a canadian love story.
a vertical death
stacked between maudlin
poets and copies of
Leaves of Grass.
we have contests
to see who can paint
the most impatient pool hall.
and maybe someone
will tell us, "this
is where you belong."
there are wet spots
in all the places
we have slept or stood.
consciously thinking
that we are sure,
and we are sure
of nothing. accept
that i have no strength
to be so existential, and
you can't help existing.
to be split into chapters
with birth and death
one after the other
before the rest of ourselves,
we can sell the expectations.
hoard profits between
sex and vomit and drowning
in voices on discs.
pay our attention and
stash the rest in cookie jars.
and when the reds become
stains, when our bodies
turn soft and sink
into the mattress,
the poet eyes in windows
will afford us
with an account
of just how organic
our kitchen has become --
an aging compost of empty spaces.
(6-29-05)
stacked between maudlin
poets and copies of
Leaves of Grass.
we have contests
to see who can paint
the most impatient pool hall.
and maybe someone
will tell us, "this
is where you belong."
there are wet spots
in all the places
we have slept or stood.
consciously thinking
that we are sure,
and we are sure
of nothing. accept
that i have no strength
to be so existential, and
you can't help existing.
to be split into chapters
with birth and death
one after the other
before the rest of ourselves,
we can sell the expectations.
hoard profits between
sex and vomit and drowning
in voices on discs.
pay our attention and
stash the rest in cookie jars.
and when the reds become
stains, when our bodies
turn soft and sink
into the mattress,
the poet eyes in windows
will afford us
with an account
of just how organic
our kitchen has become --
an aging compost of empty spaces.
(6-29-05)