Firedog-Ookami

Occupation— What a terribly odd idea. That I must bleed a factory's worth of pens and a forest worth of paper— So that I may meet an arbitrary measurement of learning— A valueless number of value. I am growing old. The world ages silently with me. What have I gained from it? Grains of sand slipping through— My porous hands: incapable of recapture, of grasping the moment— My sister, my darling Catherine, waits at home for me— But I am occupied. My mother, the origin of everything we know— Held captive by 'owners'— Private Property. But I am the progeny of the natives, the inheritor of

Hello, Student! You, there! Pouring over my poems with drudgery. Half-asleep, fumbling for the keyhole. Let me give you a hint: I make locks without keys And doors without keyholes. The universe may live in a bedroom— All three pounds of it— But you will continue searching among the chewed up pens and scraps of paper In search of him. So, take heart dear future! I send you salutations from another age!

Some days, everything is poetic. Those are the days you notice the reflections in the floor And the pettering birds on the rotting windowsill. The kinds of days life intoxicates you and holds you captive, And unwilling but unresisting subject. Even the rubbish bins beg to be lyricized And the polluted smoke becomes a dancing shadow against the canvas of sky In a brief escape from reality My escapades in words trap a piece of the soul in the mundane schlep of life  And shades my heart from the harsh rays of truth.

I am a stormy paradox Here to rain on your crisp summer evening The universe does not fit in a box. A contradiction cannot be captivated. One cannot push the ocean into a fishbowl And call it a charming two bedroom flat. So I merely ask you to erase your memories And destroy your conceptions And behold without thinking—appreciate the cosmos Without mathematizing him.

the words 'i love you' have always tasted like forbidden fruit an apple offered by a helpful serpent- sweet and fleeting but the words 'i loved you' just taste of finality. i always thought that leaving you would be like leaving gomorrah that i couldn't help looking back and when i did i'd feel an ocean dry itself beneath my skin but this is so much quieter and so much worse. my knuckles taste of blood, not salt. there is no new testament here just old testament fire just lot's wife standing on a forgotten hill rocksalt freezing her outstretched hands watching her hometown burn below her. there is no forgiveness here just mutual lonelin

1. help clean up the morning after the party. (even if it wasn't you who smashed tater tots into the carpet or left crushed beer cans in the flowerbox. it might as well have been, and if you're lucky next time, it will be.) 2. when your phone rings after midnight, it's never the person you want it to be. answer it anyway. and when it's a boy who wants to read poetry and watch meteor showers, understand that that's probably not all he wants, and then hang up. or don't hang up. trade poems and stars and kisses, and let it mean nothing or everything. 3. skipping class is never a good idea unless you're with a friend you love and you sneak al