The weight of things
What we wear upon our skin
comes down to how we
hold ourselves in light against
the grief, the bullshit
-the photos we carry within
are what we use
-hope against routine
the old poets are dying
today I read a poem about
Philip Levine by a writer
by the handle of
and it took me back
to the days when the poets fed me
before I became old and closed off
before I tired of the complaints
of the ages
and burned alive and dead so many
of my heroes because I began to sense
falsity in them
but the truth is and always was
what I know now
time only gives a sentence so many
regardless of how we do it
I think back on this and I feel
somewhat bad for walking away
when I should have realized that
I was one of them
even though I didn't want to be in
that club, I was born in it
not to spin this around on myself
but the weight of things for me
comes down to the word against
the page of the world, the old world
the new world, the world we will leave
and the world they will leave
it all burns in a circle
it always has
-a factory in Detroit harboring
-Bukowski's widow laughing to me that
their house will probably be a museum
-the sorrowful exit of Vonnegut against marble
-Hamsun's shamed picture next to Hitler
and all the deaths that carried the weight of beauty
into the ground to be buried and remembered only
by the readers they touched, and to be less and less
mentioned by those of us who have the reach to
remember them in poetry, in stories
all while containing and preserving our own
precious voices and self-respect
our own bullshit
that some other
fucker pushing 30 or 40
will start start detecting falsity in
and less of them than us today
will record them in poems
while those of us remaining
will constantly reach for the
resonance of Whitman
and other timeless entities
to ring through space after our deaths
but we will also forget this
during the course of things
and regardless of
whatever this is
we are only fed
by the hot blood
poet-y and birds
The weight of my emotions lies heavily upon me like an elephant on a bird
My schoolwork is more social these days
My family is quite light I don't think to much more then fondly of them
I bought books to write in and then realized nothing is perfect to me
I weighed pumpkins on Halloween but the number only reminded me how big I am compared to them
I tell myself I'm okay when I sleep but there is a flood of lies under my pillow
I wish I could be weightless because then I could fly away from myself and my insecurities
Brackets on my teeth and in my smile remind of my world of imperfections
And that not everyone's documentary ends happily
Only the ones we see do
The colored over face on my snapchats reminds me that I don't love myself yet
The unbearable aching gravity
All that pretty hair drifting through your fingers on the way to the ground. So light the sun blows right through, like caring was a dream. That heavy hand of hope pressing out color from adolescent afternoons, our hands slow, careless, quivering novices. All those noes before inhaling, stilling regret, then speaking. One more morning dive beneath covers before sailing down a river, smelling pomegranates, and knowing your stomach turns at their longing. The almost of an early Spring, one breath away from frost, the upheld pause, suspension that expects the fall. Inevitable, endless, earth; we no longer recall how to regain the moon.
Life is hard. Everything weighs you down. It makes trudging through the plasma miasma that is the quotidian. You are born, you attempt to thrive, and then die. The weight of responsibility bends your back as soon as you graduate high school and real life sets in. You go to war. You work in a cubicle. You serve food quickly. You fail. You live in your car. You eat ramen noodles. Nothing ever really lines up.
There is something out there that will make everything better though. In space, all your troubles become weightless and drift from your back. Life becomes simply drifting, in no particular direction, only as you creep between the greedy gravity pull from distant planetary bodies and stars.
Don't give up, give in, or give out too much. You're one in seven billion. We need you.
It's 10:14 pm, Thursday night
My lover lies naked in my bed,
the smells of gratification after starvation still drying on his skin
Too long have I craved the weight of his arm caging my slumber
Too long have I cried for his heartbeat as my lullaby
Yet I am awake
I sit in my chemise, wearing his comfort-scented jacket
Crying over the poignancy of Jeff Stewart's "Weight of Things"
Instead of dreading the moment this vision must again leave me
For the first time, not appreciating the pre-tour days we share
Craving words more than inconsistent love
Realizing what is timeless and reliable
Though desire is relentless, I may be graduating from the single-track idea that sexual release is my only calming faction
The Darknesses Within
We humans are such fragile things.
The darknesses we hold inside us –
deep and consuming enough to digest galaxies –
have somehow found homes
in our foreign bodies.
We try to contain them with our weak minds,
pretending to comprehend their depths.
We camouflage them beneath our thinning flesh,
hoping the emptiness doesn’t leak out
or our false colors seep in.
But their escapes are inevitable.
Whether as a flashflood or an erected mountain,
our darknesses will make themselves known,
will have their ways with us,
will break us up to tear us down.
They’ll hold our hands as we climb higher
just to watch us fall for longer,
always waiting until we falter
near an edge to shove us over.
Then our black holes will eat us –
chew bite stab slice and swallow
until our insides are fecal and fallow –
and they will walk around
in our leftover skins,
smug shit-bags who thought we were
too good to be seized by what we hide inside.
They’ll go on pretending they’re us
until they can get close enough with someone else.
And once our decaying corpses
become too troublesome,
they’ll jump ship to their next hosts,
leaving us to rot and fester –
flailing as we fall to the ground –
slumped in a heap of ourselves:
the wasted snack of something
incomprehensibly stronger than all
our mental wrestling could ever grapple
or years of denial could ever outpace.
The air feels so light on my skin I almost feel it skipping over me; I settle against it like a good friend by my side.
It is as if the air itself supplies the energy in my step
The smile in my stare
The incarnation of a giggle under my breath
A chill comes over me so quickly it almost instantly becomes history
As the sun’s power overtakes the cold and its distance memory sits deep in my subconscious I ignore the little stain it leaves behind.
I rush to the sand and feel the crumbles of its moist dough between my toes
The happiness flooding through my psyche is so warm and so permanent
The chill comes again. This time it lingers so vaguely you wouldn’t notice if it hadn’t already happen.
The sunshine now feels dim and my head starts aching so slightly I must be hysterical
I ignore these mixed messages and run into the water; As I get ready to feel the cold blast of the grandest bath you could ever have I instantly get thrown back
It isn’t water
It isn’t cold
I am not wet
The sand no longer crumbles it stings and taunts me up my legs.
The chill just continues to get stronger and stronger until I am robbed completely of the suns rays
As everything I was feeding upon begins to slip away and the ocean turns black as far as the eye can see
I realize…I am awake.
Choices of life
Life is full of decisions and paths
Each carrying consequences unforeseen
Each leading to an uncertain future
These choices braid together to form a rope which supports you
Poor choices are weak threads
Make to many and it breaks leaving you shattered on the ground
But if you make enough right ones it strengthens the weaker threads allowing you to climb forever higher