When you’ve been single for a decent length of time, everyone starts to look better for you than they are.
Take your time to know them and don’t jump in.
Being single is dope and 99% of those people are no good for you.
She wants me to write poems while she is gone
I don’t have good words or good thoughts, and I don’t
Want her to know that for certain, I’d rather
She find out gently on her own.
Tears are brine and burn, they burn,
They do, they burn- I haven’t been able to tell her
I can’t write a poem for her, and here she thinks
I’m full of emotion, that I just have so much of it
We were undercover as lovers in Istanbul,
at a cafe under a bridge.
Had we been
I’d have asked to be woken
with the way she flirted.
She was a lovely actress.
All the subtleties were in tact,
and she knew she was running a sly road.
For just this once, reality
was running parallel with my dreams, and
once you’ve seen the slightest
acceptance of fantasy into reality
you can’t come back.
Screw poetry —
it’s you I want.
I’m only moving so fast
because I-84 West stays
flat and boring for four hours,
and those hours are stretched
out before me like the woman
I no longer harp on fucking.
What’s the point in
looking both ways anymore?
Slow up at the corner, then speed;
Drift recklessly at the corner,
speed some more, I
Know the rules
And I’m fucking them now.
I’m fucking them without emotional intimacy
and they’re none the wiser,
they’re loving it, actually.
The road is feeling my tracks,
doesn’t care if they’re happy
or sad, malignant or tense,
I will no longer be the only apprehensive one.
All I want is you,
you and vinyls, and
poetry, and coffee,
your smell, your hair,
your taste, your
words, cold and us
I keep writing about sex. I think, I mean—
all I want is the after of it, after you took my
skirt off with your teeth, after I was so clumsy
with the buttons on your shirt that I ripped
them open because I was so fucking frustrated
and they bounced around my feet like pearls,
rolled under the bed. You thought it was sexy
and fucked me against the wall with my bra
still on. I felt like a queen. Saw, in the unforgiving
morning light, where your mouth had been. And
your nails. Your sweat. Now all I want is tenderness.
I hold eggs in my hand at the grocery store,
check them for cracks and leaks. I try to do the
same to myself. When I go to restaurants I stay
for hours, ordering nothing except wine and tracing
my finger around the glass rim until it sings. When
you said, Your skin is holding you in nicely, I cried.
So now you know. Don’t leave.
Writing is the destruction of mortal everything.
Everything that hurt(s) me has been immortalized.
I did not intend to ever forget you, but
I would not have regressed as often as I did
If I had not reminded myself of every moment
I was caught breathless by your very breath.
I like my coffee how I like myself: Dark, bitter, and too hot for you.
to be honest I never met Jesus
I never knew unconditional love
I never had true faith,
because faith dictates
you close your eyes and let,
and I never could trust Jesus
if I fell asleep at the steering wheel-
that’s where you come in-
you would take over or blare the radio,
and looking more in depth, you took the boiling water off the stove
when I’d go upstairs and leave it unattended,
you would make me food if
you thought I hadn’t eaten all day;
you wouldn’t let me starve for a minute.
you loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. he tried to sweeten you, to water you down. so you left.