I Scratched This onto a Desk in the Library Somewhere

On the west side of the city, the chit chat of strangers
Leaks into your pockets and pulls
Your face into smile position.
Ladies like to open their eyes
Wide and talk loud,
Just to make sure you listen.
I wore my only suit
And slicked my hair back
For this?

In High School my problems quickly became all of my friends’
Too, once I started exploding violently out my mouth.
I called it catharsis; they called my problems “Bomblems.”

When I broke my hand in a tragic typing accident
I started writing with my feet.
Pen between the toes, biting the upper lip.
Nobody knows the relief writing holds like I do.
Distracting the pain, much like fooling
An old dog when you pretend to throw his toy away.

My watch has been broken for a few months now,
The hands behind the scratched glass, frozen,
Or dead, not sure.
I can’t bring myself to throw it away,
I like the way it holds my wrist far too much,
So now, it’s my compass.

It took me twenty rounds to realize, life was just a board game,
We only move the pieces because boredom isn’t as glamorous
As it used to be.
I will always be the same player,
Even though, sometimes, I would like to be the silver shoe,
Or even the top hat.
I guess it doesn’t really matter,
As long as we finish together.

Nothing makes sense,
If you think about it long enough.

Sandwich.

The King of Clear Skies

When my name is Galinqua I
will pull the stars off
their hooks and you will
crave me like a moth craves
dim closet lights.

More you than you are you

The Chicago Anarchist Society is having
a meeting this Saturday.
The mohawked one invited me,
but I told him plainly,
that I was strictly
Anti-Anti-Organization
in my principles.

A Virus With Teeth

The devil sleeps in my veins
he is balled up and protruding--
resting in tumor position
making me sweat, making me worry
this might be the last time
i ever use a knife

Why should you pay for anything when your senses are free?

He says it was a car accident,
But we smell Russian Roulette.
A doctor with a southern accent tries
to piece together a broken
story. It's four minutes 'till
1 in the morning, when sleep shies away
from florescent lights and hospital beds.

All I hear is clicking and heavy breathing,
and I see the immiscible colors
of pain and cure
mixing
above my head.

"These scares stair me!"

We've Reached an Impasse

Like the conversation between bricklayers
Slow steady grind of teeth on hay
After years of meeting at the bottom
Of a crooked staircase
With a welcome pack of cigarettes
And two bottles of cranberry juice,
We’ve tried, God knows,
But we can’t figure out the puzzle
Of a forest fire or the maps in our fingerprints.
We only tell ourselves lies to keep
From falling asleep.