rtge poem ws edlkbow

bhaopp;y
thedn szad

whatever, hormones
today I will feel the least feminine/
the most attractive
for the whole month combined
regardless of anything biological and
cut sleeves off t-shirts and wear
baggy jeans and eyeliner and this
asexual haircut
which makes me feel
so alien--
androgynous and confusing
to everyone
but itself

this is what attempting to write papers on the Bible at 1:00 in the morning looks like

phillipians

philipppians

phillippians

philipoiosanass

help me Jesus

the TV eats your soul

it makes your own bed smell like someone else's skin

How marvelous that

green grass grows in winter, 

and the herds that wander 

in the prairie, 

and the clear air—I can see all the way to 

purple, hazy Monterey.  

Natural happiness and true, 

no one can take that away, but you.

Individual, yet bound, 

each the lighthouse on the rocks

and each the ship, the scream of the hull, broken upon them.

Relent my body, every open pore 

a heavy smog—desires, fears and wants 

Show me someone incapable of hypocrisy

I’ll drop down and kiss the ground they’ve walked,

Repent for every breath I’ve spent struggling to discern

what is right and what is wrong

and nothing more of me 

next time i’ll hide the light better

in some vague melancholy verse

about a fading flower 

or a shattered bier

if ryan gosling would have made the cover
only if
then we wouldn't be fighting the communist chinese
if ryan gosling would have made the cover
then red dawn wouldn't be happening right now
jesus chirst if i had known bradly cooper was the catalyst
if i had only known
i would have killed them both
when i had the chance

this is couch time

sort of stupid how in the absence of orders
I make my own, carry them out, beat the rug
dream of a positive balance

sing myself to sleep, fling the cat off the bed
he returns, to the place between my legs
purrs, dreams of catnip, turkey eyeballs

the toilet broke, a running theme
jesus, cat, and me, we all pooped
free in the desert

sometimes i can't tell which is worse:

a week or three months

contextually speaking,

i am more looking forward to

ordering the coffee

than drinking it

----------

going home means sitting in a different room

roughly the same size as this,

perhaps slightly larger, but entirely mine

walls scarred with old tape and torn photos

i will able to wrap myself in flannel sheets

with headphones and tea

with new books, still unread

and the dread of leaving the next morning

mine, entirely

will power

i am doing a thing i cannot stop

i move closer to your little face

and lean down

and sniff

i am walking out 

i stare back 

i feel nothing, i wonder if they know, i feel a little more

a little more like i am missing

something 

that they all have

and they can see the hole 

or slight slope 

like a ditch 

i don’t want to go home

i ask to be driven home 

but I want to be driven out into a field 

and left in the dark  

to find my own way back

i walk for a long time 

without seeing anything but the stars 

and patches of streaking light

that have followed me around

ever since I did that one thing

i get back, eventually 

everything moved without me

or

everything is happening

in relation to me

and i am not doing 

what you want me to be doing 

i am not doing

enough to make you happy

what makes me happy is 

thinking about you tucked in bed

safe and warm 

without me 

because i’m out 

finding the angle at which 

the sun moved 

in relation to me 

and left me in the dark 

where no one can see

the missing part 

song of longing

how strange to walk

through suburban neighborhoods

at night, to see glimpses

of people's lives through

the lacy eyelashes of curtains

walking past an open window:

inside, a bed filled with

mussed hair and sleep,

white sheets socked

around two bodies

breathing and beating

in tandem

two pairs of feet,

tangled at the ankles

I asked my brain to write and this is the crap that came out

i've got cigarettes;

but no way to light them.

demons;

but no way to fight them.