Dear reader. I think so much. It gets uncomfortable in my head with all those thoughts taking up so much space. I put my thoughts in poems so my brain doesn’t get squished by the weight of childhood memories consisting of me holding a stick in various locations and reruns of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Poems are like little glass jars filled with pickled organs. And the organs are so pickled, they’re almost translucent. As Bryce Shivers and Lisa Eversman of Portlandia fame once said, “We can pickle that.” That’s just beautiful. I made a custom embroidered pillow on the internet which says “We can pickle that.” I didn’t buy it though. One day, the whole world will be pickled. You can just dump stuff in a poem and then forget all about it. And then get famous while people theorize about your sexuality.
Valentine’s Day, Valentine’s Day
Did you know it Valentine’s Day?
That’s right, it’s Valentine’s Day
Which means that tomorrow isn’t Valentine’s Day
And yesterday wasn’t Valentine’s Day
But today it’s Valentine’s Day Continue reading
This poem is dedicated to all those who were moved by the lost underwear. I understand you and am here for you.
My bloodshot eyes match the color of the pen marks
I fear will soon litter my blue books,
And the dark circles that hang like moons underneath
Are garnering some worried looks.
Inanimate objects are starting to move in the corner
Except when I look, they have never been calmer.
APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding
First-years out of their triples, mixing
Drunkenness and libidos, returning
Once again to the Cove.
Is there anything that symbolizes a lost moment so poignantly as a fallen beer can? It’s quiet luster shining from beneath the heavily tread path under the gray sky of a Saturday morning. For you, my love, a poem: Continue reading