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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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"

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.

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.

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.