how funny it all is...

i smirk to think of all the things you'll appropriate this year:
other people's words, strung together, as your own;
in the morning reciting snippets of songs
to a lover
or whatever
some last ditch effort.
you've even started to smile differently,
like a faded postcard.
i bet they can't remember your name either.

the grace of the morning.

some mornings 

i am stuck to everything.

the effort 

of movement and breath 

is exhausting,

and the gravity of my own 

grey room is like that of Jupiter-

pulling me ever downward

(and through) 

layers of ether and soot. 

drawn

expanding ever outwardly 

at unfathomable speeds- 

i am pulled to pieces 

in the harsh gravity 

of exploding stars. 

2.20.2012

concentric and aligned 

perfectly 

as usual

there is a singing vibration 

in your grace- 

the magical inclination 

of one who 

is ever seeking the end

over the means-

shifting slightly into posture

to begin.  

How to fit in:

Often I imagine my death
Selfishly
the automobile blindsides
cinematically
an almost artful collision
glass sprays into the air
as I sway and stop
Violently.
My gaze pans upward
the grey vaulted ceiling of my
attic room
unchanged.
One light in the corner
casting a long shadow
over Everything.

In spite of myself

I know how it is
to heave oneself from twisted blankets
bored
Already
unsatisfied
in the grey morning,
licking at the window
for some new sensation.
Strafed by love
or lack thereof
Jagged
you wander in and out of days
selfishly hoping to be stung
out of the thick static
into a new day
crystalline and distilled
harsh but not unmanageable.

Excuses et al.

Every time you ask me why
why I won't be out West
with you
and the cowboy hipsters-
I have no response.

I am rather stuck here
in some liminal space
that I had painted exactly
fif-ty per-cent grey
to remind me that
I am somewhere
between light/dark.
Unable as it seems
to make any decision-
I lie on the grey carpet
(which is stained and matted)
staring at the ceiling fan.