This is that young poet we read in class yesterday. I looked at some of his poetry online and I highly recommend that everyone read some of his other stuff. His style/voice is awesome, and his use of language is the definition of tight.
Unfortunately, his book is like 50+ dollars on amazon (used).
I finished the baggie of blue pills
that made the planets so tolerable.
The toy hula girl on top of my dresser
sends her regards, although she
doesn’t dance until I touch her,
and Ramona, do you have any new pills
you’re not using, any spare lows
for your only boy? I fell hard
for the mailbox, I sent flowers to
that mailbox, I went fishing
in the reservoir, but they’d drained it
twenty feet. Your lost lures glared
cheaply under the morning sun,
which was a plug in a reprobate
bathtub. Will we drain up
instead of down? If we go down
is that the first we’re heard of?
Yes. I’m tired of the astrologies,
the icy pharmaceutical rites
that are enough for me. I grow old.
I encounter philosophy at night.
I’m concerned that what we have
is each other, for as long
as prescribed, and I can tell
by the skin beneath your eyes
that as far as I go, it’s your word
against the universe and sleep.
gah. i forgot how to log in. annoying
ok, this blog system for some reason is not a intuitive for my brain. i’m annoyed that i have posted new post before but cannot figure it out right now. anyways, i have something to say so i will just post it in a comment:
last night i watched great expectations (a movie made from the book by charles dickins)—which is one of my all time favorite movie (you should alllll watch it, immediately)—here was the first line that stuck with me, made me think:
“i’m not going to tell the story how it happened, i’m going to tell it how i remember it”
that’s true in its own way, and maybe it’s really the only way we can tell a story. what do you guys think?