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 Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2017-09-06 14:10:39
We are targets in the dark
Cars parked tight in alleyways,
Waiting to be hit.Â
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2017-06-11 16:25:55
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmUR6FCjO5I
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2017-05-26 13:08:46
John the Baptist makes a beeline right for my car window
and I remember all those times when I stalked my friends
until they turned into cigarettes,
never honest enough to beg.
The rough edges of the world no longer
call me on the landline I don’t have, cracking plastic
pressed against my sweaty face.
Or maybe they do, but I don’t answer strange numbers.
I view color schemes designed to make me
not feel and think of how another self,
a past self,
would have been floored by this.
Pastel gray-blue-otherblue-red-green-purple,
a rustic artisanal rainbow pop
and I wonder if there is any language
in which these colors mean war, or death,
Not just the slow death
of domesticity, of fashionable ice cream shops,
of keeping busy while the ground crumbles underneath,
one drunken night crying in an alley somewhere,
Truth and revelation.
Because what I see in this color palette is the hole it’s trying to hide,
and the rough edges of the world come flooding back,
only I don’t have time for them now
except to think of how I still believe
in truth, in this truth:
If the world doesn’t break you until you beg,
you’ll never see god.
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2017-05-26 12:57:09
John the Baptist makes a beeline right for my car window
And I remember all those times when I stalked my friends
Until they turned into cigarettes,
Never gracious enough to beg.
The rough edges of the world no longer
Call me on the landline I don’t have, cracking plastic
Pressed against my sweaty face.
Or maybe they do, but I don’t answer strange numbers.
I view color schemes that make me
Not feel and think of how another self,
A past self,
Would have been floored by this.
Pastel gray-blue-otherblue-red-green-purple,
A rustic artisanal rainbow pop
and I wonder if there is any language
in which these colors mean war, or death,
not just the slow death
of domesticity, of fashionable ice cream shops,
of keeping busy while the ground crumbles underneath
then one drunken night crying in an alley somewhere
truth and revelation.
Because what I see in this color palette is the hole it’s trying to hide,
And the rough edges of the world come flooding back,
Only I don’t have time for them now
Except to think of how
I still believe
In this truth: everything has an underside
Of dirt and worms.
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2017-03-19 12:25:42
Come, sit with me at the bar. The jokes here taste less
like lead the more you hear them.
Brush off this jaundiced weather
Like lint on your grandfather’s army uniform, his frown
Etched into your smile like a landmine.
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2017-03-01 22:42:18
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=fzQ6gRAEoy0
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2016-12-13 22:45:45
I think you're crazy, maybe
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2016-11-01 11:55:59
Her father was born in China, or Singapore,
Brother lost at eight --
The story wears down
mountains.
Sip coffee, think about the next sip
of coffee.
She is watching the garbage men
Like she will have to replicate their motions later
Like someone who has read the same book over and over
because everything new
is just too much.
She is not beautiful,
Not in the traditional sense. Not lush and pulsing
with life. She is pale stallions writhing in pain at the finish line,
The chance of a falling match striking a vein of coal.
Her face is smeared
with oil and sweat, her hair tangled
and her white dress
barely holding on to the pretense
that it is still a white dress. She is
a used paperback novel that is always in your bookbag
whose pages you finger,
both familiar and terrifying,
like sleeping next to a childhood friend
seeing all the ways in which the world
has eaten you both.
This is her finger inside the hem of my sleeve, saying
Feel how rough I am. Feel how the years have worked through me
like a worm through an apple. Tell me I’m ugly and fuck me
like long division.
I’m blind and bleeding in traffic,
I’m naked in the middle of the street,
I’m walking out on coals,
To meet you.
Now we’re downtown. Now
we’re in the top of your apartment building
with the lights on.
Now we’re getting ready to go out.
Now we’re in our underwear.
Now the curtain blows.
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2016-10-03 19:45:14
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied...
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Untitled Entry
Mood: The Usual
Posted on 2016-09-15 20:49:48
https://theprose.com/Zammatran
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