Sweater

The sweater seems insignificant now;

it’s dark blue, soft cotton, a slight v-neck.

Almost two years ago, however,

it carried you with it.

It hangs in my closet like the a snake skin that’s been shed,

and now all it smells like is a sweater.

Once in a while though, it will smell like two summers ago,

like the top of your roof at night

like your Star Wars sheets,

like your brother’s Subaru and like cigarettes.

Like your dogs, like your hair,

like your kitchen and like our kisses.

It seems it was a different sweater back then, but

it’s been just a sweater all along.

Insomnia Thoughts

30 days is a long time not to sleep.

30 days is a long time to know Silence,

and Silence is not of the most amiable types.

Typewriter clicks turn to deafening switch gun blasts at 2:35 am,

when the tic-tock of a silver watch hand

becomes synonymous with a heart-beat, and then not.

Sleep used to be a welcome road into a reality of the unconscious,

but now dreams have found their way onto paper,

and walls have become canvas for Her inky thoughts,

which drip slowly like gasoline, or a recipe gone seriously wrong,

or far too much mascara in the rain.

I found this folded in a notebook from highschool

she stands resolute and pure

wet hair, cotton dress,

smelling of soap and colgate.

The room is bright and the weather

is hot and dry.

the water on her body already mingles with sweat,

and noon has yet to come.

Without brushing her hair,

and with lips devoid of paint, she steps outside to feel the sun on her skin warming her and drying her. Filling her stomach and healing her mind. She raises her face with closed eyes, feeling the faint and trickling breeze from the cavernous and fantastic tree rooted next to her. And she begins to dance.

Due

I would rather be convicted to write, than to sit in the wooden box on the fifth floor

(only the very studious of us venture to that floor)

with the palm of my hand glued to my forehead,

a pillar of the ironic ionic order, supporting the colossal head of the Gods,

postponing slumber for a little bit longer.

But I Digress.

Classrooms have always made me a little

queasy.

And I'm not sure if it's the room or the air, or the people in the room sucking in the air and weezing it out.

I suppose, I've had quite a few teachers who I've liked quite a bit, but I've never been one for gold stars or red apples,

or witnessing eager hands shooting into the air ready to please Ms. Grandum,

or hearing wind whistle through ears

with no brain between 'em.

Upon feeling sick

I've got no money but that's not a problem

I've got a few friends, and these few well I like 'em.

My mind is sharp, too sharp for my own good

i don't mean I don't like by brain, cause I should.

But this brain it wants only one thing

And my body does different, too sane for this thing.

My fingers are crackin' my hairs they are achin',

my mouth holds a cigarette to

be cool and to stay thin.

This life makes my heart beat just a tiny bit late

Because more than anything else

I want to create.

3 cinquains for your reading pleasure or displeasure

Blind Humor

We went

above the docks

only to find a bird.

He had no eyes but laughter lines.

Seen it.

A Question

Why wait

to fall into

a deep and muddy hole,

when you could jump in with two legs

held tight.

On Someone I Never Knew

That boy

who tried so hard his fingers began to

drip drop into the poison pot.

That Boy

This world was made for skeletons

This world was made for skeleton people

Cause muscles melt and flesh doesn’t keep well.

Kisses are toothy anyways, all hair goes gray

Our cheeks cover our smiles; now we’d be smiling everyday.

Paper mache people just really don’t cut it

Their mouths are wide open screaming and helpless,

Our bones hold our marrow and we bath in bleach

It keeps us all shiny in our joints and our teeth.

If we are all bones with no skin and no hair,

We don’t have to feel cause our organs won’t care.