Mysterious Geometry

Jun 4

Gigantic

It’s 8 am on Wednesday and the city
is so goddamn loud that I can’t get back to sleep
even though I had planned on sleeping in

It seems the sky is about four feet high,
my head is in the clouds, and I’m too cold
to breathe; I want cigarettes so badly despite
the fact that I’ve been trying to quit,
so instead I inhale a cloud, but it’s
too heavy in my lungs and I choke

I walk across Ryland Street to 7-Eleven
to buy a pack of Marlboros, but
all they have is bubblegum, and I’m
too fat to fit in the store anyway

I sit on the ground and a car
crashes into my ass, destroying
the vehicle

The driver gets out of her car to scream
but all I can think of is how much I want
menthols and how much (and I know this
sounds abysmally melancholic) I need
the world to be gracious again

Apr 3

Richmond

This place isn’t a city, it’s an insane asylum,
and you think it’s kind of sad you’d rather be
here than anywhere else. You want it to rain.
You keep walking, and you don’t let your
bleeding heart bleed all over. You don’t
let them touch you. You just keep your head
low and don’t speak, because you know
if you look into other patient’s wild eyes,
they’ll tell you anything and ask for everything.
You go back to your room and lie down now,
you’re feeling ill again, aren’t you, but in your
room it’s too hot to sleep with the windows
open and the heat you can’t avoid
and the shitty air conditioner going full
blast. You wish you had a cardboard
box to sleep in outside, but it’s raining now,
and you don’t have a cardboard box
or a pillow you don’t mind getting wet,
so you stay inside and try to sleep,
but you can’t. You contemplate wandering
the streets, but those other patients
will ask for your last cigarette, your last
dime, your sleep, your sex, so you trade
it all in for a dream induced by a pill given
to you by a friend. You know nothing
will ever be the same ever again.

Mar 13

Doomsday

I’m somehow convinced the world is ending tomorrow,
so I’m drinking all the milkshakes
and smoking all the cigarettes.

Jan 24

Full Winter

She believes she’s the crater in the moon,
glowing brighter than ever, making her
crazy. She sees herself with a chainsaw now,
cutting the damn thing in half. It drops
into the snow, and when it melts, they all
disappear together forever. At least I had
the wind on those white winter nights––
but now it’s gone, and everything
that ever was is now silence.

Oct 21

Grief (Part Two)

I hide inside my grief
for a while because you’re there
with me. I lock the doors
and close the blinds. It’s
been days since I cried,
yet this wound is raw.

I still feel my phantom limb
wrapped across my chest,
cradling me. Are you here?

Oct 13

Grief

This cry is the sound of a heart
being torn in two. This rumbling
in my chest is the world coming undone.

We now collect our memories
carefully in anthologies. We record
those words as though divine.

Because of these
we are changed forever.

The forests are on fire; they burn
to the ground. Everything is broken
to be restored, new.

Oct 12

Please

I wish I could
hold your soul
in the palm of my hand
and lead you back here to us.

Please don’t go. I need you.

Oct 7

Innocence

The sirens sing hallelujah
upon the death of a boy
shot down by his brother.

His mother cries now,
no no no no,
God not my baby,
no.

Leave this world, young soul,
knowing it was not meant
for you,
for you are

too lovely.

Oct 6

Insomnia

Tow truck driver, you woke
me up. I bet
you made big bucks
lugging that car, alarm
shrieking all the way down
the road at 3 in the morning.
I bet you don’t care
I was wrapped up
in flannel dreams,
happily. You hitched me
and hauled me out
into the lamp-lit street
where insomnia swallowed
my sleep. I was planning
on treating myself to
nine hours, but no.
I’m wide awake,
reading stupid news on my phone––
Britney seems to be well,
good for her––I’ll
listen to music. Doesn’t help.
I close my eyes
and throw my legs
and arms into comfy positions.
My bed turns into my enemy
like you, tow truck driver.
Four hours later, I fall back
asleep to dream
of freedom, then I wake up
too late for class. If you come
around here again
at 3 a.m., watch out.
I’m smashing your windshield.

Oct 5

Green

Don’t you show me that shade of green again.
I do not want a lawn to mow, a house
with a two-door garage. Give me a studio in a
city or by the beach and I’ll be just fine. The
American Dream is not as happy as it seems,
so please don’t show me that shade of green.