n/a

you're my every day.

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.

"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

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. 

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

n/a

eventually, all hearts will break.

n/a

Arches break.

--

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

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.

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.

n/a

if you're sick to your stomach

pull out the knife.

n/a

eventually i will be gone

& you will be alone.

ellipsis.

n/a

rotten corn bled of worms

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.

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.

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."

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?

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.

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.

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.