may 26, 2015 / i talk too much

words spill out like a game of fetch
so my mind doesn’t prance off
to the waxing moon placed awkwardly
and perfectly in daylight,
trying to assign it a purpose

the parts of me that still
believe the sky holds magic
are taking the lunar phase
into account, but
worship is just an excuse
not to understand
your own mind

still, some days
i wind up feeling
like everything
has a spirit

i am a walking contradiction and
my heart feels lighter today

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may 24, 2015

warm tones creeping through
foot on the gas
green(er) pastures

find the apocalypse in
fishfly swarms and
laugh about it

dead insects radiant in
glossy death atop an
ecologically unsound lake

i envy that orange ball of fire
scalding its way through
the afternoon sky

may 20, 2015

the prevailing thoughts
as the river parts for
a pair of young ducks
are that fate is a pretty concept
and that i mostly avoid total success
for fear of total loss

bodies of water have this
ethereal hold on me,
like changing seasons
and night time

rosy shades of dusk
and warm sentiment,
the introspective ambiance
of mother nature’s intent
nestled between
industrial city streets

it’s easier to smile here

may 19, 2015

old college try, because
this is the season
with a spirit

if i don’t make an effort
to be honest with myself,
who will?

keep buying old film cameras
on some romantic notion
of permanency
(and then forgetting
to use them)

may 17, 2015

gardener’s nostalgia –
find a soft spot for
the bleeding heart plant
my mother just
couldn’t kill

an earthworm the size of
my index finger and
the realization that
it’s okay to act
in your own
best interest

half full

look at my distorted shoes
through a half full pint,
remember floral wall paper
and a time when
my parents only had
one border collie

i think i was supposed to grow up
in the years following

blair paints me
as a saint and
i like her but
she’s got it wrong
and why does everyone
want to turn me into
an archetype?

i think i am supposed
to like small talk

get a glimpse of
what this emptiness
doesn’t feel like
and settle on the conclusion
that everyone is
being mostly honest
with themselves

i think i am supposed
to know what i want

making of a cyborg

the children are playing and
the chair is a turtle shell
safe from laser guns

these are skills
they will need
later in life

i imagine my insides
wired like a machine
when i feel too human

nothing rolls off the tongue
because i have stopped acknowledging
that i care about anything

you are bounding after
our slow deterioration
with enthusiasm

my needs are
not clay on
a potter’s wheel

i imagine everyone
in the wrong light
at the wrong time