our kind of hope, pt. I

There is so much pain, and so much beauty.

And the half of my day that is not loving you, is cut up shards of you.

And I am afraid of losing, and so afraid of keeping.

And I am not poster art. I am not well rehearsed. I am yellowed, all hungry barbs. I am the words without the story, or every line eaten, shat, and guts, and glue.

And I don't hate him/her/them/you for every gold star you collect. I want you to be happy, or else I am seeing you, and:

1. the one day lived was in an airplane, and maybe the earth has bruises for him.

2. her body forgets her.

3. he will always be broken in the mirror of us.

4. she has an old dog, in her eyes, in happiness.

5. she is crying, and no one saved her, and I couldn't save her.

You have to be happy, because you hurt me when you don't know hope.

(my guts swell with soapy memories. i taste the moon come crashing, burn my lips on this car heater.)

poultice

Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. 

Buddha

on top of the world

a cheap novel

In the face of the obscene, explicit malice of the jungle, which lacks only dinosaurs as punctuation, I feel like a half-finished, poorly expressed sentence in a cheap novel. 

Werner Herzog

twoheaded and slayer

DRAWN OUT ALL THIS, THE

STRINGS I am creation without courage THAT

TAKE I am loving without look

liar to FOR MY LOVE STILL

others MUST

STAY bitter from all seeing

an ideal.../newspapercuts

It takes great deal of courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it. 

An Ideal Husband; Oscar Wilde

feeling hammers

mosquito hum past—smash of memory—
our massive noise—tangles breathing—

all of these words are apple cores, my happiness depths.

feeling stills

there is a certainty in rust

of the night drug

to hear it loudest above vanilla light

one friend of myself.

scared sound (happiness)

"This is just such a calm, ocean happiness, that starts with a song, and then ends in thoughts of you all strange, bright, cannonball friends."

Ian William L.

a streetlight wind—jagged—kind

I am starting now, at (THE BLACK SUN SPITS, ECHOES HOWL), because I am happy, and I don't bleed enough money, as I should, to feel adult, and okay. And I care about my mother to a point, that will never be healthy, for someone who is me and cannot bruise time, and I am going to shit myself for seeing a good friend, and throwing up/ourselves into the future. Which is (SOME KIND OF WAX AND BLOOD AND BEE STING), which reflects something (I remain). I have a name tag, with some skin, that says (I SEE YOUR HANDS WANT). I have never. I really like the futureIHATETHEFUTURE.

Everything—is—still—not—bruising——next to me—the warmest———the writer.

I am not good at telling. I was—now—clamming up, closing up, hearing gunshots pretending to be sound, that is just———any fear becomes: Gunshotted. Unbruising. Fearer. That time.

I am going to (I will) sleep, at (ROCK FACES). I am going to dream of golden not spiders crawling into my mouth or existing.

(these global tenses rob us.)