternal prison.

Midwesterners won’t admit it but they are paranoid. Despite our freedom we are afraid of change. It is in our nature to stifle any immediate adaptation to a new way of life. We are happy controlling others in order to continue our own traditions. Control makes us content to be ourselves. If you were born on the inside of the Midwest you know exactly what I’m talking about.

You’re here for life.

Sometimes being happy can be easy. Sometimes being happy comes at the expense of others’ happiness. I’ll never leave the Midwestern states.

Chock it up to tradition.

So now I sit on the edges of the Midwest. Ready to tell stories about the unknown and ready to touch the abyss and let it know I’m unafraid. Prepared to look for the last remnants of the American Dream or the first signs of a new one.

I’m terrified to find it.

It is such a critically simple thought; to consider what the source of my interest in my native region is. I’ve asked myself, what is the Midwest anyway? Is it children dressed in their Sunday clothes, holding their parents hands and waiting for the right moment to please their parents? Or is it the spilled liquor dripping quietly onto the muddy floor of a bar’s darkest corner? How could I tell you what it is that made me love the Midwest?

It is a description too hard to put into plain words. Too hard to paint in lavish imagery and supreme vocabulary because it isn’t any of those things. The hills roll and the roads crack. Decay is a simple word. We cover up the faults only after they’ve been chastised and broken for years. We’re quick to condemn but slow to conceive. Our simplicity chokes us.

Our bloody remains are fuel for others.

But is that even the truth?

I told myself that when I was younger I’d tell my family members that I was going to move and escape. That I could do it because it made sense. That the East held possibility and that the West could send me off into a world of film and glamour. My family never spoke ill of the notions. My grandfather told me that I was the one that had to live with the decision to leave. That he could live with it, that my mother would have to live with it, and that everyone else didn’t have to understand.I understood that the future meant sacrifice. That sometimes sacrifice could be an everlasting thing.

At the time, I didn’t understand that. Freedom comes with a price, whether or not anyone ever tells you that is neither here nor there. It is true. Then pass that information on but never add in the omniscient “I told you so.” I told myself that the Midwest kept me mentally subdued. That the real enemy was the rampant corporatism that spread throughout the middle of America. That perhaps society from the outer rim states was brought in to keep us feeling cultured.

My older, less radical mind is inclined to question my younger self. Did the Midwest really matter? Or are we the people built on traditions that time forgot? It is an anxious thought to consider. But what is the point in succumbing to fear? There is none.

There is one thing about the Midwest that is spectacular. Stop and appreciate the stars and planets hanging above. Planes and satellites flicker in and out of our window to the cosmos. In the areas that light pollution leaves untainted planetary order seems undoubtedly in place.

But, as the Midwesterner would say, “Dreams don’t fill your stomach.”

Though often, I remember my dreams. My dreams consist of familiar places with familiar faces. There was one dream I still haven’t forgotten. I stumbled down the streets of my hometown looking to my left and to my right. I saw nothing in any direction. It was in the moment I realized my utter loneliness that I began to burst into deep red and orange flames. My hands and arms became wings as I fell to my knees, screaming. My view zoomed outward and I saw myself laying there in the middle of Main Street, eyes and mouth dripping fire. I watched myself burn for a while. It seemed as though I made peace with what was happening. In that moment my back grew the wings of a cardinal.

I woke up.

My girlfriend used to tell me about Freud while we lay in bed. I’d laugh about his dated appeal, she’d remind me about his theory of dreams. That dreams were simple in nature in comparison to true human emotions and needs. She says to me in her soft voice, “Dreams are our wishes spun and distorted into makeshift scenes.” I always wondered if that was true. That if the possessions, the locations, the companions that I saw were true desires or just figments of brain activity.

Before I closed my eyes and before the darkness of the room turned to the darkness of my eyes I thought to myself, “I wonder if she will haunt my dreams.” It was strange to me, the understanding that what I wanted and what I needed were at this moment in time were the same thing. She laughs frequently. It was infectious. I rarely give in to sleep when she’s around. She keeps me awake even when she’s asleep. I tell myself that it’s the way her skin smells. The way her lips taste. The way her hips curve and then curve upward. She gives me the chance to feel human without feeling reserved in my actions.

