Cities, judged by elevation
Not population
Dot a desolate waste
Wandered by many
Some seek fortune
Some pursue ideals
But the overarching objective
Is one of survival - at all costs
Cities, judged by elevation
Not population
Dot a desolate waste
Wandered by many
Some seek fortune
Some pursue ideals
But the overarching objective
Is one of survival - at all costs
5:30 in the morning, a car’s engine turns
The driver’s dreams as expendable as the fuel that it burns
Out on the road before dawn breaks
Out the door long before his child wakes
Puts the pedal to the floor, rubber rolls against asphalt
Lights a cigarette and wonders if its all his fault
That his wife is addicted the deck
His kid’s life’s a wreck
Almost caught a sentence for holding a razor to the neck
Of his wife’s lover
Lover? He thinks to himself
That asshole was her lover?
What does that make me?
Am I just “the other”?
I work my fingers till they’re raw
Just to keep the fridge stocked
Spend my money on diapers and socks
While she blows hers on rocks
But I’m taken for granted,
Im just the other guy
My American dream is just a fucking lie
He clenches the wheel, turns toward the oncoming lane
He can end it in an instant, end all his fucking pain
This time, he thinks, I’m doing something for myself
He thinks about his ashes in an urn up on the shelf
But he smalls on the brakes before making that mistake
Know what? He thinks. This life ain’t mine to take
I gave it away when I made those vows, bought this house
When I held my baby son in these arms and promised I’d protect him from himself
I can’t end my life, my decision it’s not
As he turns his car into the parking lot
He leaves his car, slams the door behind him
Walks through the factory door with an ear-to-ear grin
Regardless of what happens,
from the joyful to the grim
I have to, I will,
I’ll live through it for him
Snow-caked shoes;
A gust of cold wind,
Against the warm flame.
A tightening in my gut.
I cough.
The paper burns in unison
With the back of my throat.
I inhale deeply but find no air.
Music fills my ears as snow falls
Gently onto the olive drab shoulders
Of my coat.
My numb fingers rise again to my lips
Bringing another breath of relief.
I flick the filter into my neighbor’s yard
And finish writing on my wrist.
I cap my pen.
A poem, finished.
A certain amount of attraction, and
A certain amount of deception, will
Inevitably bring about an end to
Any statisfaction, that one
Originally savored.
One lies to protect, whether
It be to protect friends, or lovers,
Or family, or the public, but to
The simple heart, such actions
Are not favored.
Unfortunately, I will never know,
What possesses you to treat him, in
Such a manner, despite the ends to
Which he has labored.
In your name.
My fingers slid across the smooth
Metal strings of the new bass
The back of my hand cupping her neck.
I moved my fingers with a deliberate
Cautiousness so as not to upset the
Delicate balance between the strings
And the pickups nestled in the center
Of her body.
Slowly carefully my hand slides
Up and down the neck
Pressing down near the frets
With the greatest trepidation.
But despite my greatest effort
My finger rolls down the side
Of the soft smooth neck
And my amplifier shrieks in pain.
Staring out to sea
Fighting the heat of summer
A seagull swimming
-
Sand; a vast expanse
The gusting wind stirs the grains
A snake slithers home
-
A bee floats lightly
Above the blooming pedals
And lands gracefully
-
Snow-capped mountains stand
Majestic over the field
Where I sit and stare
-
Jagged rock faces
Stare down into the river
Rushing beneath them
-
A wet brown nose sniffs
For scents among fallen leaves
Bear’s prey runs quickly
-
Fuzzy paws scamper
Through the snow covered forest
Little cubs playing
As I make my way across the grand expanse of this country
I am plagued by parasites trying to sell me beautiful
Look here, they say, and I will sell you beautiful
Purses and wallets of the finest material
And I turn my head away in shame.
But as soon as I do, I am accosted by another,
A seller of transient security claiming he will sell me beautiful
Skin and hair and tooth and nail
Again, I turn my head in shame.
Subsequently, I feel a touch upon my shoulder
I feel rage and shout
“Who are you, who are you to tell me you will sell me beautiful?”
I turn and gaze down at a weathered old woman
Who removes a mirror from her pocket and places it in my hand
“Beautiful is your gift. I will not try and sell you beautiful.”
I wept for future generations.
I am sitting in spanish class on an uncomfortable plastic chair with my legs pressed against the cool chrome legs and my arm is resting on my hip as the other writes this stream of consciousness piece assigned to me two periods ago as I sat in a nearly identical desk with nearly identical people surrounding me which honestly I don’t care about or at least shouldn’t considering the pursuit of education and knowledge is an individual act but that doesn’t prevent me from noticing and even engaging with those around me who are pursuing the same individual goal which I scoff at how the administration places individuals into a large shapeless nameless blob and expects them to be self-motivated and as I sit my teacher speaks in a foreign dialect and the announcements begin and I stop writing.
I will not write you a love poem.
It is a tedious process
and not worth the time.
My time would be better spent
describing the beauty of rose pedals
or recounting conversations over cigarettes.
I would rather walk through a park
feeling the snow crunch beneath my feet
watching children wage war
with weapons of compacted crystals.
I would much prefer to travel
to see the sights outside this city
to experience the people and places
that I would never get to
if I had written you a poem,
for writing a poem about
the infinite ways in which
I love you
would be a lifelong undertaking.
I find it hard to keep my head about me
Visions in my head of what the future could hold
The failure to be is all I can see
I think of our love like a villa by the sea
But the rafters are broken, and full of mold
I find it hard to keep my head about me
I remember summers we spent living in the trees
But it’s been months and our blood has run cold
The failure to be is all I can see
You tried to make me think that this love would set me free
But you taught me that even liberty can be sold
I find it hard to keep my head about me
I locked up my soul and then handed you the key
But you traded it away for an inch of gold
The failure to be is all I can see
So from your embrace I must decide to flee
I may regret it now, but I won’t when I’m old.
I find it hard to keep my head about me.
The failure to be is all I can see.
