dont talk about it
today
if you wont talk about it
tomorrow.

the day might change but we never do.
stuck in the mud
stuck in the mud
stuck in the mud

i think he breaks more
than he puts himself together;
because once he shatters,
he doesn’t try to piece things back up.
instead,
those million pieces
break into another million pieces,
and then he is dust
that won't blow away.
instead,
he wilts in the back of the universe,
watching the dead activity around him;
he is only collected
not put together, i guess.

you found me at a dime store
said that i was priceless
said there was just somethin bout me
never could define it
dainty as a candle or the
stem of a wine glass
fill you up and tip you back
sorry for the contrast
you wrapped me up in ribbon
i admit it made me softer
swinging off the balcony
and hanging from the rafters
built a home of sandalwood
emotions made of plaster
you split into two dimensions
sorry for the after

gardener
I am not ready
don't pluck me

i do this thing
where i build bridges just to
jump off them
but i never build them high enough
to do any damage
so i lay on the ground
wondering why everything hurts
just long enough to
build another bridge

It’s the telemarketer’s day off
he often calls customer service on the weekends as a hobby
he feels like a loaded rifle when they ask
“what can I help you with today?”
a jitterbug with a contemplative stutter
the jilted staleness of his apartment is suddenly
a garden of words
images of violence appear while he rips a hangnail
loneliness is a grown man’s burden, he thinks
“I don’t want you to listen but I do need to be heard”
he waits for silence and he’s spoon fed this attention
“I work with people and yet I do not know people
my mind waters for intimacy not in the sensual term of the word but in the
way hands accidentally touch on a crowded train”
2,000 miles away there is a woman with a headset
a chronic consoler at the tender age of 19
her hand trembles as she hears this man speak
she’s reminded of her grandmother dying in her tiny home
back in Kansas City, desolate like her location

the champagne tastes bitter
my head swims and I think
maybe I need a bathing suit

maybe i'll never see god but the
breeze keeps touching my face
and the insects **** my blood
disease my legs and that's okay
because there's a part in me that has difficulty taking my watch off and there's a part in him that has difficulty taking his shoes off
despite the harmony I feel there's a head in the back of my own
that tells me that solitude would not suffice for such a shy creature that only wants warmth from another
there, there
there