She gives me the idea that homes and families can be different. I asked myself after every conversation, how could I be so naive? How could I overlook this detail or that detail? Was I purposefully trying to isolate myself or was it bred into me inadvertently. Or maybe I am living out the life of my father; build up something only to leave it when times grew hard.

His ghost always seemed to haunt me throughout my youth. I always wondered where he was or what he was doing. Not out of care per say, but out of curiosity. I looked around my town for tiny glimmers of his existence. Homes I knew he’d lived in, people I knew he’d met. I tracked them down through my mother’s high school yearbook. I read every signature and every signed picture. I tried piecing together their lives together because I’d never seen a world with them happily together. And there he was, constantly over my shoulder. My ethereal father.

I’d tell myself, “I’ll never be like you, running away from everything. I’ll never abandon my family.”


Yet here I am, trying to leave my family behind as the end of college looms. My family is a striking example of the common Midwesterner. Their complete acceptance of their life condition is dignifying. They are content with the worlds they build for themselves and the world that they live in. While they may complain and curse about their losses they willingly sleep at night and wake the next day to do it all over again. I envy them. Though I wonder if they only truly live in dreams.

The reality is that I am responsible for what I do when I’m alive. That if I am alive I am doing something. That if I am alive I am going somewhere.

Often I wake at night to the sound of thunder and the sound of wind licking my windows. I slide open the glass to let the cool, wet air into my bedroom and inhale. The Midwestern rain has its tricks through; it can easily turn the scent of clarity into the scent of musty decay. It is in those moments that the storms become painful instead of cathartic. I discovered that the rain only washed away peoples’ tears if they desired it. And I discovered that regardless of intention even the heaviest of storms gave way to the softest rain.

Again came the thunder. The sound was deafening.

But there I stood. Lucky to be inside where it was warm. Where I could find solace in the woman in my bed. Where I could discover the truths and the secrets of another. My bed, a place where I could lose myself alone or with another. It felt good.

-----------------


All of this was a stream of various topics / ideas written over the course of a few hours in December of 2011. It is jumbled and it'll be rewritten and reworked into various other ideas and eventually take on a more honed form. For the most part, these topics are things I hope to address in the eventual graphic novel I'm starting in summer 2012 tentatively titled,"'Westerner".

n/a


when was the last time you fell in love?
did you forget that it makes you feel alive?

Sunday, January 8, 2012

student. student. student.

"student. student. student."

dated philosophers whisper "life is
a box of frayed ends." their bruised
hands & bent cocks are as worn as
their theories.

kids say "life is too much for me i'm tired
of learning." they talk & they talk. endless
direction, no follow through. all the kids
keep talking.

adults? work is buried underneath mounds of
cocaine. white towers of Babel stifling the senses
as they travel into the deepest recesses of the brain.
i'm a cynic,

it's a fact & you don't need to agree. people tell you
what matters, how things should be, but i could serve
the future better by burning this fucking degree.

Friday, January 6, 2012

indifference

"indifference"

i walk the riverbed until
my feet turn red

with blood & exposed pulp but
the exposed sinew reminds me
of flushed rose petals or

maybe the meat of cows
that we feed on because
it just "makes sense". no,

this is not political nor
is it an ethos-related statement.

i'm just saying all animals
break down in the same way:

into a red and white mess
that someone else will clean up
because our bones simply cannot

reanimate after our flesh decidedly
clings to the black, welcoming earth.


n/a

it is true.

i know you want more.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

an explanation

"an explanation"

i give into the vice of waiting. tonight
i've spent an hour tracing your handwriting as
a means

to take you in.
to feel you wholly.

your intricate lines act as narrators' twists stamped
into the forefront of my mind. each
perfectly executed sentence erases the last.

it is graceful the way your words commit to paper
the way we commit under old blankets & down pillows.

the moments where i breathe in your warm scent,
the place where your head rests in the crook of my arm.

& when you trace your fingers over my skin i imagine
you carefully writing words on my skin
as though i were a new draft on notebook paper.

i find myself grateful:
to understand
your words &
your vocabulary
is to experience intimate moments.