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A Collection of Nonsense

Nov 8 '12



Jun 15 '12



Feb 9 '12

Basement (U lovin’)

Before my father flocked to it with tools,
what was once a slab of moldy gray
sat lights-off below the kitchen
where odd Halloween creatures poked
out of bubble wrap
in boxes towering
by mom’s Ineverwinanything Sears-
raffled gingerman Christmas tree

But he’s forever itched to keep busy.
So he hammered out the closet
for a cheap man’s
doityourself bathroom,
dry-walled the place a little warmer
and painted it fresh –
carousel red, sandy yellow
and a bluer periwinkle

It was mine after –
with a U couch
that I shared with a girl.
We aren’t together now –
but when the left wing of leathery cushion
hoisted our gentle bodies together
it shared our touches
and shaped itself to the way
my foot dug into it
when our legs were a knot

Jan 24 '12
"What can be explained is not poetry."
W.B. Yeats (via bodasdesangre)
Dec 29 '11


She listened in the same spot every day. 

And once I actually did
sit next to her.

My eyes casted intervals of intuitive gazes

between the symmetry of economic charts
and her breasts.

My pupils dilated madly like a newborn’s

during the stretches of quarter seconds
spent tracing across her, unnoticed.

I asked her for a pencil,

ignored the one buried in my pocket
scratching my thigh 

for any excuse to discover her name.

When she revealed it, I sat sweaty and rigid,

rolling the letters round my head
as I frantically flipped through any acceptable pickup lines, 

but decided to kamikaze it.

When we were released
from the supply and demand 

of notes and inky doodles,

I made sure she knew
what a stranger thought of her

while I still had a throbbing nerve