"my whole life hand been one cliche country unfinished line after line"

"my stupid lusts"

it feels so lonely, like i'm doing something i ain't supposed to
my stupid lusts go places i didn't guide them
and i smoke cigarettes as fast as i can light them
your face flashes through my mind  and i apologize to the memory of you
but there ain't no god in the sky, and there ain't no one left to answer the question of why

do i wish myself to return to six am busstops?
begging fro a reprieve from every sort of sordid detail?
a step backwards or a step forwards into children and sitting still
let me chew my fingernails, just this once
i'll chew them until they're bloody, and i'll read our fortunes in the remains

through every sort of collapse, i know you asked
all of the right questions, and found me frail
but i told you i was askew the first time you came knocking
if you're ever not here, the only comfort i have won't be in words
but i won't borrow your love, the only way i'll accept it is if it's for keeps

frame the clock, sour days, it slows
i'm in your taillights in my bad dreams but, woman there are so many of you
why is it i can only find comfort in one?
why  must i dare myself forward?
why must i risk every, every single thing?

There is some K. in here, probably other people as well. I was listening to a Josh T. Pearson song that is like this eleven minute vomit of words and sadness. I think I was going with something similiar here, and it's the first successful non-sonnet I've written in a while.

"With her hands on her hips Oh and that smile on her lips"

"troof # 3 (for k. # 2)

i'd tell yer life were hard if ya didn't alread know
and i'll whisper lessons learned in songs to our children
mixed with the secret troofs from my history, my silent past
shortly after i tatoo hearts over my scars
as i memorize each thing that makes you smile

you listened to me ramble about the roadside graves
because you love me, then you shut me up with a kiss
and i apologized for nothin', but i started to count
every second with you, i don't wanna forget a one
i just want to dance, i just want you to know

and we're back in your bed, and i can't hold you close enough
and i can't explain my pride or how you light my life
but i can see my life with you before us like a river
and i can see the way you'll look twenty years from here
if you want me i'll be for you, and if you tell me, i'll be what you need

I started going with something experimental, but dropped it pretty quickly. I swear I'm trying to write about other stuff, but life is too good right for me to be miserable. Fucking hell. I'm on a Springsteen kick. Maybe that'll help.

rant/poem

Since I can't rant about this on Facebook I will do so here. Your loved one is dying from cancer. OK, I'm sorry for your loss. I'm also glad god stayed her execution for another day or so, maybe. Don't you have to think about this, though? This person is filled with cancer.. if you're going to acknowledge the existence of a conscious creator, where THE FUCK did the cancer come from? Why is your loved one dying in pain? Did they piss off god? Also, really. At this point isn't it pretty much guaranteed that they are going to die relatively soon no matter what is done? Why are you wasting resources simply so this person can suffer a little longer? For the love of whatever the fuck is holy. If I ever have to go through this shit myself put me down. I will ask you to. Listen. There is no god. Enjoy the time you have with those you love, but know when it's time to say goodbye.
On a lighter note, a poem. The title is related to this song:

Send me a PM (those I talk to know how to contact me), and I might explain it to you. The poem is a pretty decent sonnet

"for k. # 1 (i never crossed myself)"

i swear to god i've been here before

i wrack my brain, but i find nothing

when you're in my arms you're the only thing

no other person on earth exists

can i lie to you?

can i tell you i'll make everything fine?

no, don't talk, just let me kiss you

let me murmur as i bask in your warmth

i will celebrate you. you're something worth shouting for

you're the air i breathe

let us collaborate

you're the only thing i ever want to need

your soil is fertile, as is my heart 

the joy you've planted there is the best i've known

when you touch me, i'm immortal

when you smile, you're the sun

"if ever i could love myself.."

"patterns"

this is what my life has been reduced to
looking forward to seeing my cat
after hugging a pretty girl goodbye
googling obscure dylan lines
while smoking, and cursing into the night

i am an abandoned pile of bone and muscle
i swear to whoever
that i glow louder than most
but my instincts drive my choices
and i never make my move

or too soon, i'm always mistaken
but given the choice, i'm not sure i'd do any different
am i as doomed to fate as i'm told
or can i put my fist through the patterns?
and into something bigger, into something brighter?

as i argue with myself
i watch the city shine
and i play the long game
as if i'm sure of the outcome
i'm not, but i sure look good pretending

"night is falling to the ground"

"composite sketches"

i try to remember your face
i try, but it's gone
i look for your image in my head
and i only conjure up blank space

i watch the traffic running through white center, i'm watching, and
all i can remember is the way you light your cigarettes
there is nothing that will get it back
even should i run into you downtown
a quick word, and you'll return to smoke

you'll stay in the compartment
where i keep those i can't take with me
a tiny room from which you'll leak into my poems
you'll join that noisy crowd of composite sketches
and breathe, you'll breathe out like wine

I don't like this as much as I did after I wrote it, but there it is. This could be, and probably is, about a lot of people. No one specific. I wrote two things today that won't be appearing here anytime soon. They are called "the agony" and "puget sound lovers".

phone blog

I wrote a poem on the bus this afternoon called "composite sketches". It's too new to appear here, but maybe in the future. I remember wondering who I was writing about. It referenced White Center which usually means certain things I won't get into. I also was worried I was predicting the future. It turns out, in a way, I was. I really hate when that happens.

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"because this is kind of embarrassing"

"tiny prayers"

where am i going to use that line?
the one about the streetlamps
glinting off the moon
and the fire in my head
how am i to embrace anything
when I'm too busy yammering at myself?

i could write a million more
(and probably will)
poems about women i've pulled from under my skin
they always share vauge features with women i've loved
things that ended badly, or never got started
i've mastered all this, god let it evolve

i've been as happy writing about death
as writing about a lover's skin
and i've hid behind the ink
only to throw poems like bombs at the world
and i've watched them drop
as if i'd never pulled the pin

ignorance is love, and it breathes
which might be why i feel i'm safe
but maybe i'm only blind, or deaf, or both
maybe i'm simply burning time, or playing a long con
the tricky kind, this ones on myself
but maybe i'm waking up, maybe i'm taking my bullshit out with the trash


This is the best thing I've written since probably October, though it doesn't have a lot of competition. I'm especially proud of the third stanza. Very introspective, again, obviously. There's a lot of real shit here, a lot of  real worries.

first poem '11

"for for for"

if you wear that dress tonight
i'll be yours as long as you ask
let the past lie as it's buried
i've waited for this
i knew you'd be here, eventually

sacrifice my urges for yours
call you when you need me to
my impressions of you will be as you wish them
you calm me when i'm shaking
i can only be better if you let me

your ever pertinent smile
is the sun i wear when it's raining
cut me, before i'm dependent
or, i'll be a slave for your touch
and, i'll only eat for you

but, if you want these things, i'm able
you can take them
pin them to your chest like a prize
wear your hair down, and put that dress back on
carve your name across my soul, and plant a flower there

The impetus of this was me thinking about someone I know. The rest is fiction. It isn't very good, and I had to drag it out of myself, which rarely yields great things. This is the time of year I don't write much poetry.
I'm fascinated by how people become so utterly dependent on other people.It probably shows up a lot in my stuff, but stuff I don't understand tends to crop up a lot when I write.