Drawing; Poetry

Big post today. Have been writing but not posting. The drawing was done weeks ago. Thankfully, I no longer feel that way. (At the moment.) The poetry was written over the course of the past few weeks. The best poem is probably the last. If you get tired/bored scroll down and read it.

It seemed so at the time

Last night
I enjoyed
the most beautiful evening
of my existence.

I was headed
to my old apartment
to pick up a check
for four hundred
dollars
and the sun was setting
orange and pink
and peach and blue
and every direction
you looked
the clouds were different
soft marshmallow rubble
or smooth swirls
or sliding hues
Bright Eyes
was on
the stereo
and told me love did exist
outside of poetry
and as a flock of birds passed
the glowing blinding beauty
of the setting son
gliding over the cloud mountains
and green broccoli trees
I became transfixed
so that my foot fell on the gas pedal
and I went over sixty
through a forty-five
and a cop passed
bringing me down enough to notice
he didn't pull me over
and it suddenly seemed
as if even the assholes
were not so bad
as if even the pimps
of mob justice
had to sit up
and take notice
of everything around us
and stare
at the setting
pastel sun
as I'm pretty sure
this one was.

A glimpse of something-

I am a
lifelong
groundhog
peering first
over the dirt
and marveling
at a frightened field mouse
it
r u n s
along
a log
silver-brown coat
gleaming
in the shadowed sunlight
it disappears
into
the dark
and I am left to wonder
what other
creatures
call this land
their home.

Momentary Weakness

Beautiful people
exist.
More beautiful people
exist
than non-beautiful.
They hide behind
their ugliness
and cower.

What the fuck?
I think that was
optimism.

Momentary Strength (or self delusion)

The more I
hate my life
the more I
like it
over everyone else's.

They seem to be
having fun
but – fuck –
they're so stupid.

The cheapest anesthetic is an accurate ear.

I used to walk
with a man
in a gray jacket
with gold lining
who kept his hands
in his pockets,
whistling,
and said good things
about good people
into my ear.

He spoke so well
he could make me
weep
with anxious satisfaction
over a single look
from another.

He died one day.
Disappeared
like childhood fun.
I don't know where
or when
but he's gone.
I occasionally cut cardboard
to look like him,
draw on a face,
whistle lips,
those shiny
window reflecting eyes

I tell it it's him
and I tell him
to tell me
all the good things
of those around me
so I can suck in my breath
and rub my hands in awe.

He is very quiet.

I speak for him,
sometimes,
spilling words
in softly filling pools
that shine empty
and bright.

They evaporate.

I look at the cardboard
and grin so hard
I can't feel my face.