bad poetry.

This blog makes room for bad poetry. And I feel so lucky to have that room.

poured right through me.

how many things do we do each day to keep from being alone

how many things do we do each day to keep others from undoing the laces of our faith

how deep must we hide to believe that pain will never find us
each day
we hide:
at our jobs, in our hearts where we lock away
our prayers behind the throat, tucked under cheek bone, in the liver.
in our houses with locked door,
in the lists we put on our fridges telling us we are thirsty
how many things must we do to stamp out time
like a balloon
stretching our precious breath, and nothing else but dust?
how many lists must we make to
feel like we have done enough?
should I stop before home and get milk?
what should I do before the tv show is on?
in our cars behind steal armor.
in our minds full of smoke and bees.
how many years of a life must we spend checking our phones
our digital calendars?
before we realize they are empty
or should be.
why are we so afraid to feel wind in our teeth?
to let these shoulders down, and hands go empty
why are we so afraid of the quiet night,
because its loud if its silent and
the stillness will burn holes right through us?
just nothing but the slow breathing stars.
the freeway and the coast laid out a lumbar curve
nothing is here for you to hold on to.
nothing but the sharpness of solitude
in verisimilitude of open


hush.
let me whisper.


before I fry my brain with radiation
before I eat cancer
before I have worn out every last ambition to keep moving


I hope

the blade of loneliness will cut the shackles of this fear
so I can live.