The Great Escapade

Cynical Modernism.

Ask me anythingSubmitMy poetryNext pageArchive

A rough month makes for some very heroin chic eyebags.

Day to day, we find structure in sevens and threes,
Day to this day, we kiss the ground, she kisses a tree,
The stone wall weeps, cold in spring,
Coldest as the hill caves breathe,
Outward, a sigh of relief,
Holding up the ground above the past loves of a whole other world nestled in bone and satin,
God it’s the coldest spring,
We forget that sometimes that’s exactly what spring means,
Dry creek beds,
Water it escapes other ways,
Make sure, make due on that name,
I’m waiting on the flowers, come quickly tulips,
Fresh May fruits, new,
Kiss me after this strange April.


Tests on the snow with the Ice Jacket

I can’t decide how to remember.
I’ll see you again soon, but not soon enough,
I’m so sorry.

Never had it come louder than it did this time,
A strong gust of wind holding dearly to the bottom, a wild repeating blur the only foundation,
I found a suite filled with parts heading towards Kentucky to be built into cars by factory line workers who secretly hate their lives,
Don’t worry your secret is safe with me,
And there didn’t need to be nothing so I guess it’s okay anyways,
I wish I would catch you in your prime,
Twelve years before when you couldn’t differentiate between bolt types,
Or when there was time and what it meant anyways,
And I can see this blur too don’t worry, I’m not doing anything that’s working either,
Nothing moves and I’m starting to think that they never understood their principles to start with,
I wish I were the right kind of ignorant.