centuries, turning

there is no truth and why would you argue? stop pretending you were born for a greater purpose. it's enough to be alive

the defeatist

i listen at night for intruders while my children sleep and i go over the list of people i need to apologize to. i used to be hopeless now i'm without hope. i didn't mean to waste my life writing poems.

noah (March 5, 2009. Issue 1)

the names of dead soldiers and the sound 
the house makes as it pulls itself apart. 
i didn't have any money but there was still 
scratching at the door. i was sober and depressed. 
i was tired of hearing about my failures.
i stepped into the cold sunlight and started breathing. 

      

mantygre (The Old Site, A Future Issue)

 i nurse my hatred while the ocean catches fire. the shadows of birds and   blood
being wiped clean from the courthouse walls. an unnamed war and how it ceases
to matter. flags in tatters and a subtle disease. the memory of a song and all 
of the thingsthat i'm unwilling to give. this person i never wanted to be.

   
miles end (The Old Site, A Future Issue)

 the streets are leaking blood and i'm here waving goodbye.
a cage in a forest or an amputee camp. the television
is on in an empty room and all i dream about is your skin.
winter fading and some endless war covering this town.
the days are thick with fear and i've forgotten my father's face.
all i'm trying to do is explain who i am. what i want is for it to matter.


small acts (The Old Site, A Future Issue)
   
the dogs are licking dried blood in the streets at three in the morning
and there are some doors that refuse to stay closed. all of the friends
that i've abandoned and i can't even cast a shadow. babies born without  
arms, legs, or eyes and we can blame the government. the sound of trains
moving away or cold machines humming. everything that i've buried
is slowly crawling back.


refrain (The Old Site, A Future Issue)

this ditch piled high with the bodies of slaughtered police officers and at some point you'll leave.
the walls are burned black and the future is being shaped by money. the rooms are windowless
and the borders are invisible. depression becoming a relentless weight and all of these voices
that i don't recognize. an empire of ruin is all we ever wanted. 


coda (The Old Site, A Future Issue)

contrails hanging as the skyline and the walls are burned black. misshapen crosses 
and the streets have lost direction. the pills have wore off and we've reached a point   
where nothing is beautiful. where we hate no one more than ourselves. the truth   
is what we've always been afraid of.