A Day in the Lives of Foxes and BirdsOver blue marble counter tops,coins click between fidgety fingersand people loiter, cluster,shuffle, ruffle their clotheslike birds dipping their beaksto the asphalt in the packed parking lothoping for nesting papers and food.With rustling plastic bags clenchedin palms still prying destiny from time-worn lifelines,his pupils appear parrot-pinpointin hasty decisions and desperation.Before he leaves, he chirrups at mefrom the wrong side of the register--"Do you need a husband?"And I, fox-sly and slippery in the reeds of my day,hold back laughter and answer with a straight face--"I've already got one,but thank you anyway."
brutal honestyHave you described y o u r s e l f to the thousands -Hesitant, but completely honest? W h o I think I amand what I s o u n d like are t w o different things.S T O P and think for a second and say,who are y o u, are you happy with whatyou d e c l a r e yourself to be? W o r d s -you t h i n k they describe w h o you are;but are they enough?Be h o n e s t.are you w h oyou want to be?O R are y o u,j u s t y o u ?False declarations lead to malicious truths that w o u n d.It burns - hurts like a k n i f e to the flesh, but you knowin the end h o n e s t y will feel like a numbing narcoticthat eases the a c h e and lets the gash become
my old friendthe warmth against your cold embracesettles my bones in for the long months.your beauty in the stoic days is unique;placid white trees of lace, glass drippingfrom the rooftops.i'm sorry i hated you so,please come back
the book of decemberat last you admit that the citydoesn’t exist, a puff of iodine nicotineto dispel fairytalesgrey dawn over nevaand it’s gone and it’s ambulance againthe folds of their chins like wilted passportsand they bend and whisper-whose pained whispers will you hear in the blizzardthere is a potent masculine lonelinesscologne rupturing and freezing the nostrilssnow-covered town and deserted cafes you’ll learn to drivesomething in it tears and calls you from the insideyour thighs squeezed together you sighto go to never listen to the wind its ear is frozen to the flagpole to carry the weight of a thousand sacrificial sp
Funny Little MenI am a coalesce of the darting goblins from the crisscrossing tangles of my aging,from the clown’s laugh which made me weep bitterly, to the old farmer’s cautionthat tasted for me my first lick of self-conscious toxin,I am an old figurehead with these faces costuming me head to footas much as I attempt to shatter this stream drinking me to ledge’s jump I cannot sufficientlyunhinge my brandisherwith every other mechanism of my force I made chance to pull the tapestry discordant waysfor moments those watching lost their sneerI jerked myself from that course and again into stony comprehensionThe twisting follower was gaining my steps again—I mirrored its struggleAs it regained a uniform I fell still beside itAnd finally the stream faced me ahead, we looked upon one another, I could not sufficientlyUnhinge my brandisher, so I dangled upon the trigger, and charged, hurling my own hand
questionableif i were to describe heri'd say she was as easy to explainas all the numbers on the spectrum.she was notthe kind of girlto tell God whatIt wanted to hear.she was clearand achingly soto the point where i could fall beneath her finger tipsand her dust would beuntainted.i still rememberher tastelike pennies in my mouththe kind of pennies you findon the boardwalkthe ones that give you good luckher name was samanthaand she was not just a flowershe was a wilted rose.
he's not a poet but his words are goldhe wasn't what most girls would call a blessing.he wasn't smartand was bad at playingthe guitar.he didn't haveblue eyes and long eyelasheshe didn't havea mysterious past lifeand his parents weren't rich.but when he sang to meand played the guitar -i didn't care that it sounded like my aunt's ten year old cat.because at nighthe held onto meand i held onto himand i could still smellthe sweat on him after a long day at work.he was horrible at cookingbut that didn't matter because i was tooand we were happysitting in front of our TVwatching Jimmy Neutronand eating last night's Chinese take out.and he wasn't perfect -i won't tell you how many timeshis words have made me wantto kill myself.he couldn't understandthat he hurt meand he never knew how to fix itbut that's okaybecause at nighthe held onto meand i held onto himand we could both hearour heartbeats -just because they weren't in harmonydoesn't mean that they couldn't sound like music.
Teenagers in a Wasteland. I've decided to cake the shadows under my eyes with contempt, filled to the rim of my eyelids. My armor is the moon stone earrings I slide into my earlobes and the one cuff, cause' I'm not that much of a rebel.Remembering that when I was little I used to wear two color socks, always.The left always came first.And in a sea of mindless faces that drift like puppets on broken strings I see them.We have called them poets, rebels without a cause, misfits.With heads up high and the darkest murder red tainting their lips.Forward, they strive. Constellations of dried tears on their cheeks, but those smiles, like the stream of light on a rainy day. Or for some, the starch lighting of desert summer storms, the heat palpitating from their body. Ridiculed to no end, they strive in humiliation and eat their regrets for breakfast. Downing them with their calming pills. May it be a cigarette, stow-ay on their lips, or a
An open letter to Honesty. I shall be honest.Bare my cotton-dyed blanket of a soul. To you, onlooker, to your perverse desire to listen to the unthinkable.I won't judge, but you'll surely judge me by the last verse. I'm planning to make-out with her in a maze of gravestones,hidden under a morbid curve of some corpse that has long began to fester.Because as always I am more in love with the poetry of my setting than of the honesty of emotion in it. I find smoking romantic, even though my mind has been plastered with images of the horrid bloated gums that it will bring.But all I imagine is a deer-eyed blue-eyed misfit with a stumble and insomniac eyes to blow nicotine gusts on my lips. Let the carbon dioxide of it's flame make my lips dry and let his ashen ones spark them awake. I believe my father to be a hypocrite, for he allows me to watch two people mindlesslyfuck but if a man in a drag sings about absolute pleasure, then he shall bring the blunted name "Jesus Chri