This is the only graveyard where we dig ourselves up Remove our skeletons and go on about our way Don’t worry I will still know all you people That feel too much You will bear stitched scars, over broken hearts Trying to be well No one wants to be broken No one wants anyone to see their cracks But me, I am content to be one of the wounded Bury myself the black of the earth And wait, For someone who has fallen the same way as I To fill this grave with me.
My head is full of dirty jokes and literary quotes and I’m hoping that’s enough for someone to love me. Do you think you could take me the way I am with holes in my hands, without a way to keep you here? Could you take me as I am laying on my back without a spine trying in vain to piece together new constellations. I am the dreamer being pulled in too many directions. I am coming apart at the seams. It seems I can’t last much longer.
I’d call you a crush but the weight of it might be too much for you. Sunk down into the earth, among the moles and snails isn’t where you belong. Or maybe it is, maybe you will set down roots to weather the winter so that when spring comes flowers bloom from your fingers. The bees will busy themselves trying to pollinate while being careful with their stingers. Maybe you are a vine destined to wind your way up oak trees only to pull them down so that they lay on their backs loving you while rotting away.
There comes a point where words are wasted if I tell you that you’re beautiful again. Go to the sea and when you come to where waves meet shore take a look at yourself in the wash and see what I see. If you can’t I will hide underwater and whisper it to you so that you think all this love is coming from yourself, where it should be. I am not enough. I am just a man, or a sack of flesh, or a bag of bones. I am something that won’t last. I just need you to believe everything I’ve told you, everything that will be here after I’m gone.
I knew she was a woman because of how aware she made me of my hands and how much I wanted to touch her but couldn’t until I had her permission. I knew she was a woman because she walked with both a rhythm and the wind. I knew she was a woman because she knocked me over without speaking to me and left my lying there my back on the concrete staring up at the sky waiting for it to be night so I could wish on a star to see her again. I knew she was a woman.
This isn’t a love song. This is me asking you why. Why don’t we talk anymore? I miss the way your voices rises when you’re excited about some new things? Why don’t you call anymore? You had your own ringtone and sometimes I’d put off answering so I could dance, I could dance. Why don’t you come around anymore? Why don’t you knock on my door and let me ask who’s there like I don’t already know the sound that your knuckles make. Your tiny fish could break down brick walls, bank vaults, and mountain sides. Your tiny fish can fit inside my hand and make me whole again. Why don’t you come around. I’m not going to sing you a love song. I’m just going to ask you why.
If you are walking among the clouds I have to wonder do my thoughts of you have enough gravity to pull you down. Come live with me on the ground amongst the bugs and insects. We will make a summer house out of flower blooms. And when winter comes to wither our home. We can move into a cave, light fires, and watch the flame’s shadows dance along the walls.
I don’t know the patience of creation I don’t know what it’s like to take 6 days to make something. If I made the world zebras wouldn’t have different patterns There would only one copied and pasted over and over I might tire of drawing manes on lions So a few might have mohawks or crew cuts And stick out from all the rests If it were up to me birds wouldn’t wait till Spring to sing And roosters would sound their cock’s crow at midnight, anxious to meet the sun I wouldn’t wait till the sun was down to have a drink And it wouldn’t take at least six beers to get me drunk, and brave I’d walk in with enough courage to tell the girl at the end of the bar, She’s pretty, I would still still say pretty because I’m old fashioned and that wouldn’t change. But we wouldn’t have to wait to fall in love after we got to know each other We just would know each other the way we know that the sun rises And which way is up and down, We would know each other the way we know that water is wet, And that heat burns, And I wouldn’t have to wait three days to call her, We would leave the bar and go straight to our house with the picket fence And the two and a half kids, We wouldn’t treat our half a kid any different, We would tell him he can be anything he wants And he doesn’t have to wait, Because Daddy made the world, And he has no patience, He just wants to be at the end of things sometimes, Like the last page of the of the book Where the story winds down and we find out the hero got the girl.
I learned to love in all directions like a paper airplane caught in the wind. I learned to love the sound a woman makes when her feet strikes the ground. I learned to love in echoes so that it will always come back again. I learned to love larger than myself so that I will know that I am more than just this body. I am the air. I am the passing breeze that you haven’t inhaled yet. I smell of fresh water and the types of pine trees that grow in these southern states. I smell of fall and these shortened days. I smell of the night that lasts a little too long. I learned to love the sun because you couldn’t hide from her. I learned to love the moon because she is different every night. So my question is, when will someone learn to love me?
