Keywords directing to my blog (from Google Analytics)

shitty sonnet

our laced toes

shortcomings

easy 9th grade epic poem

4:08 AM or how many times can i listen to Carry Me Ohio alone in bed

safe in our atrophy

"i ruined you", you said
i was drunk again, and it sounded trite.
fermented on our bed we bought together
with our last dime, i remember
fights and times we stayed up all night
trying to make sense of our persistance
yet i still tried to write

except i didnt.
and i dont know why
maybe our stubbornness kept me floored
tummies filled and needed more,
(did you say that you scored?)
together in our atrophy
you gave me more, like i was aching to be cured
of your affliction, our addiction
it all started with being bored.

an emotional night
and then i cant write
i stare at these pages
wishing they would become something more
i havent written in forever, or felt like
 my words matter
or anything  did
it means nothing
 anymore

would it be weird if we slept together

one night away in a hotel but not trashy

it would be non-smoking and still

maybe even have separate beds

that we could push together and it

would still be friendly and nonromantic

but still we could hold hands until we fell

asleep because that's really all i want.

"He would have been embarrassed to hear it said, but I think Ross was among the chosen, and I think that on some level he himself knew this (though at the same time the idea of "being chosen" would have seemed impossibly romantic, or "poetic" to him). He intimates something of all this in "A Dark Plum":

 A silence which settles the night
 unsettles me.
 It is not the absence of the yellow
 in one’s bright eyes but

 a slight cooling in the head, sealing
 love to the sharp darkness.
 Out of that black, my name comes sailing
 in at me, chiffon and in

 someone else’s voice, a
 soft pin put to me directly. "Ross"
 it says off the night. The voice says "Ross"
 like Hamlet’s father. It falls from 
 any cliff.

 At night you learn that you can’t talk
 to yourself but only to Hamlet,
 to his father, to a cliff.



http://www3.nd.edu/~ndr/issues/ndr16/Henry%20Weinfield/Weinfield%20Review.html

One hair on the pillow marks
off the world. Returns me to options
I think will be the same. A
feeling of uselessness

when I chuck memories into the
future. That I am chocolate in the sun
of some bright arrangement, made thick

in someone’s heated mind,
her possibilities.

I don’t learn from my own poems.

To take the plum in one hand
and with the other wave myself

thru, forgetting the
orchards, that dazzling
in the warm light.

An old friend knows
enough to get off the
train when it can’t make
the next stop.

- Ross Feld

So the heart breaks
Into small shadows
Almost so random
They are meaningless
Like a diamond
Has at the center of it a diamond
Or a rock
Rock.

- Jack Spicer

Just to see you torn apart,
Witness to your empty heart.
I need it.

-"no love lost"

here we are at my fucking blog where i have over 20 saved drafts of blank pages because i dont have the courage to write anything worthwhile or interesting.

"I want [my poetry] to be the experience... a sustained experience, a voyage, a magnificent dream, something that would take you in myriad directions simultaneously, and you could draw on all of these other voices and you could pay homage to ancestors and other languages--a poem that would include everything and yet dwell in the interstices of imagination and action." -Anne Waldman

We must endure our thoughts all night, until

The bright obvious stands motionless in cold.

-Wallace Stevens

Swan Songs

we shared this bed like teenagers
mincing intimacy, you reached for it within me
as if it needed convincing.
in love with a chemical, it bound us
(i was scared it was only that)

swindled our swan songs like elbow room on a flight

i know you didn't care if i made it home that night

swept all my emptiness that just became un-kept

hid under the pillow, you left while i slept.

first post this year..

when i was right next to you i missed you
in that borrowed bed
    we hand in hand in
paper
in love with words that i wringed-out and weaved,
what a relief to unwrap the wrong-doings you kept.
now it's 7am, and i havent slept
i'm glad you don't still sleep on a cot.
i reminisce about every time we fought.

excerpt from 'the babysitters' by sylvia plath

The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.

We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,

Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.

We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.

I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.

What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?

The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,

And from our opposite continents we wave and call.

Everything has happened.

you don't here

in these fields
you don't hear
traffic or the
lights just that
tingle
of wind
to be felt after
its gone

swindled our swan songs like elbow room on a flight

i know you didn't care if i made it home that night

swept all my emptiness that just became un-kept

hiding under my pillow, leaving while you slept

hey. i didn't forget this.

stinkybutt

i want to be held by you
by your voice your hands your face lips mouth ears you hear
when i talk not like someone
waiting to speak

i enjoy you
your words,
your taste.
i miss you and it stings.

not writing

i promised you a poem

expecting to pull that slime out of me

like puking on pages

but i can't find the words