It went away
At some indiscernible, ungenesistic pluck of time, you
became to me what you always were: a universe.
Sequentially, it followed your perspective birth as
a secret room and your adolescent ghost town years.
It began just after your stint as a planet.
The only trouble is, now, I don’t know where to begin.
So, I’ve divided you into different disciplines,
knowing full well I could only choose one
topic to author.
What then shall I decide? Between your Renaissance
and your physics. Along your cloth and rhyme.
the love the love the love the love the love
the love the love the love…
Wasted on me.
Walk on the road past Pine Grove Baptist until you get to H. D. Robertson’s place (watch the mailboxes). Go up just a bit, I dropped a stick in the middle of the road, can’t say it’s still there. Just past that stick there is a sort of clearing on your left with some gravel and tall trees. Head that way.
I leaned a big forked dead branch against the thickest tree in the clearing. Head on past it, straight.
- Big pile of dead sticks and branches. Keep going.
Phone is 20%. It’s the end of the pile of sticks…keep going in the direction at the end of the pile. The direction the end POINTS.
By now you’ve made it to the edge of the woods. Enter.
Step over the barbed wire.
Cross dry creek.
When you notice a big pile of tin you realize you’re on someone’s property. Pass that big pile going left.
Take the clearest way veering slightly left always.
There is a knee deep dry creek going upwards. Stay on it.
At the end of this creek you will find more barbed wire and a clearing. Cross that barbed wire.
Upon crossing the wire, be startled appropriately at the galloping, snorting, and bucking of a red horse.Use this opportunity to say a few profane words and hurriedly hurdle the fence again.
I’ll be around.
My phone will die now…good luck!
I’ve stranded myself awake with caffeine.
The lack of lights won’t lull me.
It is good. I’ve wanted to have this time for you
If the only other thing that ever came to this
shore was waves of soundless dark and You,
would I be okay?
I believe so.
6/27/ 2:40 P.M. FroYo
It’s all this talk of frozen yogurt and
colour-changing spoons that bugs me.
Although I don’t know why—think about
the source of any given “materialistic”
thing and you will find the beauty of
invention, ideas, creativity, design, and
history. It’s just…I fear that we live for this.
I don’t know. What’s the most important
thing right? And what does this have to
do with any of it?
6/21/14 8:35 P.M. ***
My hand feels like it got snowed on.
Or it got softer. And I couldn’t pray
at all. It was such a young, young hand.
I was too scared to budge.
It would be wrong for me to take a picture of you.
What I mean is, people would think it was weird,
(including you I imagine, ha!)
It’s okay. I’ll try to remember what the rain does
to your hair. The loose drape of your green shirt.
The delicate pump of your arms. The pull of your
soft fingers through the bottom of the lock. The
wind’s flirtation. Your breathtaking allowance.
I was juggling a growing suspicion with a dual
order of crab legs when you said that you thought
drinks were pretty. In particular the berry red sangria.
You look through an encyclopedia of hair styles and
I hover over your shoulder knowing that no styling
can duplicate the slow accent on your cheek or the
snarky curve across the clear, warm above of your
eyebrows. Your hair serves in part to pay tribute to
your ears I guess, those ears, decorating your head
with thinness and cool fold.
A Clockwork Plum II
My brother recently chipped his tooth
when tossing a can in the air. He said
he wasn’t going to get it fixed because
he didn’t have that much of an ego about
his appearance, but as I stand here in his
bathroom, I have to wonder, why it is then,
that he has so many expensive teeth-whitening
For all it’s done…I could kick availability in the teeth.
Today at church I kept getting images and
thoughts. The images I squeezed out of my eyes
like an old plum’s inner gold. The thoughts, well,
they stayed higher up in my headcliffs looking
down in dry silence.
I sometimes pretend I’ve invented a new sin.
My great-grandmother never reads what she
calls the “funny paper,” that is, the comics page.
She never reads it, but she still refers to large
clubs as “Dagwood sandwiches,” an obvious
Further, every night she exercises her arms
using 20 oz. bottles in sets of thirty reps.
And now, she tells me the story of last Tuesday
when she was about to have a shower for the night
and noticed a man in her kitchen. She said that she
could tell he was a “Bible character” by the way he
was dressed and it shocked her at first so she ducked
back behind the door. She started to peer forward again
and he was gone.
Another time she saw her father leaning over her to
"see who was sleeping there." (He used to sleep in
that room and his bed was turned the same way.)
Upon seeing it was her, he grinned. She wasn’t scared
then because she knew it was her daddy. You need
to understand that there isn’t anything my grandmother
says I won’t believe. I love her and I think belief is an
important expression of love.
A Clockwork Plum
There are all kinds of things hibernating in
your brain. Tonight my brother reminded me
of this old computer game I got for my birthday.
It was five separate discs and it was very
complicated. There were lavender skies and
heavy dripping blues too. There were elevators
and sea roots. Try as I might I couldn’t gain any
ground in the game.
And it must have been half a decade since I
thought of that game. It was just lying dormant
in my head. I wonder how many thoughts are
sleeping like that. I’m scared something like
counseling might make a noise loud enough
to wake them all up at once.
The first time I wrote what you are reading (if
you are) there was no prose. Just the choppy
darkness you usually find in my writing. And it
was called at first, “The Planet Blax” and later
"A Clockwork Grape." But in St. Louis, my
backpack was stolen and this poem was in it.
I ended up changing the fruit. The Grape was
better. I wonder if the thieves read it.