Shouldn’t there be a prize for those of us who survive the night? Not those people who lay content in their beds, comfortably wrapped up in comforters, dreaming that everything will be better. I am talking about those of us who stay up raging against the night, abandoned by sleep, forced to hang our wishes on shooting stars because they are our only hope. I hope to one day sleep well and greet the morning as a surprise instead of waiting for her to pull herself up over the horizon. The morning isn’t allowed to sleep late, pull the covers over her head, and say, “Ma, just a few more minutes, please.” Instead she puts on her best face to tell the restless and the rested, ” I am here, It is time to begin again.”
This is the golden time we have spun out of the sun’s rays and draped across our bodies so that we might wear out each day. I want to spend each day expiring so that I will be born again tomorrow. I’ve come to know the best mirrors are your eyes because I am the best version of myself in them. I don’t want to wait till tomorrow to become the man I’m supposed to be today. If the sun sets you might walk away and get lost in the darkness. Forgive me Brother Night but your moon mistress does not light up my nights enough. I’m begging for a better way to shine.
pt. 2 and you'll be left with pretty flowers and dead flowers etc. Subtlety and discretion is the key. I'm sure there must be similar criticisms about the crap I do and even this message, I know there is, I just wanted to say something because you seem to see the world in a cool way and I'd like to see more things like what I came here from originally.
Honestly most of what I write on this blog is right off the top of my head. I appreciate your criticisms but it is nothing that I haven’t told myself in harsher words. It feels good to just get some things out a lot of the time and if I ever wanted to do something with my writing I know the level would need to come up a lot. This blog is where I just riff off of ideas and try things out and hope some people enjoy it while I do.
Hai, someone reblogged 'that-thing-wut-you-did' called 'flirt' and I felt compelled to check out your blog because I really like what your wrote. Honestly, it (your blog as a singular object) bugs me more than a little and I really felt like I should say something. You seem to leap into convoluted and unnecessary imagery almost immediately and keep hammering away at the same devices over and over. Everyone likes pretty flowers but when there are too many too many in the one pot, the weak ones
It is unfortunate when you get in one of those flirty moods and the people next door to you are married as are all the people downstairs. The guys that live across from you are just that guys and don’t spark your interest. You think about going out but you realize that you’ve put off all your work for this lazy Sunday that you’ve napped away half of already. It is a shame because right now your confidence is high and you feel like you wouldn’t bite your tongue in the presence of a pretty lady today. Maybe you could get her to commit to something beyond tonight and the wheels of your brain could start turning. You’d take her to your favorite used bookstore and buy her a book to read. Tell her she will find a better understanding of you between the pages than you would ever dare to be able to say.
I will not be found in the foreword, introduction, or afterword but instead I will be found somewhere in the middle of the book on an odd page not quite halfway down. There will be a quote there that wasn’t expected but you will know once you read it is me. You will say this is a man I’d like to spend time learning facts about. Does he prefer red or white wine? What’s his favorite meal? Why does have four purple shirts? Is he close with his mother? Is he close with his family? Will he stay awake just to talk to me as I fall asleep? Does he keep his eyes open while kissing? Which way does he lean when kissing? He must go right. People always go right, except he knows that so maybe he will go left and introduce something new to my life. I could use something new to my life and you will say to yourself maybe this boy with eyes like wells of amber and crooked smile that is barely more than a smirk could be for me.
The season is changing, the weather is setting in. Some are in a rush to cover their bodies, to warm themselves but not I. I am amongst those whose blood is boiling and hands are aching trying to stretch myself across empty places. I am among those who are the echoes of heart beat. I am the breath on a woman’s lips right before she is kissed. I am the goosebumps on her arms as she waits in an anticipation for me to eradicate the distance between us.
Pardon me, I was born with hands too heavy to raise my fists at every ghost that scares you. Save my number for when you’re really in danger and I’ll be there to fight. Ignore the insignificant and the infantile, a brave man has no need to fight phantoms, he just needs to fight for you.
I’m going out tonight. Let me pick out the best skeleton in my closet. I’ll be wearing my secrets on the inside in hopes that I can look you in the eye. What becomes of the courageous? Do they die any more nobler than the scared? I don’t want to die alone knowing that I never told anyone, anything. I will bleed back time to get to yesterday. I should have spoken up when the chance for love was in reach, before it got on a plane and flew across the country.
