I wish I was moonstone, I am ash,
drawing sparks inward found through oblivion
an inspiration to look to a self-destructive grayness
a pioneer to follow an entity to flee
I wish I was a columbine I am a weed,
purity in the filth displaying grotesque posteriors
a natural Vermeer a bile to humankind
a concept to adore a plague to the eyes
I wish I was a golden finch, I am a vulture
preaching poetry sweet striking with slack talons of lead
a vocal liberator a nightmare shrieking
an artist in their craft a pickpocket of hope
I wish I was a professor, I am a false prophet,
altruistic rewarder of reason indulging himself with lies
a light in dark negligence a scourge to the earth
a hero to the thinker a fool to the world
I wish I was composure, I am regret,
tranquil with vigor slitting my mind’s wrists
a testament to willpower a pitiful shadow
a figure so towering a sin of the past
I wish I was a man I am but a boy
(everything right to everyone) (lost in self-sorrow)
He said to go past the whoops. We are supposed to meet his truck just past it.
Whoops? What in the hell is a whoop?
You asked this question over. Over. Over the wheels of the car,
A rough road turns damning when one does not
understand the terms used by the traverser.
We heaped the bed of metal over unevens, the other you states
Are these the fabled whoops?
Seeing the red glaring eyes of taillights,
I take a stab and say, must have been the whoops- as a notion (an idea)
Whatever the fuck that is. A whoop.
Are trees supposed to stare at you in the dark? I guess the fire keeps it from being dark, so
no? Faces lick their bleeding branches of cardboard as I hear-
Sharing is caring man! So, like, you know, pass me the bong.
Oh gods his laugh reeks of self-centeredness. I look
I am alone, where are
my friends? My protectors.
Oh, there are the adolescent adults,
with you asking me, with your auburn eyes containing flames from stems and wood,
you ready to head out- Hell yeah let’s go.
You keep talking about the paranormal.
I used to want to be normal
Aliens, spirits, ghosts I guess are just spirits. Seems like I have a ghost or seven,
because that damn scent bottle keeps
like doing shit, and
I don’t want to think about it driving back.
It is closing hours. For my eyes
but my medaling mind is the drunk that sleeps at the bar
with the bartender, that is you, keeping me
awake. I guess I am back to the massive monument to college,
debt. In the form of, a dorm.
Goodnight strange noises from the corner, I say to no one in particular.
I head into the soft glow like child cartoons
Well what I just did,
it’s definitely not planned.
Homework, but what fun is that
when you have nature, friends and assholes
to toy with my
whatever that really means.