Tag Archives: loneliness

Absolutely Weightless

I go to the cemetery after school,

stay until the sun falls, the stars come out,

And all is quiet, even as the city rolls on.

Dead people won’t hurt you,

they won’t give you any shit,

that don’t ignore the calls for help,

or slap down your troubles.

And the grass still is soft and green,

and the trees still grow tall and haughty,

and the sky still shows you the world above,

and you can still lay down, dream of something better.

All these names, one beloved, once above.

Some have flowers and treasures left.

Some haven’t seen a visitor in years.

I sit quietly, listen for them, know I too will be gone.

Dead people won’t hurt you,

they won’t give you any shit,

they don’t ignore the calls for help,

or slap down your troubles.

And the grass still is soft and green,

and the trees still grow tall and haughty,

and the sky still shows you the world above,

and you can still lay down, dream of something better.

Lambs don’t gambol here, but angels watch over you.

Stone wings can pierce the sky, so the night can slip in.

The stars I watch, and imagine, other worlds around them.

Laying in the cool grass, I imagine I am a ghost, absolutely weightless.

Dead people won’t hurt you,

they won’t give you any shit,

that don’t ignore the calls for help,

or slap down your troubles.

And the grass still is soft and green,

and the trees still grow tall and haughty,

and the sky still shows you the world above,

and you can still lay down, dream of something better.

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Swallowing The Moon

She looks like another girl,

another girl I’m drawn too like

a black hole in the sky,

swallowing the moon every night.

Small chest but a beautiful ass,

long dark hair, out of fashion glasses,

and the edge of vinegar in their smiles,

sting, but low level venom is so sweet.

Another night, fish sandwich, tea,

watching her go, slinging beer,

chatting us at the bar, smiling bright,

but we’re a means to an end.

Home is a lonely room, browsing Reddit,

maybe sorrowful ballads on YouTube,

maybe makeĀ  another picture file for a pretty actress,

distractions, a weak sugar before sleep.

So I milk the vinegar from her fangs,

for all it’s worth, for all it’s bitterness,

for all it’s sighing dreams, for all I adore.

Swallow the moon whole babe, there’s another one waiting.

A Place of Dark Magic

November.

Hair blue as her eyes.

Weight of her.

Soft, fluffy parka.

Vespa ride to the park.

Skeletal trees.

Cold, clear creek.

Roar on the overpass.

We smoke cigarettes.

We drink wine.

She shivers.

She pulls her jacket tight.

Night is falling. Stars come.

Wine is poor man’s infatuation.

Cigarettes are bitter almonds.

We sit in swings.

We talk of paradise.

I miss the weight of her.

I wish we could ride to paradise.

Or a place of dark magic.

I drop her off.

We hug. We shiver. We hope.

November may stay this year.

Hope a pimped out whore.

Hope may beat it all yet.

 

The Stars Pulling Off Their Masks

Smoking? When did I start smoking again?
Filterless Camels like before, one after another,
futile against stress, nerves and dead AM Channel static.
I realize I’m sitting alone again, looking down on the city,
waiting for it to beautiful in it’s distant, golden lights
as the sun goes down, and there another one in my fingers.
I don’t remember buying them. I don’t remember picking the habit
up again after all this time, and I don’t even remember driving here,
but here I am again, after work, not wanting to go home.
I sit on my car’s hood, windows down, an enveloping synthpop love song
playing, wrapping me in warmth and peace, like being hugged tightly
by a plump and soft woman, one who loves you dearly.
I stare out into the city lights coming up, the stars pulling off their masks,
and, as I work my way through the pack of smokes, dream of her,
the earth goddess, the one who plucks the strings of devotion, thrumming light.
The song plays on repeat. It is the first of autumn, and it’s growing chilly,
almost bitter as the sun fades away, but the cold is calming, peaceful,
reminds me of something lost, when all was well.
I cannot keep the Bad Thoughts away forever, not with the city lights,
the stars showing me their faces, or the beautiful, embracing love song.
The come again and again, and maybe the stress is why I forget so much.
One last cigarette, and then I’ll have to face the room without treasures,
the thoughts that intrude like a rude neighbor couple screaming at each other
at 3 AM, hating each other, unable to leave and unable to stop.
I try to hold onto her, and the music, and all the sweet and innocent things
that slip away from me, harder and harder to call back all the time.
I try to imagine kissing her, warm and pale lips. I try to imagine being full of love,
Like her.

Some Beauty Out In Cali

The city is sprawled out beneath, almost looks like magic from up here.
The sun is gone and there are no stars and I just want to forever disappear.
The city is sprawled out in golden veins and pinpoint stars in the valley.
I watch it all, above this city for once, dreaming of some model out in Cali.
Some beauty strong and lithe and who would party with me when I get there.
Some beauty in a swimsuit blue and white, and with a blue lilac in golden hair.
The city is sprawled and from here it looks like something glorious and bold.
Forget summer is fading, and she left me, and the nights are getting cold.
Some beauty out in Cali knows my name, and has a devil’s pearl in her eye.
Some beauty out in Cali will make love to me, and then we’ll cuddle, get high.
The city is sprawled like a sleeping maiden, vulnerable and bright and sweet.
But there is no beauty up close, there is no lover here, there is no magic on my street.
Some beauty out in Cali watches the storm roll in with the churning silver surf.
If I can find my way out west I will be in her arms, an alien on this morbid earth.

