From My Window To Yours

Upon def ears, I recite:
Blind eyes have grafted the road; skin to asphalt and back again. A lonely paradise, a shared dementia; all the corners, all the lines painted and faded on the ground--none of these take me back to the past like the future does.

not much, but enough

I sat by the window
for hours
and hours

my roommate cooked carnitas;
I read poetry
and drank beer

the I-10 sings a few blocks
away
songs of travel, restless but free

I sat by the window
for hours
not traveling or singing

books, food, beer
and traffic—
my day was a good one

I wish I wasn’t socially retarded.

I wish I didn’t mistake kindness for flirtation.

Or do I even do that?

Wish I had the balls to flirt back. Was that even flirting?

Why is it I walk away from the goal when I’m right there.

Or is this all in my head?

Alcohol gives me confidence. Or it makes me dillusional.

Should I text her?

I wish I wasnt socially retarded.

But then again, I don’t know her. Maybe she’s psycho. Maybe she’s Jeff Goldblum in female form. You just have to figure this one out.

—Me giving girl advice to my friend Austin.

music enters my home
through the kitchen window
smoke is going
out the other way

after a late breakfast I opt
for a cigarette to be enjoyed
with high clouds and lines
of birds threaded through the neighborhood
like scattered thoughts—houses lined
bellow
like the flat mirrage we call
order

I question the consistency of patterns
nature is chaos by nature
a day is a day no matter the weather
the grid is a grid but somewhere
a corruption influences

there is always music in my home—a pattern
within
a pattern—sometimes
the treble drops
the birds fly away
and the window slams shut
all on its own

Fish swim between our ribs
and sea gulls cry like mirrors
to our blood.

—From “The Harbor” by Richard Brautigan

the river (for Sarah)

you took me to
the river,
a place displaced
by prairies of streets
and mountain ranges
of old brick factories
that seemed to be
set forever
as a wilderness
where the wild things go
to die

"but out here
our hides are clean”
you said this as i thought
of water washing away
the blood from my scalp
and the various ways
we make ourselves blind

you took me to
the river,
a place hidden behind
dirt roads
to asphalt eyes,
to skin numbed by chlorinated
suits,
and as my naked flesh
fell to the falls
you said
“but out here
we needn’t try anymore.”

road poetry (for Coby)

we fumble over words
stumble over speech
conversation: constant collision
but no crashing for the thought

what a long stanza we wrote;
songs of the road,
the eternal ripping
of pages from a book
I’ve been trying
to write

your interjections were medicines
to this soul,
only the cure had been delayed
but
I can write now, am writing
freely
of the road
and the miles we killed
together

the last day

the flat arc of your back
rises heavy, slow
on this half-land half-ocean
landscape

buried beneath the reeds:
a coloured painting
you said you would
rather forget

what was it
about that scene
that gave you the chills?
it’s still summer, but
not much longer;

we agreed that fall
was the time to
fall apart

the marks won’t go
away
so easily

we both knew

I knew the name
of the artist,
but now is not
the time for memories,
so you said

the flat arc of your spine—
as flat as Louisiana
on this last day
of summer

a blackhole; mailbox.

It was a one-way correspondence; his letters were never returned.

Ink, like blood, should avoid contact with the skin. Ink, like blood, flows from the heart, released by fischers in the stream. Not natural, but built to serve a purpose. A purpose lost to the passage of time; still, the urge to maintain the flow remained. Though unrequited, unreciprocated, it was still understood to at least the self.

He wrote and he wrote. He wrote words that would either rot in a mailbox or in the pages of a journal. The journal, that was the uncertain path. To be discovered by his descendants, to be doomed to a landfill, or likewise, to be burried for centuries in an attic, until a time when everything within was irrelevant. All in all, the chances of survival were one out of three, at best.

The mailbox, however, wasn’t a matter of survival. Just a matter of whether survival meant anything.

It was a one way correspondence. But the speaker is always a strong one, even when speaking to def ears.

follow the instructions

potholes in pondering
a pigmented sidewalk
and a rash on the road

a heavy breather
a ten mile offense
and a break in the chain

I’ve gapped a map
connection to the dots
and borrowed lines

timless staring
through a perforated window
facing the house next door

girldoll asked: I'd love to travel with you some day.

Heh. I’m posted up for at least the next 6 months, or at least that’s the plan right now. I’m lazy; I only like to travel during the warmer months. But maybe next summer.

I left on a freight train and returned on a jet plane.

What a wild ride that was. The entire eastern seaboard (minus Rhode Island). Then the west coast. Old friends and new. Many nights of whiskey soaked shennanigans that I will only vaguely remember.

A few hours ago I landed in New Orleans. I picked up my laptop from my friends house and headed to my new place to unpack. Once that was done I borrowed my roommates bike to go to the store. As I took a left on Villere towards Franklin, I was met with a sensation of deja vu that was—in stark contrast to when I usually feel deja vu—quite comforting.

I admit, I was having doubts about coming back here, and my ultimate decision in coming back was this: “where else can I go?”

But that bike ride, that short trip down the street, brought back images and feelings and for the first time since I left, I feel like I don’t want or need to go anywhere.

"Where else would I rather be?"

es believing

what I see
cant believe

believe in walls
over oceans
believe that dawn
only gets darker

believe in quicksand
monotones
believe in drowning
in the air

I said enough
what I couldn’t see

I don’t believe
what I see

Winter With the Machine

iamananggryyoungman:

The machine and I sit staring,
silent, into winter’s grasp,
as the sheets are pulled over
potholes yet unfilled,
the sheets unstained by all
other viewers, and It is quiet,
considering.
“But why stare at
snowflakes?” asks
the machine.
“Just to watch,”
I answer.
It ponders still. Already the
cars are disappeared under the
winter revenge, under the bane
of nothern birds already fled.
It has not seen the birds.
Then it reaches out to touch
the flakes.