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Literature Text
I discovered a man
who makes me feel incomparable
the same way Columbus discovered America:
he existed beforehand and was probably better off
without a directionally challenged sociopath,
no matter what those Thanksgiving crafts
peddle to Neoamerican children.
Regardless, his persistence
withstood my apathetic exterior,
and I like his music even if I don't say it,
"You're okay," translates to something meaningful,
"Pretty great," says exceptional, "I'm really senstive,"
adresses that he knows what he's doing
with his tongue, his lips, his cock,
and ten competent fingers,
but now I'm making excuses. I have a big nose,
countable ribs, narrow hips, an ass like a sheet of drywall,
a shipful of charisma, countless manipulations,
social ineptness, political anxiety,
and over a thousand pages
of writing, which,
for the record,
in case he doesn't get it:
that's a lot of emotional bullshit,
and about half of it is melodramatic, petty,
unsubstantiated stories about my life and activities,
the people who didn't deserve a fuck you,
at least a dozen flat out lies,
too many semicolons,
and it was never that bad,
even when it was.
I'm rambling. And he does too,
about instruments and music and bands and
conspiracies and relatives and stardom
and gossip and guitar tones and
movies I hardly watched,
television I dismissed
without reason,
he's smarter than I thought.
His inadequacies are mostly imagined. His rhythm
is what my poetry wishes it was made of,
and while he's a pretentious jackass
who smokes too much weed,
I think his trainwreck
is more on track
than mine,
but I escaped high school without
this butterflies-in-stomach syndrome,
an ache for another's affirmations,
no Facebook Official Showboat,
real prom dates, homecoming,
lovemaking, stupid poetry,
or inexplicable giggling,
no desire to be anyone's
something,
but his drumming isn't annoying,
his family seems saner than mine,
when he laughs it makes me want to,
and looking into his eyes
isn't uncomfortable,
not even a little,
tiny bit.
Literature
baby blue
& the sea still speaks
slipping whispers with indigo lips
swelling waves dip dyed
baby blue
breathing in; out and in
seaweed limbs milky
as our ways carry me
staring at me softly
& oh my sea dreamer
eyes made of linen’s silk
(but men of bone)
heart rustled with chaos
& all in between
spread to my touch
kissing me
baby blue
Literature
ocean lungs
you weigh something like gravity
in my tired expanse. you are
sand;
(my once splendid mountain)
my love is the ocean
that has worn you down.
with my monstrous tongue,
i pulled you in.
as you fall,
sweeping peacefully into the depths
and filling each crevice,
i am learning to inhale shores.
some would say i'm suffocating
and bring me buckets of air (only to have it
escape my slippery grip).
no, the tides need something heavy
to make of her
a home.
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
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i am actually just a dork. jsyk.
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Comments15
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Dat first stanza tho. I read it out loud to the boyfriend and even he had to pry himself away from his work to read some more (he didn't read it all, sadly, he tl;rd-ed it). Oh dat first stanza.