I was a handful and
she had very small hands,
handing me love I
couldn’t handle and
it was no secret
we knew eachother’s secrets
quietly speaking through tears
and farewell in exchange
for another type of love—
one we both could afford.
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Tag Archives: man
Holiday On Ice.
Now all we have’s the memory.
I’ll keep the one to forget
if you keep the one to remember.
The one never to forget,
the ones kept best from afar,
and the occasional Holiday on ice.
Tongues
I’ve tasted many tongues,
but saved the slammed doors
and holes in sheet rock for
the one’s I’d somehow outgrown,
knowing them sincere like
an afternoon alone or
tastebuds in the morning sun—
after enough drinks to make me social,
after enough drinks to make me honest,
after enough drinks to make me pure—
unwilling to apologize for the bad taste
tongue tied like a little kid hoping
to be lost in the shuffle and left alone,
where features seize to be and
voices make no sound where
nobody feels and nobody hurts.
Untitled poems
The title comes after the point.
Whether proven or not
the title comes.
Untitled poems
are for better men than I.
Better men
who know what they’re doing.
And better women
who have something to say.
Southbound towards Tijuana
The way it was and
the way I saw it well
neither really aligned,
which is why I guess
perhaps, I suppose
I’ve made it this far driving
Southbound towards Tijuana
watching my dreams fade
in the rear view mirror
knowing now the utopia I sought
was never bound to be orthodox
or American, or not but
foreign enough to appear genuine,
parked by the halogen glow
of another lone motel, stale air
and stained sheets of a
dystopian relevance
that makes this all seem o.k.
Wrench in the works
It’s funny really
how I’d been thinking
the exact same thing.
And how everything’s different.
And how nothing’s changed.
And how things are fine enough
without throwing a wrench in the works.
Nowhere
We’re all just kind of nowhere, aren’t we?
When we convince ourselves we’re not,
that we’re somewhere worth being?
Then like flypaper pulled apart
time disconnects from space
and we’re left stuck
sticking to the things we swore we’d part.
And just like that
we’re nowhere again,
left waiting to forget how good it felt
to be somewhere.
The Other
For every peace I’ve lost
I picked up another
And another, then another
Till I could hardly tell
The difference between
Myself, them—or the other.
The Company We Keep
You might just find yourself
Very much alone and
Without anyone to call so
If you’re unwilling to change then
I just want you to know that
No matter what I’ll be there
Waiting with myself
Waiting for your company
The View
It’s senseless to sense this
phase from May to June.
These fences stand defenseless
like guards on duty do.
In truth there are no changes
or phases of the moon,
it’s just a formed perspective,
outsiders share the view.
Words Of An Average White Male 