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my four best poems
WALKING WHITE WHALE
you ever…
in these moments where
everything suddenly feels afloat?
Oh, the culture shock of
relocating to a place where
everything doesn’t revolve around you and
in fact, nothing
is insanely not lonely and
trapped-feeling...
the “comfort zone”, be it cush,
now finds itself inside out,
upturned and you - meaning I-
find, well -- ourselves
riding the wake of the walking white whale
that roams the grass
feeding on firepit ash and easily crushing
every - meaning
our soul in its path
and man, is it terrible.
THIS THING BETWEEN TEENAGE INTERLOCUTORS
this miss...old poems ahead of their time
so global, yet alone, are we, as if this miss for that familiar,
who once was in my mind, and still remains
Auburn, jet black her eyes,
Cynical optimist, she’s wet tundra, a cold ocean of possibilities…
Frozen surface, cloudy sunrise over sobbing desert, sick with heartache
Tundra’s tears, puddles, sand-smitten reflections
Her voice, my miss…
A mist
Surrounds broken language, our language, butchered, and still…
it remains, my miss...,graceful, stumbling, and interchangeable vowels
it’s as if this puddle grows
to a well beneath the earth.
through molten core, joining our continents,
impossible.
still, foolishly, i wait for airport days and lanky embraces,
kisses of old misses, and together jet black meets blue.
DANCE
She decides to float across
the waves of heat from the towers which have been
placed to heat the waves of sweating teenagers
out there in the cold and warmth.
She drifts heedlessly from night to night
and from opinions to opinions and follows where the
fun and games go.
And too often does she find herself
splayed across the altar of whimsy and
too often does she
taste the breath of unpredictability
and too often
taste the consequences
and
With stalk eyes,
gale force winds contained...
There’s nothing original about noticing the color of eyes-
or comparing them to hurricanes but.
I can’t help but
Furrowed red line eyebrows
and I ask to touch her hair
after my hand is already in it and.
She says she looks like a crack whore and
she gave herself tattoos and
pierced her own ears.
She’s wearing sneakers and a black dress with
...and it’s open in the back.
I remember how her hips felt, I doubt she remembers my shoulders
elastic, tight fabric and bone
there isn’t much of her there
and movement
I was too sweaty
she isn’t too warm
her shoulders curve funny
‘i don’t know how to dance either’
I suspect she’s lying.
EVERY THOUGHT
not every thought that comes into your mind
should be
f---ing written on paper
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these are my four best poems in my lonely and largely meaningless opinion