February 2012
41 posts
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your hands are my hands your body is my body this room and everything inside is our past the city in the window is our future each thing a memory each building a dream and this poem is our bed and these words are our bodies
let me show you what that means
Anonymous asked: Your poems are so beautiful.
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map
look for me in the heart of america i will be buried, homesick, under the soil if it gets too hard, if the weather gets too harsh look for the clues i have left for you
you know where the sun rises and breaks like glass all over the forest floor in the alleghenies? follow the pieces
look west until you see a field on fire, but don’t be scared, don’t put it out just let it burn
slide...
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if we could live in space and write poetry, it...
i want to take you into outer space show you that all that darkness ain’t really darkness.
we can float weatherless get pulled softly on our bodies slowly by objects.
and be like pioneers without direction, without limit pure total black frontier.
we’ll marry the moon and it will love us like me and you and other moons.
and when i say things like “i orbit you” or...
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i know there was a war, somewhere sometime but all i can think about is your legs knee-bent and barstool’d lazily shaking, drunk and dancing under pool-hall lights, cigarette cherries crackling with hopes of romance, and it is more beautiful than war but kills just as many men, those local soldiers all lined up at the bar living their fathers’ lives and you, scheming up a way to get...
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something i wrote in the library yesterday, not...
let me tell you a poem i wrote called “ode to your kneecaps” i wrote it on a church bulletin in 1997 when i was too young to sit still - if you weren’t there i imagined you all baptist sundress that hung just above your kneecaps, and they were scarred with a band-aid imprint - it hearkens back to basics - boy half-falls in love with imaginary girl - its a period piece on 1997...
poetrespasser asked: Georgia history around the Civil War, you say? Sir, you have piqued my interest ;) Re: New South: well I picked up on the civil war references with "stone mountain" and the "once-great old horsemen" (Confederate memorial I presume?) - what I took away from it was ambivalence about the causes and legacy of that war (love the line ending "100% cotton for sure") and...
everythingiscopacetic asked: so i obviously noticed a reoccurring theme throughout your most recent work reflecting back on your childhood, specifically the year 1997, and a lot of talk of ghosts. your last poem gives me the idea that you are going to move into another theme (for lack of a better word.) do you think that is the case?
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its the honest truth, 1997 never happened i was too young and you weren’t there all those poems is me burying you in memory, how i imagine you helping me fight the fear of the attic building dreamhouses out of blankets walking down to the early bus stop if i keep saying it, it might be true that the past fake ghost i saw really lived in the woods, and i really did sleepwalk to your treehouse...
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i was wondering how some of yall may interpret the poem below “new south”
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new south
dear betsy ross, i love you starry eyed and true and that grand old flag myth-covered across your american legs, go on soldier and beat your drum, go on out in the fields and sing true new england, for i think of you true blue in the new south way down at the end of appalachia, where we make our own myths below the shadow of the stone mountain, where we carve once-great old horsemen like the...
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i dream you new england with frost blanket houses baptized in rivers that freeze every winter with sad eyes that dry at the bed sheets too thin and hands made of april too early for sun i made you a poem to keep you like this i made you a poem to love you like this
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i had a dream last night that your fingers were firecrackers and mine were matchsticks and the bed was all red white blue total fourth of july, real sexy you know? i said something like let me be your civil war drummer and you said okay only if i can be john wilkes booth’s gun and that was it, i woke up so twenty twelve and sad and shitty and alone and hating the south, i hate the south, i...
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Anonymous asked: Hemingway/Fitzgerald. Of the two, who would you fuck and who would you marry, and why?
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i call it back porch and basement early august that sticks to your clothes like firework or cul-de-sac dust i like your faded black band tee, i like your faded black band tee off (please smile at that) its just when i’m with you the afternoon feels like loose change and soft-pack camels it feels like an ataris music video when i teach you to french behind the gas station or when i say...
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your body is appalachia i climb at your foothills tugging at the dress of your spring like a child, dreaming of touching your summer
just like you, i want to sleep all america, just like you, i want to dream transatlantic, if i make it by fall, or if not then, by winter i will throw away my map
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high school love letter
hey sally hayes, fourth period detention queen, we have chemistry together, get it? i was kind of thinking of your kneecaps last class and i kind of want to touch them or something if you’ll let me, maybe after school behind the vending machines, maybe in your bedroom, i kind of want to kiss your eyelids too ‘cause your eyelids are killer, and you’re like real fucking super so...
