five minutes in heaven
sitting here at lamp light
im wondering what im writing and why im trying
why even try to put words to intangible things
conceited belief that what i have to say is relatable or new
looking for writing contests
when the contest is only with the self
and embarrased to even write a line like that
but i learned in art class not to erase but to
be more concerned with the INITIAL
but whats the point of art class when this is not something that can be TAUGHT
its just experiences, right?
didn't hemingway teach us that? it is pretentious to bring up
sad, dead authors that died for their work when
im sitting here by horse-lamp, writing things nobody will read
drinking things to give me the boldness i need to commit things
to words that are only half-felt...
two dogs asleep
unaware and insignificant
in the issues of people
dramatic decisions as
their feet twitch simultaneously
when life gives you lemons
you wake up in the morning again
they're on the bedside table
but you've already opened your eyes
you're awake again,
the alarm goes off
and you move from your sheets...
our ability to choose between selfishness and selflessness;
the potential to choose to do better.
I am looking out of windows, searching for quiet places to be happy.
Looking down at my hands then at the clock, wondering what they were doing and how and for how long; autonomous
Wondering if I really have control or if I am just the mislead driver carrying us somewhere.
The moon passes across the sun as does doubt cross in front of my belief in my self.
I've been worried lately about something
hard to define, a suspension of self
in the sky; battery and darkness.
I want to be eclipsed, temporarily,
and left in the shadow of something small,
but still a part of me. Unrestrained
to live out these fantasies. To be alone
and unchaste; resigned to the moon
in my heart, I want to be corrupted.
In the end, it's something we have in common.
Long summers cool and we must retreat inward to face the helix.
Paying our dues for the experiences we have, original and inescapable,
We are borrowed.
in the dark
I walk back into your dark room
I fumble with the lock and they're light sounds
A green light flickers from the cable box and suddenly it feels like there could be something in the room
But there's not and it's okay
Your face is lit up with your phone
longing and feeling
it's only coming home that i notice it
taxi back to the apartment
its separate, maybe,
a clear demarcation from the loneliness
i felt in the spider infested rooms abroad
but home now,
phone enabled but still asleep
i am alone
talking with a fun house mirror
women and children, first to go
leaving the circle jerk in office
images of themselves
gaping at the brown, distorted rip-kneed worker reflected in the corner