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A Quick Redo

I️ quickly became a panic scribbled

on a ripped envelope, doused in the smoke

of the cold morning. By the look of the light,

the day’s verb will of off, battered if not believed.

My toes half ache before we set off.

What were we doing putting the city before us

like a journey? I️ was just looking for a pocket

of you I️ hadn’t seen in a while, short breaths

that lived in corners we pushed embarrassment

into the street from. The city looks the same

when you notice smaller changes; would I know

you by name if I️ didn’t hold you at heart’s length?

There’s a crack left for a fool to fall in,

diagnosis of a meandered frame of tatterings,

an apple or two for the road.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

Sometimes the moon is missing I'm so sorry, so so the moment's sinking, nowhere is where we get from here, ever present address with a gettingalong,just ambition. Pronouns can barely contain a person and it breaks something like a heart. To know what it would sound like would a thing suffer too?

#poetry #poem #ttb poetry

It quickly became a panic scribbled on a ripped envelope doused in the smoke of a cold morning. By the look of the light, the day's verbs will be off, battered if not believed. My toes half ache before we set off - what were we doing putting the city before us like a journey? It was just looking for a pocket of you I hadn't seen in a while, the short breaths that lived in corners where we pushed our embarrassment out into the streets (the city looks the same until you notice smaller changes). Would I know your name still if I didn't hold it close to heart? There's a crack left for a fool to fall in - self-designed diagnosis for a framework to meander, buy an apple or two for the road, leave where you left off a little warmer, too.

#poetry #lit #ttb poetry

Where an upheaval of leaves fumbles the senses, I am mad for many broken things to feel out their resistences and birds in their counterforces against those further. A year plunges into night clear-skinned in wild seclusion -- I want it to be in contact with me, the old age in a flight of briars. Every rose can't be the same but we let them anyway, igorning the space between the petal edge and the. You're mad for the white sweet May again, to feel out its balks as the year bludges into a night. Above the old snow glazes the cruel business of harmony proceeds with its verb-like forces. This is to say, we mind how much distress it gives us, but we build it anew as breathing. Perhaps broken things drawn to dance can become full, my fingers slowed like jungle flowers, you standing like a dead bird, the hot sun pinching us both, this was us, doing our best, farewell.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

We took a trip up the young river, returned with old skin. Pixels in the hot sun were fairy dust or some 7 year old idea, and you were a nose bleed at noon. The valley was wiped clean as a moon falling into the full awfulness of the sea, so we did the only sensible thing: smoke among the sycamores and pass around platitudes: Think not. Sleep while you can. Be done with it when it's done. Everything's fine and everything works. The sun, too, goes down. Dust in a hot sun pixelates the air, you coughed like a wave, we waited for the white depths of the Milky Way to give a little fortitude to this lip- quiver life. We blew our smoke into time with immortality being its ubiquity. "Maybe," you said, "or it's just ice-locked. I'm ready to go home through it."

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

There's a need to delimit everywhere, not least the wild, and I still don't know what's inside my name but it could be something. Roosters crow from never and tell us that one day we'll all a molecule, or we'll be grass, or a random passing of an untouchable city -- we can reoccupy ourselves if we're ready to build places our imaginations have only seen. Can we perform such actions without trembling? My headach is a full platform subway car barreling toward the inexpliciple contact with truth and I'm worried we may never arrive. Keep cool and uncomplicated and remember we all began as a never before we were yes.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

The house sets an agenda, my thoughts are on the floor, a very poetic set of light rays sets the room as a suspended hour. Something bubbles in heat, everything I've ever wanted to be must pass through its imagination. It's in motion that appalling beauty can matter, could annihilation occur to matter, too? If I'm being real, demolishing and reconstruction more agreeable than conversation -- the door is bored with how much we say we're giving it up again. Is there anything stolidly dicernable left in the whole visible world? Bayonets of light sway my eyes. I could jam on this thought an hour longer, the swift moon drags deeper into a bad riff, crucibles of molten gold litter night, the whole world booms at the wind, is tired of being picked on by idiots who think its space shouldn't be left to space.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

I find myself aleak in the ocean, future things swimming before me in a molten gold lonliness. The past is opaque with bone -- I'm agreeing more with burying now than conversation, I realize that everything I've ever considered doing can be found here, a house with an agenda built from imponderable thoughts. I get home too exhausted to turn on the lights and hope to wake up to the world like a thousand cheerful chimneys in a bluish dense metropolis.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

The infinite blue states back, all panoramas of the universe's suburbs burn in no one point precisely, everything I have done is here - swimming in murky bones; the lowest form of love for a near six-foot man is the dim flow of the past in the middle of a grave. Tomorrow, in the natural sun, I could find it's nothing but a riddle braided into my forehead. There's a delirious throb about the ol' bar days, the awful lonesomeness of a big sea creeping its way among the olives, and a concentration of self to cut the burn - who can wake up in such heartless immensity and not at least blink?! Some dense metropolis waits outside, weeping for its children because they are not. The hour is gold-beaten, the door opens, time itself holds its breath like a liar.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

I believe I'm on the level, I've sent many an idea home before the night was undone. I meditate through noon and wonder what results churn in empty thought. And so you do lots of things I've never seen, I can stand being just me but get a little down-hearted when you walk in with them, the nameless atoms that exist to exist, mostly.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

Sometimes we have conversations 6

The conversation continues as if the moon never needed a nap. Poets can ignore the epicenter if they are furiously engaged in plucking the petals from the vapor waves – self-service is a good way to die, as is altruism, as is being in a grave and playing whack-a-mole with the roots. So, basically, there are a million ways to die and most of them leave life alone.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

Sometimes we have conversations 5

Question: is it excusable to claim to love yourself if it’s only at its apex when it loves another? I fear no amount of postulating on this could be adequate until we’ve managed to capture the grace of a fully grown tree. I fear this means we’ll be stuck together passing grace back and forth until we feel we’ve loved each our own to our bone dry breath.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

Sometimes we have conversations 4

Hope for the sun as white as a cloud and the big top tent holds the roar of your colossal lions and your third attempt to resolve your problems. You realize the lesson is just to ask politely for another cotton candy to replace everything you’ve lost.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

Sometimes we have conversations 3

The winter probably hopes of fire all day. I mush at it red in the face, spit another piece of gum at its feet, squash it into a new continent, marvel at the little victory over municipal trail- blazing like a half-wit. What’s to keep us honest these days about who we are if we never have an option until we make an opinion known? I cautiously reread the transcript of last week’s dreams and see how wishy-washy I’m being with conclusions I’d imagine I’d made.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

Sometimes we have conversations 2

Instead of worrying about replacing everything you lost, let’s not worry about how many grains of sand are wasted into the ocean and get tan. It’s not a comfortable mode, guessing each cloud formation as a litmus test for what you actually see, sometimes all clouds are the many species of dragons and that’s that.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

Sometimes we have conversations 1

Sometimes we have the conversations without ourselves for so long that we have a lake to cross just to get home. We’ll dig for something meaningless enough to scribble a note on, and wind up with a will that becomes a receipt. I’d like the music a little lower, you whisper to the plants and draft from the window,. They star past you and I feel their ire at the dying light. We’ll brew a pot, plant a candle in the moon, review the foot prints leading to the conclusion, consequently falling in love with the missing steps that gave some room a chance to breathe and us to breathe with it.

#poetry #poem #lit #ttb poetry

My new favorite story, "The Itches, on Halloween Day," written by one of my 2nd graders, who is (I shit you not) only 8. I have some poems to post, but trying to teaching kids to tap into their creativity like this takes way more time.

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