last week’s poems 01
who is more of an american poet than an immigrant
dear, reader
dear, writer
dear, painter
dear, fighter
these poems are for you
always have been
digital words don't mean a thing
the screen hums and the keys clink
but it all doesn’t mean a thing
you and me 100 miles apart don’t mean a thing
i saw a photo of you it didn’t mean a thing
the man you are with doesn’t mean a thing
none of it means a thing to me
you sent me a postcard from switzerland
i thought it meant something
you skinny-dipped with me under that waterfall one morning
i know it meant something
just, now, it doesn’t mean anything to me
and i have her and you have him
and that was all we would ever be these words on a screen
do you believe in me?
i believe in you.
her and i in manhatten, or you and i in brooklyn,
it’s telling about the english language that
Basquiat is not in the dictionary
but Warhol is
ive been hammering
away at the keys for far too long today
and still i haven’t created anything magic for you to taste
yet.
the start of a poem
don’t date a shit poet
the end of a poem
you used to come in through my side door at 3am
roommates never knew
and i’ve never been more tired
or happier
than that season of life
Basquiat feelings of rage were locked in tight behind a smile
they are open until 5
but if you know the owner
you can stay till 10
start to party
and go till 5am
if you know the owner
you are in
i called her old friend because
i’d definitely met her
in another life
just
turn
your
phone
off
and
start
writing
poems
you’ll
feel
better
i
swear
shes got a boyfriend - a Jack Carty tribute
shes got a boyfriend
hes got a studio in echo park
he wears doc martens and corduroy pants
he’s got a Chalamét haricut
and he's funny
shes got a boyfriend
he rock climbs at his local gym
and he’s making good money
some typical way
i've got a few poems that won’t let me go
i've got bad habits and a broken motorcycle
i've got too many stories i want to share
shes got a boyfriend
he bought a car with his dad’s money
and he never drinks more than 2
he’s not on ritalin
and he has a group of friends
everywhere he goes
i’ve got a few hundred poems that linger around
i’ve got a phone but the battery is always dead
and most of all i’ve got a journal full of stories i wrote just for you
i used to drive that mini cooper
with the stick shift
and you and i, would fly
around town
doing this and that
and always feeling relaxed
and creative
and never running out of gas
i used to drive that mini cooper
with the stick shift
to the bar on colorado
where we would start our nights
and id drive you home to the apartment off villa
where we’d end
curled up tangled
and happy
old friends
would she really come and visit me
in thailand
what if i just flew there
and she came
holy shit
she really might come
and visit me in thailand
like we had always planned
there’s this musician i like on spotify
he’s not very good
right now
but he used to be
every song he writes
you can tell how in love he was with a girl
he really loved her, man
he really loved her
and every song gets sadder and sadder
and his music is getting worse
because its unrequited love
and he’s married someone else now
damn. its going to take more sacrifices than i thought to get where i’m going
a frenzied pen
a caffeine den
i looked at my analytics
and you watched all my stories
but never said a thing
even when i wrote poems
about you
never said a thing
maybe what we had
wasn’t true
digitally,
but in person
i knew
and you met me again
at the caffeine den
with my frenzied pen
i’m three different for you
three different cultures i was raised in
all came out differently
brazilian lover
kiwi worker
anxious american capitalist disaster
three different for it to work
you and i,
the 1 freeway
and an offwhite dress
surfers at sunset
photos i never shared
of you and windswept hair
the california coast
was a good look for
you and i
for too short a time
our little secret hideaway bar is closed now
we’d go to that hidden bar
at midnight most nights
and sit on the patio
with the dim lighting
and we’d sit real close
and we got to know the bartender
and he was the only one who knew
what we had
it was always the pillow talk for me
you and i didn’t want to sleep
because we could stay up all night
chatting about dreams
closed café
just me alone in a closed café
barista let me stay
but she had left for the day
so it was just me alone
in this closed café
and i wondered
if you were going
to come around this way
a secret
if you write something when you are tired
you will
then be able to
write something else
and then
something else
and then tell me
are you tired now?
fuck off
we told eachother that if we ever needed
to take a step back from eachother
we would say ‘fuck off’
like a codeword that should never have been said
i let the words come out
one messed up day
and you took two steps back
and i couldn’t bring you back
i had started writing poetry everyday again
and it made me miss you
even though
you were right next to me
most nights
a haiku that makes me sad
you got back with him
and stopped sharing your art, were
you making it still?
you always deserved better poems than this
better poems than i could give
i got drunk on a monday with people i didn’t like and it turned out worse than i thought i should’ve stayed in my room hammering at my keys and the lesson has been learnt before but now my instincts are better i should’ve known the signs were all there these were people i didn’t like and i should have kept hammering away or painting something instead of wasting my time and feeling drunk like this poem about people i didn’t like.
and i wondered what Keaton Henson would think about these poems
on losing creativity to materialism and capatalism
you are a god
but so am i
but we are gods of different things
you, a god of material things
and me, a god of dreams
except these days
its mainly nightmares
of me snapping awake
becoming human again
and losing all my creativity
and falling into the trap
set by all the gods of material things
i heard ‘Feeling Whitney’ and felt it’s weight
i read ‘Big Sur’ and heard Kerouac’s plight
i wondered if i would ever feel alright
i’m an obviously self-taught artist