Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Loft Fires In Nowhere

I have building blocks for teeth
Struggling to say what I mean.
Your mouth is full of piano keys and I can hear your melody in the lamps that hold up these dim streets, shining light on everything; a cool resolve to the fading heat of this southern summer.
Your dress made out of envelopes is held up by Seraphs
Carrying letters from family, friends, old lovers,
I try to focus clearly as you walk away
Try to see if my stamp made the cut of
All of these things you hold dear and true, my letter more of a prayer in psalm that I’m not too much.
A song with the homeless in the street,
Raw emotion begging change for a few more minutes
Hoping that the song could be complete.
Voices like sirens, but the doctors told me the hospitals were closed.
Seems adolescent euphoria and blues are much too common to be diagnosed.
The papers said our hearts were all pumping the same stuff: Deceased poets, diseased pulpits
Another flatline and a dead body to be put in the trunk.
It’s midnight now and the 7th Avenue girls roam like wolves and click their heels 4/4.
Tourist trap eyes
With hearts of the Hayes Street boys all buried beneath their floors.
They’re out for blood and I pour one up for the poor guy who decides he wants more.

The city moves like the insides of someone you’ve never met
But just the same,
Someone you can’t seem to forget.
I can’t stop staring at the empty space in my hand.


And now I’m left with an excavation site on Main Street;
My own body that I left behind from when I felt a little more alive.
Because here it’s always night,
I’m always waking up to the right with subway tickets in my hand that we shared in my dreams
Where your feet made contact as if they were made for my hardwood floor and I was only awake long enough to think you had gone to the bathroom or to pour yourself a drink.
At least, it was enough to get me back to sleep.
At least…

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Three AM:
Making friends with cigarette silhouettes.
And you move like the wind,
The calming ease against what’s left of my summer skin
Turning the famine in my head into an arboretum.

Some nights it feels like there’s an empty phone booth in my chest
Where the Devil and God keep drunkenly calling collect.
I close my eyes, I haven’t the nerve to accept. I’d rather disconnect.

I don’t think I’ll feel at home until I see you again.
Until your piano fingers are tracing a melody down my side as if there’s a keyboard there instead of ribs.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

The wild dogs surround the house
Make a case for floorboards you can’t pronounce of
The names of used-to-be-lovers whose names have been crossed out.
What a hand I’ve made, arbitrary and wane
Forced for the pane, broken windows across the plains.
They say Ginsberg was insane
Burroughs, Bukowski, Kerouac much worse
I feel much of the same
Staring at the ceiling until it starts to hurt.
Scream at the moon until it feels right.

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