Fiction. Cicadas. Strong Drink. Freight Trains. Dice. Billiards. Hillbilly Music. Anarchy. Reckless decisions. Long nights of wind and stimulants. West coast born, southern livin'. Writer, traveler, doomed.

 

let it eat away
the skyline of this city,
the rocks that teach the steps,
the final flash of secondary color
waning behind those tombstones

some compare fire to resurrection 
(out with the old,
in with the new)
as if one blink
is all it takes
to miss the lonely hour
between seasons 

but a clock doesn’t always tick,
sometimes we skip a season
and go to bed hungry 

so let it eat away
the dreams that let me rest, 
the ground that keeps me up,
the first blast of primary color
that ignite something more
than fire

I am done

let it eat away
the skyline of this city,
the rocks that teach the steps,
the final flash of secondary color
waning behind those tombstones

some compare fire to resurrection
(out with the old,
in with the new)
as if one blink
is all it takes
to miss the lonely hour
between seasons

but a clock doesn’t always tick,
sometimes we skip a season
and go to bed hungry

so let it eat away
the dreams that let me rest,
the ground that keeps me up,
the first blast of primary color
that ignite something more
than fire

I am done

I’m probably going to deactivate this blog soon. I think ive written all that I can.

It’s been a really long time since I’ve written something I like.  Going through my old writings and I don’t like them anymore either.  Probably won’t be writing anything for a while, for ever maybe. I picked up a paint brush and some paint today and it basically became a brown blob.  On another note I just survived….well you get the picture.  Don’t trust pills, man.  They don’t do the trick.

So much hate in my heart as of late.

I have never doubted myself as much as I have lately

grass is green

donde-esta-mi-mente:

grass is always greener
where the skies have banished
grey into an empty corner
of your head, behind your ears
above your eyes you scan
for a whole in
the smog, somehow
breathing is always
easier to do
somewhere else
in a hole
in the self
capture nothing
but the bleeding sunshine
thrown broken jointed
into your mouth
never full
never whole, the grass
is harder to smoke
now but you think
"hadn’t I killed these
beasts already?”
you walked where you
didn’t think you could
you saw what you
didn’t think was there
you loved in times
that you were told were bad
but it turned out that, yes,
the grass is always
greener somewhere
else, the mouth
always runs of light
dripping from where
there is nothing
but darkness
keep going
greener pastures
thicker light
cleaner air,
keep going
greener grass

I want Carl Sagan to sing me a lullaby

I would estimate that 90% of the poetry I see on tumblr has the word ‘love’ in it.

Gag unto me with a spork.

Clonazepam

starlingwings:

I am certain
that I will die tonight.
And all the other black times
dim themselves out
all the survival -
it doesn’t matter.

I felt myself ending
again
last week.

Candlelight streaks
the corner where
these cold walls meet -

Begging to be
a reason
to stay.

I sat with something oblivious in my language. A wasp flew through a slit in the door and landed on my papers. The cycle of Earth was speaking to me. A gentle wasp and literate. I of course stood up and away and the wasp to preserve form flew about my chair a full rotation. It landed on the window and looked depressed. Had evolution evolved this particular wasp into a literary critic and did it want to discuss at length the failure in my verses? It was then both I and the insect world who hated what I wrote.

the reason for all the reblogs of my own stuff tonight is I am in the process of saving what I think are my best poems from the last two years in hopes of compiling them into a book that I hope to put out by the end of the year.

Damn, that was a long sentence.

I dig ‘em up and decide to post them again, so yal are getting kind of a preview here.

This is like the fifth time I’ve done this so said book probably will never happen.

Sitting at a computer, getting drunk, copying/pasting/saving poems to my computer is much more exhausting than one would think.

The Stagnant

donde-esta-mi-mente:

What death or sudden
stop of the tides
could feel worse than this?
Moment-to-moment
and back again,
eternity in a mans body
hanging from the sun,
the sun doesn’t move much anymore.
Nothing moves
except cargo trains
like endless vipers
carrying away my belongings
and the homeless ghosts
of my friends.
Our shadows remain behind
in a swarm of locust
eating the buildings of our city.
Nothing lasts forever
except for this. 

donde-esta-mi-mente:

A painting/rough draft of my poem “Sunburn”

