Some nights I
Find comfort in that
I am not
The only one
Who is a failure
In love, life
Friendships, art, speaking
And all else.
A sweating, weeping
Mess, I wake.
April5 TrystYour beautiful back
Billowing like summer clouds
Throws me in a trance.
I'm in love, but we
Have never met, and never
Will. Forget about me, I
April3 HeavyI am but
A heavy oil
That will never dry.
The paint is thick
But my mouth
April1 What Is This Dream? Qué es este sueño?
That I cannot
Awake from nor
A cat laying
Breath15 a minute, 900 an hour, 21,600 a day, 7,884,000 a year
This is how I breath.
In my 15 breaths, 20 children die.
And in a year I waste 7,884,00 breaths
Breaths that could save a life or a love or the world but instead I waste them.
I don't understand.
Because I don't stop there
I waste your breath as well.
And so I don't object when you take the breath from my lungs in a rush of passion
Neither of us comprehends, because it belongs to you anyways.
In my wasted 126,144,000 breaths, I have done nothing worthwhile,
But the future is a big place (supposedly)
StarsI found stars of tea this eve. They were almost beautiful.
I realized these stars held my future, and
Try as I might to arrange them into my desired constillations
They move no more than the dead.
My belly becomes the holder of my
Future, now that I've sipped half the tea away,
and all the stars are gone and because I took so long the tea is cold and I wonder, Like the night I sat with a girl I wasn't sure I loved by the river
I wasn't sure existed; I wonder
If this is what G-d feels like.
Does s/he stare into rivers of tea and stars and wonder about the future?
Does she want to catch a body whilst coming through the rye,
Or would she prefer to just meet and talk instead?
I've reached the pinnacle of my journey; the bottom of the cup.
I found the stars again, in tight-knit nebula emitting a
Kind of pure radiance only I can see.
Which is probably what love is like.
Unable to reach any conclusion I pour the last bit of tea out.
I find no answers to the questions I pose.
Tonight, I though
J'eris en FrancaisJ'ai écrit dans français aujourd' hui,
Parce que quand je fais, je sentis
Je sais ça moi ne suis pas,
Mais tu je laisses j'ai mon amusant.
Sempiternal George Proulx awoke to a banausic morning. This particular Tuesday morning, George dreaded getting out of bed; not to say that he didn’t dread getting out of bed every morning he had to work. Thus is the life of a cubicle worker.
While dragging himself into the shower, George decided he would go out for breakfast that morning, since he was out of artificially fruit flavored cereal. (He never really understood why “fruit” was included in the name of such cereals, since the cereal tastes nothing like fruit, but he didn’t bother to ask.) George was the sort of man that did the majority of his day’s pondering in the shower, since his job required tedious attention to small percentiles.
Once out of the shower (and dressed, mind you) Geor
Intoxication, suffocation and no explanation
Or ending after all
Free fall, recall to vague paintings on the wall