- Denver is crying, and tangled goodbyes stick to the street like dusty black gum.
- You still wear the same army boots your Dad bought you in ninth grade the day you said you wanted to be just like him. Then you decided that camouflage wasn’t for you. You would rather be seen. You would rather be heard. What happened to you toy soldier? You’re so hollow now, I hear the wind in your bones.
- My dog died and I didn’t cry until 3 weeks later.
- I met a God defined by disaster and I loved him. He lent me his favorite books and left poems and dirty jokes tucked in the saddest parts.
- BIG MAN WALKS ON TINY FEET
HIS SHADOW BOMBS EVERY STREET
NOWHERE TO GO
NOWHERE TO HIDE
BIG MAN’S SHADOW STRETCHES NATIONWIDE
- You grew mushrooms in your basement like you were some wacky moribund Ray Bradbury character. You spent weeks in the dark “finding yourself” you never left your house, you rotted away living through the veil of creation. You danced and licked at the heel of being erratic and played into it like sick puppy needing a fix. Maybe Bukowski will send you a gorge of red wine and some audacity. Keep drawing your spirals and huge eyes honey, keeping loving your bathroom floor and the way you mother just walks past your door knowing she can’t save you. On August 12th you called me from the hospital for the 14th time this year.
- “The lotus finds roots in the mud. Sometimes I’m almost enough.” I wake up crying.
- You live in a wishing well collecting pennies in your mouth like your good luck has run out and any metal taste like the barrel of a gun. When the lonely boy with the vulture on his shoulder asks, “penny for your thoughts?” you pour out all the built up words till a river comes from your tongue.
- I wrote this list and told myself I wouldn’t apologize for it. A flood doesn’t apologize for its downpour. A flood doesn’t apologize for it’s down pour. A flood doesn’t apologize for it’s down pour.
This is a grocery list of forgotten hangnails, and atomic bombs. I’m leaving them all here to rot with you so I don’t have to balance my silly little world on my shoulders anymore. I’m a pathetic Atlas tired of reality.
None of this is pretty or well written and it won’t be. It refuses to be. It is dispelled, vommitted, exocized, banished, retched, purged and spit from where all the horrible things go to live.
This is residue disposal.
- Denver is laughing and we stand on the dashing yellow street, we are pillars and tonight the stars rest on our backs. The corners of our lips float towards heaven and we are smiling.