And it burns,it kind of hurtswhen I look to the sunfor direction;the why and the where and thenthe only answer I getis the pain
the pain we all getfrom askingwith our eyeswhen the eyes are handsare ears are deep breathsof understanding
that pain isthe obviousto which we areobliviousandthat is whyit hurts, it kind of burnsme to noticeour eyes on the groundand our handsat our sidesfrom where we were bornwe can never returnthe love, we must acceptthe brutal handof guidancewith thanks
Enjoy the burn. 

donde-esta-mi-mente:

A painting/rough draft of my poem “Sunburn”

And it burns,
it kind of hurts
when I look to the sun
for direction;
the why and the where and then
the only answer I get
is the pain

the pain we all get
from asking
with our eyes
when the eyes are hands
are ears are deep breaths
of understanding

that pain is
the obvious
to which we are
oblivious

and
that is why
it hurts, it kind of burns
me to notice
our eyes on the ground
and our hands
at our sides

from where we were born
we can never return
the love, we must accept
the brutal hand
of guidance
with thanks

Enjoy the burn. 

donde-esta-mi-mente:

doodle/rough draft of my poem “Our Atlas-Bible”
We’re facing west again
as the beginning of it allfades at the crossand our veins pump our blood southtwo white linesin repetitionforever
One mad delusionspanning the compassone handwashes the otherfrom the sky spicketbearing the bloodred wine, while the hungry teethon our hands are so eagerto taste the madnesstaste the smogand the vapor trails instead,eat the applewith the serpentstill stuck inside
and look towardsthe other endwith brand new eyesperhaps there is some imprintof that ghoststill crucified on the flowerswe picked that afternoonin the east
Even one year laterthe colors persistan unbreakable daisy chainblocking out the sun,that sweet sugary white massdispensing water and life,cloudedfor generations to come
But we breathe itall in,the sweetness,the apple,the projected andcolorful vaporof the awoken eye,the shadow of that ghoststill persistsin the dried stems ofthe dead flower stillsleeping ignorantlyin that vase, that oldwhiskey bottle, that freshreminder that this vesselwas builtfor a different sea
and we hung from the stemwith the vines holding our eyespointing to the west,the pressurebuilt up in our veins,the pull of gravity,the fool of magnetism,with such we dancedto the south,the glum disappearinglike eyes of a hurricaneleaving a trail of fallennotes of the sunbleeding to deathon the ground
Jesus Christ,what does it all mean?the shifting of the moon,the rotating of the stars,the marching of the sun,the falling of the cross….
Seven swastikas made of rotting wood,minus one,minus the twisted plotto turn the beating ofour heartsinto a stabbing motion
wake up andfeel the painsucking pleasurefrom the bone,wake upfacing west,facinghomefacing the crucifixof the daywake upand saygoodnighttomorrow isa new day

donde-esta-mi-mente:

doodle/rough draft of my poem “Our Atlas-Bible”

We’re facing west again

as the beginning of it all
fades at the cross
and our veins pump our blood south
two white lines
in repetition
forever

One mad delusion
spanning the compass
one hand
washes the other
from the sky spicket
bearing the blood
red wine, while the hungry teeth
on our hands are so eager
to taste the madness
taste the smog
and the vapor trails instead,
eat the apple
with the serpent
still stuck inside

and look towards
the other end
with brand new eyes
perhaps there is some imprint
of that ghost
still crucified on the flowers
we picked that afternoon
in the east

Even one year later
the colors persist
an unbreakable daisy chain
blocking out the sun,
that sweet sugary white mass
dispensing water and life,
clouded
for generations to come

But we breathe it
all in,
the sweetness,
the apple,
the projected and
colorful vapor
of the awoken eye,
the shadow of that ghost
still persists
in the dried stems of
the dead flower still
sleeping ignorantly
in that vase, that old
whiskey bottle, that fresh
reminder that this vessel
was built
for a different sea

and we hung from the stem
with the vines holding our eyes
pointing to the west,
the pressure
built up in our veins,
the pull of gravity,
the fool of magnetism,
with such we danced
to the south,
the glum disappearing
like eyes of a hurricane
leaving a trail of fallen
notes of the sun
bleeding to death
on the ground

Jesus Christ,
what does it all mean?
the shifting of the moon,
the rotating of the stars,
the marching of the sun,
the falling of the cross….

Seven swastikas made of rotting wood,
minus one,
minus the twisted plot
to turn the beating of
our hearts
into a stabbing motion

wake up and
feel the pain
sucking pleasure
from the bone,
wake up
facing west,
facing
home
facing the crucifix
of the day
wake up
and say
goodnight
tomorrow is
a new day