Three Year Anniversary Poetry Dump

This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward.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

Beer sweats.

 

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,

you’re potential.”

 

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.

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