the problem with poetry

the problem with poetry

is honesty, this saccharine sweet truth

which drips from my chapped lips, tastes

foreign on my tongue, lingers far too long, stains

beach towels and fall curtains, which

glow as the seasons change, into

a fading bright orange.

the problem with honesty

is in the phrasing, wrapped in lettuce,

so these vegetarian hearts can take it, rather the

knock on my door in the middle of the night that

I wouldn't hear, except that I'm awake, 

honesty shakes me out of bed and

holds my weary head

in translucent arms.

the problem with poetry

is honestly, me, it's these tapping

keyboard fingers, riding my translucent

arms up into my shoulders, down into my chest,

this vat of blood and oxygen and syrup, 

it professes knowledge it doesn't

have, it dreams up passion 

it still doesn't know, 

this poetry, this

honesty.

Mechanisms

The night is the city, the
city is the siren sound that
fills the dimly-lit streets, those
lights too soft for seeing, too hard

for sleeping.

Wind escapes, howl, even
as these hands slam shut on
open windows, but cold settles
and wind escapes and heat, it rises,
forming rings and foggy screens.

I might sleep tonight, I might
try, I might try and sleep tonight,
I might forget to sleep, I might forget
to try, I might forget to try and sleep for
once tonight, I might know, I might know
I will not sleep tonight.

I have tried so hard to be mad,
but it always feels like the wrong suit,
and I cannot lift its weight, and I cannot
make it fit, and so I don the lighter cloak,
and wish away the day.

Ad infinitum

how easily these
days spent in reverie
will turn to
decades of memory

such things are
best left ignored, as
some pages are
best left unturned, as
some dreams are
best left behind

And these, my hands,
which together form a dolphin,
or on their own, become
a crow, beneath a
red-hot sun, or
a line that
traces

back to its source,
as all things do