‘where do circles begin?’ an eye for an eye for an eye.goin’ on ‘n on ’bout your missteps. been dust ‘n sweat swirlin’ down that drain,and maybe stare at the stars for a while,Poor,safe-sex-scented,Children,Afterwards she always glowed. it don’t ‘n her lips sparkled,’cause I got this jackhammer heart,I write like I write like I write, …
Post Type Archives: Poems
Untitled #601 (2014)
Turn on the noise, drown out the drowning.Laugh track’s just a setup away.
Untitled #589 (2014)
Find Part Three here. Find Part Two here. Find Part One and an explanation here.
Untitled #588 (2014)
Find Part Two here. Find Part One and an explanation here.
Untitled #587 (2014)
Part Two, find Part One and an explanation here.
Untitled #586 (2014)
This is part one of a full read through of Southerly Wind, done in one take. The entire reading is a little over an hour and a half long, split into four parts to play friendly with bandcamp. I have not listened back to this recording because I finished it and a sudden fear overwhelmed …
Untitled #585 (2014)
The weeping willow’s boughs are swept in the heavy winds,and it’s daylight, no clouds, the wind rustling the grass-blades,picturesque, and yet, and yet. It was a day like this, years and years ago,I took my first kiss to a park in Kansas,and on some old picnic blanket we gloried in the warmth of each other,in …
Untitled #584 (2014)
You could never know the times I’ve wished I’d never left,but I’m trying, trying to get better ‘bout this lookin’ back. What’s done is done is done,there are no battles to be won.
Untitled #580 (2014)
mikeyj529: stephentkennedy: mikeyj529: stephentkennedy: Synapses fire with a war-for-cheap chatter,that self-same discharge that plasma chars air to vacuum.and those fires keep rising,and them flood waters are rising,but you, you’re ether bound, and damn if that sound don’t just R E …
Untitled #58 (2015)
I could have gone to parties,I sta(ye)id home to write poetry to no one.But that’s the a-okay in today,‘cause my stories,my stories are on. Yeah, for all the all in the all that, spilt milk’s more of a sob than a cry anyhow, and the dead-eye aim my anxieties have, seems best broken by blatant …
