poem

This is what we do. We clean up. We sing like strangers. We open a window now and then for advice. We change paths when they lose their way. We bargain for one more hour of light. We make our wounds less noticeable. We find a dream that fits. We exchange glances that don’t. We get smooth. We get covered up. We fall away and come together. We get it right now and then. We get reckless for a while. We clean up again.

poem

I am writing songs that no one will ever sing. Songs that do not recognize themselves. And do not mean anything. I am writing songs that stretch and consume all my time. Songs that do not know where to stop. And do not know how to rhyme. I am writing songs that turn upon themselves as they go. Songs that require some patience. Songs that seem too slow. I am writing songs that do not know what to do. Songs that are impossible. Songs that I live through. I am writing songs that I am not sure that i can end. Songs I want to give you. Songs I am not sure i can defend.

poem

i cannot read this. i cannot read anything that is too close to the truth. i can only write it with my instruments and abandon it. but when you read it, i return. i become something close to a poet, but more like a man who was certain he could be understood, even if it was not by him.

 

Poem

They kept their dreams in the same room so they would not be lonely. At night, they put them on for fear they would not recognize each other without them. After a while, they became more comfortable, more familiar. After a while it did not feel like dreaming at all.

poem

Here is the language I have settled on. There is no sleeping now. It is not possible when you know what the night is for. Here is the bed I will not return to. There is no city now. It is not possible when you know what longing is for. Here is the legacy I leave behind. There is no hesitating now. It is not possible when you have been given a body that does not quite fit, that wants to wear your scars with pride.