parking-ticket-love-poem

I want to write a love note to you
on the parking ticket sticking out
of the snow-covered-hood 
of your new car.

salt bird sleeping on page 24 of a catalog

My brain is sectioned into 9 loaves
but mostly resembles a lethargic bird
 & sounds like the winter moon

I'm unable to navigate or amplify the serenade 
of the coal-mine-canary
when my awkward-airbag-lungs transfer a volume of null

I wear sea-colored-lace-underwear & fiddle 
with a mix of required & redundant jigsaw puzzle pieces
pretending to know all the words to the song

I've undergone a decrease in hunger
& a growth in the delimitation of my carmine litmus test
being attracted to bearded-logical-men
because I'm always laughing
& I don't remember how
to solve for the slope of x by myself yet
without an ocean's worth 
of vibrant coffee. 
 


 

DangerM0use.

If I had t0 ch00se a superher0 name,
I'd ch00se DangerM0use,
but I guess a rapper already picked that & pr0bably
0wns 72 c0py rights & licenses & an isLand & junk
that w0uld prevent me fr0m saving the w0rld with this m0niker
-I'm s0metimes a weird,shy,awkwardthing,
but mostly, I'm not
it depends 0n h0w much diet c0ke I've swall0wed. & which phase
the m00n decided 0n shining. 
so I d0n't know. 

reworking a poem that was a poem to be reworked

:for every one of your containers:

I’ll give you a reason for your retinas to turn around:
and notice the allusion-fueling-fire in Plato’s cave:
for every one of your stomachbutterflies: I’ll
  give you three buttons: and
:I won’t even ask you what the buttons are made out of:
because for every one of them: I’ll
give you: a coat: that I
wasn’t’ able to
wear: I’ll give you the sweater:
I liked but
 :only if you: take one of the boxes I made:
and push it: into the alley: where
I’m standing and
:::::just to show you that?: I’ll give you:
 the corner I loved
If: you give me the street you became.

....

What are you doing here and where is your time going and why haven't you done this faster and better and you have four weeks, which is not much time so hold tightly to the little lines on the face of the clock and quit taking so long because there are other people watching the progression around and around this dizzying array on the caffeine teacups of which you will vomit out 18 credits.

...........

the quiet has swallowed me
the loneliness has swelled
word-filled computer screens
a pale on my face
of chapped lips and caffeine-kept eyes
check facebook again
and shift to unshift a shadow
creeping infringe of quality.
everything is nothing but
a mess of mediocrity
that awaits a worthy word
or red pen reviewal all
of which could have admittedly
returned higher regard
if I had measured out my time in
neat little bows of
which untie a progressive acquisition
of mastering a better balance & key

Ben Marcus-illogical-inspired-writing.

                   
I’m sitting on your yard sale couch,
top teeth over my tongue.
It feels burnt from yesterday’s tea;
or perhaps, burn-ing-
like the sun’s solar energy supply-
a radiance burn-ing towards annihilation.
Sometimes science secludes me.
But indigo ribbons of rain say
that fragments of fragments of ghosts
decay into turquoise dissipation.
But I am not a nihilist.  

 

I stood on a glacier in the middle of July,
the slippery white snow reminded
me of your albatross scars.

 

I adopted a kitten with no mother.
Mostly,
we have a similar hair color.
And I called you up to
discuss postmodern discourse.
We decided to not be alone now.

 

We have curated a compilation of
Polaroid pictures that hold looks of love.
Milky images enshrining delicate eyes
and smiles as wide as the sea.
I show you the third one,
and you tell me
that my hair smelled of peaches that day.

 

That’s when I didn’t forget
about the sun’s
burning by some divisible process;
as we all snap
Polaroids and wear peach-scented hair.
But we’ll all look at each-other with
delicate eyes and wide-sea-smiles
and work to devise the divisible for sunrise.