I Fear I Am Boring You

I see you getting antsy, checking your phone,
growing restless.
I’m sorry. I try to find words to say.
Something interesting to say.
Even a joke, if that’d keep you here.
Don’t go. Please, don’t leave me.
Talk to me. About anything. Literally anything.
Your favorite band is a band I hate, but I want
to hear all about them and their genius from you.
Talk about last semester in nursing school.
Talk about that bitch Skylar and the shit she pulled.
Talk about vacations to places I could never afford to go.
Talk about anything. I will listen. I will care.
Don’t go. Please don’t leave me.
Please, don’t leave me.

Starlings Read The Sky


The Ivory Tower That Welcomes The Lost

Las Vegas is bright by it is light invisible. There is nothing revealed. There is no warmth.

The songs of my youth, of infatuation and sorrow, call only ghosts whose teeth draw blood.

All night I was awake. All that came were bad memories. Aching for sweet things lost.

Nothing soothes this longing, for what I once held close, and for what’s never been.

The sun is coming up, and to the east, away from the city, it is blinding.

On the edge of the desert, a square of green dead ends into coarse sand.

Stately and new houses already abandoned, and I was late to the party.

Their are only ghosts here, and skittering shadows inside that don’t know my name.

Coffee at a kitchen table in a house that looks cozy, but demons ruin everything for me.

All my treasures and comforts offer nothing, where I have only time, and my buzzing thoughts.

I can remember the girl that bought me the poster for some obscure Russian art film I loved.

But she is gone, and I am here, and I can’t find where my new friends are waiting for me.

Coffee in a travel cup, a thin sweatshirt and sweatpants, and I’m heading to the desert.

There is an angel there, there is a tower of bright light and ivory, where she welcomes the lost.

She will hear the honeyed prayers and grant me rest, show me the way back to a home in this world.

Out in the desert she waits, the sun would not lie to me, would not lead me astray.

But still, there’s a gun in the glove compartment, if I’m let down one more time.

The Refusal of The Stars to Call Down Angels

A fat, broken down old man I am,
out at this cold and godless hour
walking my snow white wolf-dog
because my home, my room,
had become torture, brokenness,
The Devil never quiet or letting me be.
A week, I’ve stopped craving cigarettes,
but still too much booze, in fact, I swig
from my hip flask, potent Russian Spirits,
and feel a deceptive warmth, rushed stillness,
a giddy dream from burning tomorrow,
burning the morning when I could be useful.
A young woman, maybe 19, short brown hair
and a milk pale face, blue eyes as deep and pure
as an ocean I saw once, with a young woman,
maybe 19, who loved me, took me beneath waves
and laid kisses and passion upon me, and I have
worshipped her memory evermore, evermore.
A young woman, she looks up at me, lights up,
ecstatic and running towards me, it’s the wolf-dog,
who is jumping in place and shaking her head, howling,
as the young woman crouches before her, shakes her fur,
and makes baby voices at her, and my wolf-hound
licks her face, nuzzles her face, is in love forever.
“Such a sweetie!” the young woman exclaims,
“Such silky fur! Such a good girl!”
And I watch them together, wishing love was so
easy for me to show, to give, to be carless with it
and throw it around like confetti on New Years Eve
or candies on Halloween, which past, and it is cold.
“Thank you!” I say, take a swig of Russian Spirits,
as the young woman stands up and offers her hands.
I take it and we shake, and her palm is soft and warm
and enveloping and has never known a days hard work,
and I am jealous and sad for her, and still feeling stirrings
of love and reverence, even though I am old and left behind.
The young woman blows my wolf-hound a kiss, smiles at me
and waves goodbye, and hurries back to her friends who are
boisterous and laughing and doubtlessly heading to mischief
and shenningans and things that will either shine in the stars
or burn their flesh and dreams forever after the morning.
I watch the young woman and her friends move on, gone.
My wolf-dog lays down, head on her paws, whimpering.
More Russian Spirits, more defeated prayers, more solace
in Winter Cold and refusal of the stars to call down angels
and my wolf-dog, like me, falls so easily, so perfectly,
for kindness and enthusiasam, and a touch giving kindly,
even though they hurry on to something better, something brighter.
There will be no sleep tonight. There will be no peace. Wolf-dog will be at my feet.

Cuts Like A Childhood Kiss

She stands, sad, as far away as heaven,

in her stylish black tank top and jean shorts.

Her long, thin arms are strong with nothing

but their own hands to hold, disobedient children.

Was there a demon or angel walking by,

whispering in her ear or blowing kisses?

Was there a ghost, of something traded

or cast aside, golden apples rotten in windfall?

Then she’s “ON”. The smile sweet from her

harsh face, that cuts like a childhood kiss.

Angel and demon made her, and her light

is the eclipse half-light, crimson and bitter.

Cameras steal a piece of a moment, make a

soul a quotation and shard in the eye of men,

and the lonely or just lustful, or those all three.

A piece of a soul, a moment, to embrace the world.

Then she’s “OFF”. The mermaids swim to the top of

her thoughts and bring the leviathan tagging along,

the waters between dreams and flesh and what comes after

all lined up and bleeding her thoughts, but only sadness shows.