Back when I was brave, back when I had guts, I needed my ribcage. But now that I am coward I am carving stories on each of my rib bones. I’ll place them in bottles and cast them out to see. If you find them you will know how I got to be me.
Back when I used to love I needed a heart. Now that I don’t know how I all I need is a beat. I’ll record the way my heart sounds before giving it away to some grand fool that knows how to love better than me.
Sometimes when my neighbor showers I think it is raining outside that is when I miss you the most. Because I can remember a girl who looked her best during a storm but now you’re gone to a land where the sun’s always shining and somehow I think you may be dulled out there. Come back to us where the sky gets moody and often gray. Come back where you are that sometimes light on the darkest days. I need you.
I am exchanging time for talks with her. Here’s a second, give me a smile. Here’s a minute let me here you laugh. If I give you an hour what can I return? Can I hollow out a place in this world where the clock’s hands won’t touch us for awhile. I can slip away from everything as long as you’re waiting for me there.
She is going to fall in love with you. The girl in the front row that you’ve been silently falling in love with is not going to fall in love with you. It doesn’t matter that you picked her out amongst her amongst the beer soaked men and the liquored up ladies. You haven’t done enough. You won’t stand out. Not the way your friend does. He is up front with the curly hair, and the baby blue eyes. He’s holding a guitar and he’s singing her a song. So, no, she won’t look at you. She’s not going to fall in love with you. It doesn’t matter that you can see yourself with her in the future. Her wearing the same white dress she’s wearing the night but with a small red stain on it from the wine drunk nights. You in the starched clothes that feel stiff but make you stand up like a man. Your hands aren’t as soft as they once were because you’ve been busy. You’ve been busy building a life for her. You know she cannot settle for dollhouse dreams. You have to build castles in the sky on solid foundations because even the rain falls, her heart must not.
I want to excavate your spine with these hammer and chisel fingers to prove you can still be brave. It’s going to take a lot of courage to love. Bother the bees for a bit of their wax to plug your ears. People always have too much to say. If you’re going to love me you’re going have to quiet all the voices that tell you why you shouldn’t. If you’re going to love me you should wear comfortable shoes and be prepared to stand your ground. People will try to back you off of what you believe. If you’re going to love me then you’re going to have to believe that I am worth more than just your time of day.
I can feel my skin breaking loose like some human cocoon but inside is no butterfly, just a naked man of muscles, bones, and adipose tissue. I will step into the world uncovered and unprepared, sharpen the nearest stick into a spear and cry war with the world.
My heart doesn’t beat back loud enough for me to know if I am real, so I will take my arms and legs in hand, see if I can manipulate them like puppets. Am I Pinocchio or am I the real boy? I spend so much time pleasing others I don’t know anymore. Here’s a knife, cut me, see if you draw blood or splinters. Draw me the way you will. You can be the artist to tell me exactly who I am.
It is often the ones that I get along with least that I am attracted to the most. The passion and fire spurred on by our differences only need to be redirected so that we can bask in each others heat. Don’t give me a partner that will simply tell me yes, nod her head and go along with what I say. Give me someone who makes my blood boil, makes me want to scream just by challenging everything I say. Let her make me think and consider new things and at the end of the day let our bodies clash, interlock, and not let each other go till morning.
In the day the sunlight is too much for me so I cut my light on and let it be washed out instead of facing its glory. At night I do not like any light at all. I don’t want to be shined down with any fluorescent judgement. I just want to be left alone in the dark. In the dark I can’t see that my body is too round and soft, that the curves of my body have swelled too large. There are no mirrors to remind me that I have a physical body. I am more than my flesh and my bones in the same way a ship is more than its anchors.
What’s with these late nights of loving and longing and longing to be loved. We all have gaps and it’s not enough to stay up late and try to fill them with stardust. There are only rooms that feel like prisons whether or we are at home or running empty mugs along the counters of dive bars. I’ve thought I could find my better self on the side of the street, thumb out waiting for my old self to pick me up and put me in the passenger seat to go along for the ride. I’m through asking for salvation. I just want the next day to be different from the last. I want to be stared at a little longer. I want to be loved a little stronger. I want one more person to remember me as I the person I hope I am.