Anonymous asked: Fag0t get a fukin job.
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valentine for non-valentine
you are a blue scarf left in the backseat of my car all cashmere, made in china non-chlorine bleach when needed (do not iron) i won’t, since you’ve left i’ve kept quite clean, i don’t smoke in the car anymore, i don’t leave junk mail on the floor, remember how much you hated that? i do, i do one thousand times over, i write it with my tires when i drive, listening to...
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poem for valentines
i don’t believe in signs or miracles, i don’t believe in cards or penny wishes, or even stars shooting fantastic outside the city lights, but when i see you sleeping in the early morning february wrapped up like a gift, when i see you red-nosed and sniffling out in the frosted cloudbreak, well, honey, i feel like believing in anything.
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when i think of april, i think of rain and the way my living room looked with you sleeping in it, the soft blue of the walls, the faint sun setting orange against your face, my home was a home because you said it was, i believed it then, but now when i go back to (april, rain, touching your neck, kissing everywhere, never the lips, keeping your sweater until i hated it) i don’t know how to...
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letter i will never send
last night, i dreamt of the world ending and all i could think of was you and in the total heartache of waking up, to find the world just fine, well, it is not fine, i have all this material, all this memory to construct sadness, but i can not make you, not anymore, i hate to say it but i’ve forgotten so many things, like just how much teeth your smile shows, or even how your voice sounds...
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cold hands shaking for cigarettes, my friends are cutting coke on ginsberg’s “howl” and i want to play pixies songs all day ‘till my heart turns boxcar black, sometimes when i look at a house i can feel other houses, my houses the houses of my childhood all mythic and yellow memoryless, and sometimes this makes me want to write in nuclear chalk on the gulf of mexico that we...
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1997, i want to be a superhero i tie a blanket around my neck and start kicking trees, they are bad guys, they live in the attic, i live in my room where i look out the window, waiting for crime, waiting for you, i call you lois lane or april o’neil, dreaming up disaster, but the best i can do is hold your hand to the bus stop, the best i can do is blow on your mac & cheese, if you get...
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personal ad
when you leave your house i come in and cut holes in your bed sheets.
every halloween, i dress up as you, it is scary as shit.
i’m hiding brand new feelings in the attic, don’t go in the attic.
one is a specific sadness at the triangle of raindrops the wipers can’t get too.
another one is feeling scared at other people being happy.
when walking through the woods i like to...
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you are a new home with old windows a new city and old feelings i can imagine you now, walking down whatever street, hands pocketed, against the fuzzy cold, cursing at the blow of growing up, i just wanted to say, even though i’m not really here, i’m still here.
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sitting here in the kitchen almost midnight, eating shepherds pie listening to the rain come down on atlanta and you are sleeping so i have no one else to tell this too this is delicious
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it gets so dark in this room i can stare into the black and try and make my blurry eyes create you out of the dark but it in the morning, its never quite you, but i’m getting better i just wanted you to know that yes, you are wanted
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do you think when we sleep our mind’s go “fuck geography,” if i can create stories, why can’t i create yours? its like i’m a poet or something and you’re a blank page waiting, its like we are two ghosts haunting the same house, but i don’t have that kind of strength, to slide into folded arms, but hey, this is as close as i can get, and if you’re...
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i can only imagine how you must turn silently in your sleep with your arms stretched out for the ghost of the body that haunts your bookshelf, on afternoons like this where the rain slowly falls in puddles, yours is the saddest thought i can think of, for all this distance all this soil all this weather i want to be your ghost.
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i was seven and my mother came to eat lunch with me at school, and when i saw her, i started crying.
i was eleven and i learned to use curse words so well but every night, god’s guilt made me pray for myself.
i was fourteen and scared to death of how to stop my hands from trembling at the inner thigh of a girl.
i was sixteen and at a college party, i coughed on my cigarettes and...
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morning so far
i was listening to Bon Iver but changed it to The Pixies ‘cause its better.
I drank my coffee really really fast.
I smoked a cigarette really really slow.
I made plans for some party.
I re-read my paper on women in Joyce’s Artist and how all art (truth) comes from the female.
I thought about all you guys yall are so killer.