birdhouse (Thanksgiving 2014)

birdhouse

the conversational rustle
of 50 cent newspapers
the quiet landscape waits
squirrels find us irrelevant
an inconvenience

elevate elevate elevate

the rarified mind of a scavenger

the way he walks is a mood
the mystery of modern appliance
it is impossible to be with you
words must not escape me

the family apologist
the broken hearted nihilist
the jovial atheist
the good one

a lake of conversation in the morning
a spill of coffee
confusion about dishes
the briefest appearance of a monk

the companionship of strangers
the deep and hollow rumble
the sweet cruelty of those who don’t lie

edit
memories become Truth
stories become Identity
quietly quietly

I do not know my place
the comfort of running water
and soap
everyone has to do the dishes

we have everything we ever wished for
we have learned not to wish so much

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thirsty as the ocean

thirsty as the ocean
all undrinkable
hungry as time
all-consuming
impossible.
a tower on sand
lets the world
wash out beneath her
still stands.
late summer sunburn
slow song sipping on
dreams that only make you
never wanna wake up

 

~~~~just a leftover summer poem~~~~

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The only useful thing I have to say about racism.

 

don't shoot

Jesus in the garden
prayed. Begged
for his life.
Because we cannot take back our cruelty, we make him king.
Hold him up.
Hold up the shreds of his garments.
We feel so stupid now.

We didn’t know he was God
until we saw him bleed.
And now we make each other bleed.
We say, you are not god.
That is not god lying dead in the street.
That was not god begging for his life.
How do you know?

How do you know he won’t
come back with black skin
wearing a hoodie or just,
you know, walking through
your neighborhood on a
beautiful day?
How do you know three days from now you won’t
remember his face?

140818-michael-brown-graduation-jms-2128_e9443531d58b213656488e4ce6d17a4f 2

 

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i am in love with my skeleton

wpid-sketch7122109.pngi am in love with my skeleton
my ribs when i can feel them
hard under the skin.

i am in love with my skeleton
all these finite bones
a clattering of dust
on its way to the bin.

i am in love with my skeleton
the femur like a bat
a weapon clothed in flesh.

i am in love with my skeleton
in motion and at rest
heavy in the bed.

i am in love with my skeleton
the ball and socket joints
the hinges and the fusion
of young bones grown old.

i am in love with my skeleton
hollow with breath
the pelvic bowl cradling
this primordial ache.

i am in love with my skeleton
when a hand (mine or yours)
rests on my ribs and paces
searchingly to the hip and back again.

i am in love with my skeleton
smooth and bare as can be
a hundred years from now
dry and sun bleached.

i am in love with my skeleton
this clanky home rattling along
and creaking up the stairs.

I am in love with my skeleton
even when the pain is great
even with the sharpness
of death that starts on the inside.

i am in love with my skeleton
this blank-faced doll
when she is put to rest
by the sweet child god
whose playtime has ended.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m digging up a bunch of old poems, including an entire collection I wrote about two years ago and re-thinking how to present them for sharing. Brace yourself for random poetry attacks.

I also want to redesign this site, but I’m lazy as fuck when it comes to web design, so I make no promises.

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