Friday, June 27, 2014

Honeysuckle Deaths

Disregard the weather
      It’s always raining.
I’d pray for things to get better
      And sever our ever-clever, bitter complaining
But I’m not a believer…
And It’s draining to rest inside my head.
      No room for my unsubtle, stoic presence when the lights are dim -
These summer nights begin to swallow me whole.

I’m up too late once again
    Throwing fist at rose bushes
While you’re probably thinking of him.
Clocks be condemned;
    I am not Alice’s rabbit.
I am a shipwreck
Trying to fit the formula where your troubles end and you and I might begin
   But, my dear, I am no alchemist.

I wrote a poem about depersonalization 
   &
It was my name forty times in a row.
  I thought if I wrote my name enough times that it didn’t seem real anymore
I would become a ghost.

But I’m still here…

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Self/Titled

Singing songs to myself on back porch steps.
Burning cigarettes, forgiving regrets.
Touching scars healed from the stitching of my ribs
From hands like talons that did their best to rip away the flesh.

They’ve always been tearing,
Youth and naivety let them in.

I serve poetic justice to myself on nights such as this.
Laughing at metaphorical subpoenas
I served myself when I was younger on nights spent writing so hard I could have snapped my wrist.
Everything that happens is from now on, isn’t it?

The world is fucking beautiful.
Laughter and nicotine spill from my lungs at one AM when the rest of the world is asleep, and I know I won’t be joining them.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

The south is haunted with writers.

From the Carolina coast
To Alabama clay.

Countless ghost 
Sleeping in the Louisiana swamps,
Ink decay in the bays.

From Texas
To Tennessee
Words spilled like sweet, aged whiskey.
From Kentucky to Mississippi,
Minds gone mad against blank white pages.
Wrists collapsing endlessly.

Someday I’ll join them.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

The south is on fire.
Instead of playing like Nero, I’m a true madman,
I just fall asleep.
No poetic justice, my ashes will mix with the rest of the rubble to be swept into the streets
 While God blows smoke rings,
 Dionysus weeps.

Who are we,
Made from the image of Gods?
We’re all just wildlife with the ability to write, pray, and create history with our thoughts.
I don’t think we’re worthy, 
Empty as the spaces between each of my limbs,
Because every bit of love I have gets caught between my ribs.

The south is on fire. 
I say let it burn.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

You;3:00 AM

You are drifting behind my eyelids
Writing late night hours into the cages of my ribs.

You are fast asleep and I am falling
down

down

down
Into rabbit holes, considering the taste of your lips.

2:56 AM
Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts
2:57 AM
Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts

I’ll find the undercurrents where sleep lies
And pry his hands open to take mine.
Until I s
            i
              n
                 k
                    into dreams of your head compressing my chest.

Monday, May 19, 2014

Voguer

Lower now, you are something sweet
  And I am only blood spilled amongst the leaves.
You are an archaic phrase locked in my chest
          And I’m merely lost in the language.
I spent a hazy Sunday trying to translate you into french.
A failed attempt
It seems
       I’ve only broken my wrist.

- Hunter Dawson

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

The Light We See At Night Is Dead

At once I knew I was not magnificent.
I would be lost as soon as my feet would leave the room.
I could rarely ever settle my hands for shaking, repeating, no good for no one now.
I’ve been kicked around; agelessly.
I’ve been brought back to the same sink to be washed clean,
Hung out dry on line after line,
And my pen has ran dry from writing the same line after line.

I remember being afraid of God when I was younger and as I grew older only becoming afraid of myself.
But I’m no longer afraid of death,
So I’ll split the ticket for the river Styx from my own pocket:
Two Native American quarters to place over my eyelids.
Laid to rest to just to wake up with bruised ribs from a fight I never knew I started.
Blood rust, collapse my lungs.
Settle dust as my debts, I have only ashes left for a tongue.

I’ve been told ever since I was born that I burn bright like the sun
But my teacher told me that the stars we see at night are already dead.
What a terrible thing to learn as a kid…

The light we see at night is dead
The light we see at night is dead
The light we see at night is dead

Friday, May 2, 2014

O, Meredith..

Meredith, I’m dreaming again.
It’s not your silhouette extended..
Just the kitchen light, and my tired eyes’ poor attempt at vision.

Meredith, how long did I leave the coffee on this morning?
My nights seem endless,
My stories grow boring.
She said, “you’re only a writer when it’s convenient.
When your head and chest are storming.”

Meredith, did you forget
That I’m alive?
I’m not yet dead.
But judging by the blood on your hands, as evidence,
You stabbed me with such elegance.

O, Meredith, I sing,
Because I can barely remember your name.

Residency

Of all the four letter words:
Luck,
Love,
Fuck,
Live…

Home is the only one I’ve never felt.


Written out by shaking hands
As if self-interrogation was surgery
And I never stood a chance.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Well dressed
    For myself,
     For the world.

The lamp lights of the street lit with relief that the night might end.
A homeless man stumbles, mumbling something about clocks.
I laugh it off because I think he has a point.
No one can hear me over the crowded cafe patio, but I didn’t even feel alone.
I don’t think I was scared
But I don’t think I was thinking much at all.

I had a date with a lady named Faith
And no one ever came.
It took three cups of coffee and jittery hands to realize she was sitting in the empty seat in front of me.