modesty

considerations of some intangible kind
i could lump all the dark spots
into this bottle. the green won't keep long
it's just the last stab i have
at some brand of ignorance... won't keep long
if i continue down the mountain, no matter the speed
the avalanche gains
if i stay, this branch won't keep long.

you always thought.
always the first mistake.
i crossed three states yesterday
and i'm not talking about fucking wyoming
or something like that.
this is it. it's serious.
i've brewed coffee before
but never had to strain like this
it's all my cloudy days accumulating
it's all my rainy nights articulating
it's everything i can do to not run
it's everything i can do to carry on
none of you have any idea how much this is

reverence

it was subtle, i thought
but i wasn't the one standing
on the green bridge
my legs, like typewriters,
feeling visions cast out
from those suspended stars
wrapped tight to steel railing
still shaking from the shock
of elevation
soon it was alleviation
from a plastic pump on a metal drum
and being told what to do
never has been so rewarding

poem

i sat back and watched the dust settle
like a drawn out sunset washing over the green fields
within a moment it was over
the sun nestled between two walls of mountain
which rested a thought
if it never rises again, i won't mind

how many people cried?

foreclosing
my midsummer night-stick plummets to the depths
fields are hazy with jubilance of youth
with mardi gras of yesteryears
tessellation of an overt variety.
of grains of stalk
grains of sand
attacking the thought we
thought we had conquered
mere effervescence amongst the veil of exuberance
building walls on lands of quick sand
exterminating those means to an end
perpetuating correspondence on deaf ears

tuesday still

i dreamed a field
meadows of green
and rolling clouds
trees that whispered silently
secrets that no one else knew
i carried a basket of the finest delicacies
port, brie and poetry
the set was locked, it was impeccable
i lilted a melody, immaculate
the sun set low, the sun set low
the meadow darkened, ashen, barren
upon my lips was the glass
revealing itself empty, desolate, dry

up

anything at all,
at all, at all
is far better than the box
of empty in the mail. sometimes
the rush delivery isn't the
option that works best

dernks gervin

cast off in the cigarette gaze
torn through like paraphernalia
i had previously sensed this bottle opening
in the background
when i dove in and came up for air far too soon

it'll be far more whiskey sundays,
far more regurgitated fridays
before i can mitigate my cloudy days
my under the weather
my secret pouches
and some new-fangled banana sundaes

draught

i can only think of foggy days
of cobble-stone roads, moss at the edges,
swinging on the unraveling cord
this unparalleled dreary feeling
mouth as dry as the sun
with every intention to prove it

null

i've just piled all thought
all emotion in this hollowed out box
it may only be this early, but i'll say it nonetheless
how do i make myself invisible? how do i build up this wall
may i, earnestly, close this sector?
may i, truthfully, shut down?
i've been working this long and still i'm deceived by sight

travel light

4000 euro short
the weather made itself
appropriate as i watched through
that slotted window. dark clouds
gathering, rain hitting the pavement
which i saw coming. the windstorm
of fallen red and green, where will
it take me next on this one legged boat
long gone, sailing into darkness

walking home

it all went down the river
under that fall-leaved bridge
in the early morning overcast skies
moving along, following the stream
so it wouldn't hurt

faux

how it must feel
when that ceiling collapses
and the ink comes running through
staining what little you had
in your possession
soiling that sea of disregard
oh, how i'd like to,
oh, how it hurts how i want
no one to feel

asdf

a melody in my right ear
suspended; perpetual
mug of black to the left
of my left ear. in peripheral
i've got my gloves on
but the fingers have come off
do you think that i'll ever
be satisfied?

.
.
all these tuesdays pass by
they sit atop my flagpole
all sitting in a row
at half mast
birds sit idly by
chirping for lack
of common sense
until it's repetitive
redundant, irrelevant
a dull roar underneath
so much of what our days
are composed of,
and look at it now
the sun isn't even up