The Loneliest Monday (a shit poem/daily recap)

today was the loneliest monday.
it rained.
loneliness drove me to the pub.
the best part of this monday
was the two dollar mac and cheese,
with the sriracha on top.

five minutes left of the game,
i didn’t care. but my eyes kept wandering
to the screen like they were meant to.
truckers came and went.
i made eye contact with a chef with turquoise hair.

maybe they all stared while
i had my head in a book of short stories.
talked to a bored waitress about nothing.
it was all small-talk, anyway.

then, that foo fighters song you used to sing
came on, and i heard your voice in my head.
i cried when i got home;

curled up on the bed (i made the sheets)
in my pajamas,
in the dark,
and my cat, he curled up beside me too.
sometimes i wonder if he can recognize the sound
of a human sobbing, and what it means.

at the end of my nap in the grey afternoon
i wake from erotic dreams
psychology text books, and my best friend’s hands
running south along my body
and me sighing
writhing.

But this doesn’t happen in the real world
when mondays are sad.
in this world there is nothing but the rain
and empty bottles.

the goons of new brunswick

the stars are out in new brunswick
the goons, too.
they travel in packs of twos and threes
seeking liquor, or soft breasts

Wide-mouthed, standing with brown paper bags
on the stoop of Joe’s Liquors
fucking goons,
they’re underaged.

“YOU’RE ALL FUCKING PRIVILEGED” I scream out of my car window
and I roll it manually with my left hand
roll the window back up.

INNER SPACE

INNER SPACE : The wondrous interior of
 the End of the World

 

“People were no more than dolls set on tabletops, 
  the springs in their backs wound up tight, 
                   dolls set to move in ways 
                       they could not choose. 
     Most of them died, 
     plunging over the edge 
     of the table.”

 

We are wind-up toys, soup cans without labels, 
 monsters in the subway. Strange,
 filled with problems the world brings
 
 Identity is not in the body, nor does it reside in consciousness.

 

End the world.

 

We are who we are, normal people
 thrusting in weird realities that fold in on themselves.
The constellation of people 
 sharing the same body,
 living within television
third incarnation of the same lifetime

 

The “wind-up bird:” an unseen creature whose song sounds
 as if it is winding the spring of the world
 But who does the winding, and who is being wound?

 

A crafted mechanical object whirrs to life,
 setting off into the unknown.
 
 Brilliant, intricate little world. Compact like an atom.
 the tiniest of worlds, splitting in two.
The atom bomb lies strangely on its periphery: 
 soldiers shoot the animals in the zoo,
 a mushroom cloud appears across the sea. 
 It blocks out the sun. Homes are obliterated in an instant.
Concerned with Alienation, Culture, Identity,
 society itself seeks to take its own measure.

 

Witness the moment of collapse: 

 

the vast, blank expanses of the end of the world,
 our subconscious has been scooped out and replaced by two worlds:
 (1) the physical world and
 (2) the world of artificially manufactured subconscious

 

A walled city.

par–

it’s heartbreaking and relieving:
i’ve willed myself to drive away to a place we found together,
but i am here, tonight, alone. i have tested
and pushed and stretched he and i until
it was found- the slightest tear
in the fabric. all of me is hollow
like a dead summer tree.
i’ve driven away and this place smells like coffee
and the seat by the window is coldest.

# one

300 Level Fiction — Assignment — Page long sentences to convey a single emotion.

No, I have not changed, I have always been this way, perpetuating this loneliness because it is comforting, because being transparent and unnoticeable fits me like a glove and I remain quiet, passive, scared—meek and modest, but hopeful, so sadly hopeful as if my heart would cave under the weight of such unbearable longing, as if my heart would burst from the mere thought of intertwining limbs and quickened breaths, a longing that has plagued this beating organ night after night in that solemn place between dreaming and sleep, that moonlit place where I lay utterly alone upon blankets and sheets, basking in the absence of color: blackness, a blackness like no other that shape-shifts to his form beside me, broad shoulders, the precise curvatures of his neck traceable to his soft navel, a puncture upon such perfect canvas upon which my poetry is written, skillfully scribbled by the hook of his lips upon my papery flesh, a delicate script bathed in quivering sunlight only to be read by our sighs that escape the windows exposed through the eyes, yes, my poetry that grazes the tender earlobe while teeth and tongue sing the nerves to gather and again his shape decomposes in the morning light and again, I will awaken to this sudden familiarity: how the entirety of me longs to know someone else’s skin, longs to know the swirls scribbled on the tips of his fingers, longs to know the quivering of his lips as we kiss in the rain or how gold his eyes become in the sunlight that blinds me, binds me with the fervor of wishes upon falling stars, nothing but passing rocks burning up somewhere high and far above our fragile frames.