Also, I figured out how to add comments. You can comment now! Unless your first comment was going to be “why the hell did you just spam my newsfeed with recent-ish poetry”.
First, it was a spot on the ceiling.
Spongy and drunk on pipe water,
it slopped onto laminate.
Then, in the shower,
a patch of pimpled styrofoam skin
dropped straight on my head
with a scream.
The fan, when it fell,
shattered a glass.
And now the chandelier,
angry and badly wired,
lurches toward our skulls,
alerted by a treasonous floorboard when we pass.
But that’s the way things break.
What we build are hazards.
You can only live your life so long
without your hands in the air.
You barely live inside of something
before you’re living under it.
It’s always about to fall, isn’t it?
You have to protect your face.
What ideas did we have before light bulbs?
Tiny, choking candles
not switched on, but lit
guarded by a dirt-scoured hand
It wasn’t enough,
not even back then,
so you woke and slept with the Sun.
No thought above your head
but the one you could afford
just as easily pressed out by two fingers.
You kept it
held it dear for years
until we began producing ideas
and you traded in your preciously spent flame
for sparks and the promise of trash.
Now, you don’t notice when it turns on.
Or when it turns off.
The room is writhing
Colors bleed into words bleed into mood
He tumbles from one dream into another
every time thinking
for just one pinstriped second
that he’s waken up.
But the scene turns weird
he’s falling backward again.
So terrified, he sits perfectly still.
Hoping, on some plane,
that reality will settle like silt.
(On others, he just sits, and
hope does not exist.)
He’s only seventeen years old
with wrinkled hands
and limping breath.
Someone else’s breath.
Not mine, yours, ours, hours, hours
But whose it is matters so little.
His world is not a world.
His mind is not a mind.
Something is rolling back again.
Something is falling backward.
Virgin Mary and her Virginia Slims -
holy pop art icon.
Singing Ave Maria by the light of her laptop,
face painted on her brown bedroom door,
in the happy hell of our split level
that’s always smelled of mold.
We’re shrooming, and her voice is opera.
The ceiling crawls and billows,
but I’d rather look at her face.
You are so mundane, and I know
we’re just some kids on drugs,
and there’s no real glamour to your
young and worldly
foam planetarium life.
But you are so, so, so beautiful,
and your voice is a gorgeous, benevolent god
that made everything, everything here.
The human heart
is the size of a fist
You have to slice
to have an open hand.
Get out of the car and stretch.
You’ve waited a long time
for the Sun to singe your eyes.
To get a headache and miss home.