This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward. If either my bodies of unloved work had to have themes, Slump is all about melodrama, angst, and being a fucking wanker. The Digging Hymns is, if anything, just more pretentious. Enjoy, and thanks for spending time with us.
On Honey & PB Blaster
They say Bee’s are really messengers,
Dancing little lines of code
From the ones who left us behind.
That smell, decaying machinery
Kept alive past expiration date
Is my inheritance.
I let the lubricant roll into the crevices
I once called hands,
And smell his shirt, and hair oil,
And his laugh rings
With each thwack of the hammer.
The Bee hummed for me
While I felt fish do the hangman’s jig.
It was the same tune
He played in the pick up on the way
To feed livestock.
They say Bee’s are really messengers,
And PB Blaster is really blood.
99th Anniversary of Pearl Harbor
I lay, listening to Mark Kozelek
Sing songs from my favorite band
Getting stoned to better contemplate
The meaning of man and my battle plans
(that immortal fight, the one true cause, the sex drive)
and wondering why I smell the way I do,
perhaps its something with the sweatpants
I took on my personal bildungsroman
Up to grey ice water, they retain the scales
And death and beer sweats, I could water
Carthage with my beer sweats, I think my tears are
I lay, wondering why I hadn’t tried to steal
Thunder from the gods, a modern Prometheus,
Sometimes the sequels are good too,
Perhaps it has to do with my overall
Lack of precognition, and the fact that my
Telekinesis can only move
Fickle hearts and shallow eyes,
And they never like the mass graves
I want to show them.
I lay, thinking about how one
Always find the right muses for the right time
In their life. Do you do that too?
We should probably cut our hands
And rub what falls out on each other’s faces
In case one of us forgets what it is to be
So goddamn mean.
I lay, tortured by the witch of sleep
Paralysis, she likes visiting me
When I’m being particularly useless
To remind me of the ego I keep trying to drown,
Then again, she is in love with a cigarette butt
At the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
I lay, and tomorrow won’t be important
And I fear that’s probably all my fault,
I, an eternal fire dormant
Made this way by beer tear salt.
How to Combat Ennui Through Voodoo Palm Reading
She reached across the table,
Navigating burnt bacon and pickles
And pitchers of beer,
And grabbed me by the road maps.
This is after asking if I was uncomfortable
When she kissed her girlfriend.
It was no casual “What the Fuck”
That escaped her lips, no, she shouted
Loud enough to wake the sleeping
Drunk at the other end, and cause the
Frat boys to turn in their seats,
Dropping unused rohypnol on the checkerboard floor.
“Your hands, they are so old!”
I laughed my agreement.
The last time I had heard this entire racket
I was thirteen and the girl I wanted
Mocked my skin, cementing my place
As a lurking oddity leaving claw marks in fir trees.
She yanked me in for a closer inspection,
Her small paw with a firm grip
Caressing the canyons I call
Life lines and love lines.
Eying my palm with furrowed brow,
“What are you?”
I said something clichéd and ironic,
Barring my post-modern teeth,
So she repeated the question,
Head cocked like a black sheep
And heat in her eyes
Which tore through my romantic blood.
“I studied under a voodoo witch
living in Louisiana, and you are baffling,
torn in every direction. I insist you
follow every thread,
you’re a horse chewing hay,
I left my hand in hers,
Confusion collapsing against my
Jawline. I still don’t know how to reply.
When she let go, I lead her to water
And looked into her mouth while she drank,
Mulling over my gift.