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4 57%
0 0%
2 29%
1 14%
Voters: 7.
a cold roast dinner

we will walk slightly further ahead and behind of each other
until people wonder whether we’re together at all.
i will hate you and you will hate me for that.
one dinner i will say ‘pass the salt’ and you will pause,
pass the salt and then complain at how i always say ‘pass the salt’
and never ‘please’. then, how i never appreciate the effort you make,
how you feel like there’s an ocean between us.
i will stand up, knock over my water and the glass will break.
you will scream, i will ignore you and leave.
i will walk down our street and through the park alone,
looking at leaves on the path
and pushing away tears because everything looks ugly.
everything looks like wasted opportunities,
wasted words, wasted life.
with trembling fingertips i will trace the lines on my face,
chest slowly pulling tighter under wasted skin.
my knees will hit the pavement first,
then my palms, flesh tearing like paper.
my breath will slow, becoming shallower and more desperate.
as my face presses into the concrete,
i will see my high-school graduation;
me sitting in the toilet cupping my face with my hands,
thinking of how to say, ‘i love you -
it doesn’t matter if you don’t love me...just let me love you.’
then i will see myself five years later
pushing through theatre doors,
struggling for air and fumbling for a cigarette,
loathing myself for not being able to move on,
loathing you for being who i have to drive home to.
i will close my eyes and feel the asphalt pressing into my pores,
feel you stroking my cheek on a Wisconsin beach.
blood will pulse through my head
and you will be standing beside our bed
with a hot water bottle and paracetamol
asking me if i need anything else.
everything will go dark slowly, like i’m falling asleep.
i will say, ‘there’s nothing’, and ask you to leave.
i will die alone, nauseous and cold,
knowing that my last breath won’t find your ears
to speak of what i will have just figured out.

i am somebody/i am some body

a monument is constructed in memory of a mundane moon,
in lieu of an aptly delusional dirge;
whose carved-over descriptions would dress the headstone,
as ivy would drape across the ivory-towered mourners,
who repudiate the fact or lie of life after death.

so instead of those words,
they'll fashion a tarnished crucifix
from broken twigs mixed with mud.
face it towards a dust-stained wall,
and claim it's ashamed, or abandoning us all.

while we'd wade through this distraught town,
we'd attempt to embrace the statue-esque crowds
after we've buried ourselves underneath
anything that'd make us feel better.

and the deconstruction of these masses
is overbearing and the heavens fall.
but this funeral is postponed,
as ashen snow dances with the clouds.

and it's something beautiful that we just don't quite understand,
but we'll all rejoice and imagine what life will be like after we finally can.
until then we'll bound ourselves to prayer and attempt to transcend;
the ones who've given up on sleep.
the ones who've given up on each other.
the ones who've given up on themselves.
the ones who've given up only in the end.

but never once before, because there always seemed to be something worth fighting for.
there was always something worse fighting towards.


I went to church. This is what I heard.

It happened in a small town in New York. A boy brought a gun to school and killed 7 children.
Shit. Spit.
dragged across the floor
paints more than
red black and blue,
not quite an IOU
but nothing short of beautiful.

All of the mothers rushed to find out if it was their child. It was somebody's child. It's always somebody's child. The mom went home and stared at her son's unmade bed, at his muddy shoes, at his dirty clothes. She washed the clothes and made the bed. Put the sneakers in the garage on the shelf. It wasn't real. It was a dream. Then the hospital called and asked if they had permission to transplant his organs. She said yes, and his kidneys went to a dentist. His heart went to a minister. Two years later, she found that minister and talked, laughed, and cried with him for hours. And as she was about to leave she cocked her head, stared into his eyes, thought for a second and asked if she could listen to it- if she could hear her son's heart beat one last time. So she pressed her ear up against his chest for hours and heard the most beautiful sound in the world.
And she left
a changed woman.

There was a monk in northern Greece that had a dream of making a pilgrimage to the great city of Jerusalem. There he would walk around the basilica three times and kneel on the earth and the dirt and find God peeking down on him. He saved his money until he was old enough to say he was getting old. Then, he grabbed his cloak and his staff and his bag of coins that would carry him to Israel, but he didn't get very far. He made it half a mile before he saw a tattered beggar with tattered excuses for clothes and a tattered heart. The man asked for help. He had a family. The monk stared into his eyes and thought for a second. Then he gave the man his bag of coins and walked around him three times then knelt. Kissed the earth like a haymarket square but with nothing there.
And he left
a changed man.

I wrote a letter once. It was to somebody who knew me better than she realized, but she didn't realize what she knew. I wrote a letter about a little boy and a little girl who made a tire swing up on a hill somewhere back in the fifties. I wrote a letter about a teenage boy listening to lo-fi tapes in his bedroom for hours. I wrote a letter about a little boy, mid-twenties with his back up against a column that was holding up a hospital in upper New York City. A boy who fell asleep on the subway on the way home. And as the wheels rattled through the veins of the city born to me eighty years ago, my dream went like this.

I would see you like a hand reeled movie
sleeping on a park bench
in a town too small to go unnoticed in.
Waking up from a small hill in Tennessee with our bodies imprinted on it's crest.
A man would ask you if you had ever cried
and you would say yes
but it was red and soon drenched
in whiskey to help the pain
and save some face.
Save some for me, you'd say to your slipping hand
but it was already gone to your veins and the floor and a little in your jeans.
You hadn't hesitated, you just hadn't thought of stopping
And you would think of whether or not
you should have told him all of this.
And whether it was right to lie about such important things
But it wouldn't be important enough to think about until later.
When you would have time
and a place to sleep
that wasn't so quiet
and so lonely. A place with more people,
where nobody cared that you were there,
on their park benches,
on their minds.
A place in Andalucía with other people like you.

I crawled out of the steam into the lower east-side
opened my eyes
walked around the block three times
and fell to my knees at the mercy of a dark alleyway
Whatever comes out can have me
I thought
And I kissed the pavement
let an insult bounce by
And I thought about dreams
of us taking a steam ship to Spain
and worrying about not taking in the sunset
for as long as it was
but it would only get better until it disappears
and dreams of sleeping in Seville
and leaving everyone else behind
but now your bound here. You’re
buried here
you’re etched in stone here
Embossed in the city here.
Lady Liberty once said she welcomed me
But I don't know if that means
I'm allowed to leave
it wouldn't be the first time
but this time
I just wouldn't tell her that I wouldn't be coming back.

Maybe it's better that she never knows.
Off to Andalucía And I Lose You.


you took me outside
and started making a snow angel.
"Won't you make a snowman for her?" you said
while the december air gripped my body
and whipped my head.
I flashed you my bare hands,
already bitten by the wind,
and asked,
"Now what do you think?"
not expecting an answer good enough
to keep me out there for long.

and you didn't give me one,
so I waddled back inside
leaving you
to make an army for heaven.

but now
when the city's asleep on a blistering winter's night,
I walk underneath the halo
of an empty streetlight and pray.
I pray she's found a saint,
who'd withstand whatever weather
with no complaints.

and as my feet become one with the asphalt
I reflect on a single, sad thought
'til the break of day:

men like me,
even those made of snow,
are not for angels.
Reading them all now * reserved *

Ps- Heya!

I told you.
a little lost.....
Last edited by Davo Ownz at Oct 15, 2009,