My mind is an ashtray
Full of half-baked thoughts
My feelings are delicate like a dry leaf broken off the tree by rain. The trees inspire me, the way they never stop reaching–even if it’s in the wrong direction.
The butterfly flaps its wings. Nothing happens. Six billion butterflies flap their wings. The rain stops–for good.
Now everyone will be delicate too. A slug hides under me, a root under that. The trees make their stand. Water or no, there they are. A desert awaits a salesman who dies of thirst.
Thirst for others. Uncertainty stares up at me from the chasm. I want to jump in–what a thrill, though short-lived.
Upholstery ensconced and yellow and white paint rush by. Many dead trees. The fire got them. They are ugly now, aren’t they?
The wind pushes the door shut. I re-open it time and time again. Will I ask the right questions, see the right angles? Or am I too obtuse?
Other leaves are lighting themselves ablaze. But what are their stories?
Did he hit the train, or did the train hit him? We’ll never know. Could you blame him, I mean would you?
My mind is a dirty ashtray. Ashes are soft, tasteless. They stand for nothing and let the wind carry them. They are lazy. I want to be the cherry. Hypnotizing, captivating. I’ll try hard.
forgotten suspicions amuse me
discovered on a dated device
artifacts are better than a journal–more telling, no sugar-coating/
30 pounds, self-doubt, my inner-quitter: things I’d like to lose
a fulfilling career, pretty pussy: things I’d like to gain/
shit under my fingernails stinks, picked it up and threw it at a brown guy, why
stuck in the mulch, spouting off
driving trucks on sidewalks
orange traffic cones ignored/
drunk or texting murderer
lost friends howl at me from behind the cold stars
lost love presents a scale: relief on one side and an auger in my brain on the other/
smoked too much weed, per uge
thoughts are scattered/
pacing around the lake
winged ones in my pupils
flight is majesty
we can’t dive for fish all the time
sometimes it’s just for fun/
the world is fucked up but what am I supposed to do about it
joy and good will surprise and delight
I try to drink in infinite shades of earl grey
got to breathe too
am I enough is the real fear
when I’m too much I’d rather fuckin’…
I’m no Wollstonecraft, but I’ll still jump in the godamn river
but there’s no need for that
yet jumping out of a perfectly good airplane may be necessary, nay is necessary
to get as close as people can to it
I’ve found this out the hard way
if there was reincarnation, reset without hesitation
do I blame nature or nurture?/
If I were Trump I’d just blame others–the media probably,
but alas, I know better than that idiot
cocksucker is worming his way into my art now for Christ’s sake
idioms, i.e. cliches are useful as far as they go
we all need to study and debate more. Notice I didn’t say regurgitate or bicker…
cruel irony can kill or maim
choking on caviar
gasping hunger knows no bounds/
keyboard clicks and clacks
mind jumps and twists
but if no one reads this did I really write it?
who am I kidding–this shit is for me. The audience is critical, of course–don’t get me wrong
however this is a selfish act, though I suppose less selfish than many of them
is that all you got out of this? smh