In truth every moment is a dying
Every moment is the end of your life
as who you where
and the beginning of your new life as how you choose to be
the secret to life is to die, die a lot
Don't let death be a one time thing
Don't wait until the end of your life
Die right now and in each moment you see you realize you're born again
you recreate yourself anew and the next version
of the greatest vision you ever held about who you are
That's the whole purpose of life
an empty husk
dressed like a man;
the world spins,
through empty space
while I search for its edge.
hidden by stitched lids,
over a still chest;
the sun burns
warming a hollow
for the dead.
brown and wilted,
a thousands farewells
on deaf ears;
the stars grow tired
and the clocks
tick, tick, tick.
while I feel it in my bones:
someday I will live again.
Nothing To Fear
Don't we all die every night?
Isn't that place we go when sleeping
the same place we go in death?
We close our eyes
and lose all control
and our mind reviews our lives
giving us the power for lucid change
if we care to harness it.
When we sleep
those who have passed over
going about chores
serving meals at family gatherings
young, healthy, as they were in photo albums
loved pets rub against us
and we can fly.
Death comes to us
in bits and pieces
there is nothing to fear.
death via texting
the first time i died
she told me about
he lived in sweden
where she was staying
for a year.
far away from me.
i felt bad for being angry,
it wasn't her fault
she left the country,
and it was surely a great
we were never official
but i was her friend.
we sat next to each other
on the bus.
and i would always watch her
trying to make her laugh
and wishing i could
be her laughter.
the first time i died
i was eleven
too young to die
but the perfect age
to be broken.
La Petite Mort
i died a million times
you are the most
and i sat there
and took it
when a man makes
march him down
to the couch
and get him the next flight
i wrote my first poem
right after i thought i died
ink pirouetted on the insides
of cigarette packs, ass floored
with a mind leaking out my ears
it started off with
“I wear hiking boots in my room”
and it hasn’t ended yet
Heh, that was a long time ago.
But then again, it wasn't that long ago.
Actually it hasn't even happened yet.
The first time I died, I found myself drowned,
a knife stabbed into my chest,
as I struggled to breath.
Blood dripped from my chest, flowing into the water,
like a shark had attacked me within the depths.
Then I was waking up again,
almost three hundred years before.
At first, I wondered if this was real.
But seeing the old presidents live in person
cemented the fact that it was.
See death doesn't work on the linear timeline.
Once you die, you jump to somewhere else on the timeline.
It could be the future
Anytime, anywhere, with any looks that one could imagine.
That's what I learned,
upon my first death.
Blood and Fruits
The first time I died, the last thing I saw was my brother.
I felt the hot pain in my back as I fell face first into the field of flowers we used to play in and reached out in hopes that he would help me.
I must've forgotten that he was the one who killed me in the first place.
And when questioned about me he claimed he knew not where I was, so now he is lost.
A soul left to wander in exile for the rest of his years.
Surfacing Signs of Success Must Be Smothered and Stamped Out Speedily
I like Mrs. Butke's Spanish class, and I am surprised. It's my only class I've liked in high school so far. I like this learning-a-new-language stuff. It’s kind of cool, I don’t know. It’s like a secret code or whatever, and only you and a few others can decode it. But only if they also know that secret code. Screw everybody else who doesn't know it. This is kind of cool.
There’s a girl in my Spanish class. She’s a 10th grader. She has dark brown everything. I love dark brown. She said I have a nice butt. Can’t believe a sophomore girl would say that. I’m sitting here at the dining room table doing my Spanish homework for tomorrow. Maybe I'll raise my hand tomorrow. I might. I could. That’s how come I’m actually doing it. I actually LIKE doing it—it's WEIRD. And I’m THINKING about liking it, too. Like, I'm thinking about liking it even more maybe, I don’t know. Practicing my pronunciation. I can’t do the two r’s right yet. The "doble-ere." I can’t do it. I can do it once in awhile, but not always. My tongue screws up. My tongue muscles won't go that way yet. But I can do the one r that sounds like a d. Then there’s the b sound that sounds like a v, but only a little bit like a v. And there's the j that’s silent. And the h, I don't know what the heck it does, really.
I kind of like this. I don't know.
Mom wants to know, what am I doing?
Tell her it’s my homework, it’s for Spanish I.
She says, Aw, c’mon.
She says, why do I want to learn that BEANER language for?
Feel my mind just go off the tracks. I’m a train that just went off a bridge and off the tracks and the thing I thought I had in my brain, it died. It’s nothing.
Why’m I staring at this?
I could be out playing basketball.