When it rains, I think This must be Seattle fish markets smell like, But I wouldn’t know I’m just an east coast boy Walking slowly, So that Pacific time catches up to me
I’ll tell you about my California dreams While asking you to ignore The splish and the splash of me, trying, to extricate my legs from thick red mud Before tomorrow comes And the kiln of the southern spring Bakes the ground brick and I have no choice but to remain In my all too familiar surroundings.
I am bumping my head against low ceilings cursing myself for getting this tall or maybe the room is too small and to blame my stunted growth. I never asked for anything short of being a hero strong enough to save your world. What’s a man to do with his hands if he cannot build love from nothing?
It doesn’t matter how many sunrises you flee somewhere there is a cock’s crow that cannot be extinguished So let’s be men, let’s be women, let’s be human, Let’s begin Your body laying perfectly still will not hold up the skies and keep the forecast from falling and if you remain longer You will be stuck watching these strangers you call friends Become stranger still, You’re afraid to admit that they’ve become boring And the new theme of your life is escape It’s only up to you, Your parents didn’t cast aside their dreams, work Christmas days, give you their last penny For you to be unhappy, It is time to make something of yourself
There was a time when I was poetic and words leapt from my fingers like new blooms in the spring. to the women I loved, I gave bouquets and called them poetry. I said this is for you and only for you. I have been unfaithful with my words so I was never loved back. I just never learned it is a crime to love every woman.
Last night I dreamt of poetry I wrote for a lover I haven’t met yet. All I remember is that “mouth of the earth is a black hole and swallows everything.” Tonight when I sleep I will try to remember the rest. Use that first line as a base and stitch a dress for her out of my words. I will only ask her to wear it long enough to leave it on my floor but take care to step out of it without treading on my words, just come to me as you are.
These are my drunken nights where I start fist fights versus future doubts and marvel at my inability to hit anything. These are the nights where I stretch my muscles in hope of finding some sort of strength. Instead I find myself shipwrecked and seasick with no hope of escape. I will send you a message in a bottle if you promise me that you will at least respond. If I can’t have your voice I will have your words falling on my head like raindrops or some other victim of gravity that insists on falling. When will I meet something that can hold itself up in the face of overwhelming pressure. It might give me a little hope that I can load inside a gun like bullets and shoot myself in the chest so I can have wound in the place where my empty heart used to be.
You are a bird with freshly feathered wings All I have to offer is steel cage words So you say you can’t give into me, you can’t bow to my demands I cannot hold you, no matter how cavernous my hands If I cannot give you the wind, I cannot give you anything You told me I was the one supposed to leave and wonder what happened Is there too much red clay on the soles of my shoes What is it weighing me down? You think I’m asking you for everything but all I want from you is a song
Wealth is a twenty dollar bill And a knowledge of the town’s best drink specials At least that’s what it is to me But I’ve never been right I always bet on the Cubs Call tails when quarters insist on landing heads up So maybe I’m not rich now But I got enough money to down myself And half a mind to do so The other half clings to hope with broken fingernails Ignoring that I’ve come to love the night How are you suppose to tell the sun I have forsaken your light I have come chosen quick and shallow graves Where I can drink amongst freshly picked over bones I’ll trade stories with the skeletons that used to be in people’s closets Hear the buzz from the buzzards Before I fall asleep in traffic so I can dream about forward motion
I miss you most in the morning with the winter wind has arrived premature and kisses my cheeks till they are rosy. The hummingbirds are absent till spring and I will not hear the wings beat heavy against the wind. We woke before dawn, dug our bodies out of their coffins so that we might be alive in time to see the sunrise. I have nowhere to go and you have everywhere to be but that doesn’t stop me from desperately chasing your shadow. I miss you most around noon when I have settled into my day. I have a sandwich by the window and let the blue sky lie to me about how warm it is outside. What are you doing? Where have you been? Are you in your classroom now? Do those kids know the way I know you? I miss you most in the evening after my I’ve eaten my dinner. I’ve made plans to make plans so that I can fill up my time. Perhaps you are going to bed early. Maybe you are not long for sleep but I’ve got a few hours left to think about you still. I miss you most late at night when this city has finally decided to sit still. Fingers over lips, voices hushed, we all whisper our goodbyes and head back home with someone or with no one, regardless. I am missing you still.