last week’s poems 08

they’ve got the old blues playing on the stereo

and i’ve got my old pen running out of ink

so many familiar faces

at all these familiar bars

but no-one

i actually know

i put some coffee in a thermos

that i’d left some beer in

for a couple weeks too long

and the thermos still smelt like beer

even after a few washes

so everytime i’d sip the coffee

i’d get a whiff of stale beer

and the coffee started tasting like

morning and 5pm at the same time

and for some reason it helped me write

what a mix that was good decisions

and the dubious ones made at night

oh baby, i want to know your unknown songs

i want to know how you wrote em so

oh baby, i want to know what makes you tick, about to explode

i want to know what makes your accelerator stick

oh baby, i want to know what you see in me, and why you kept me close

i want to know what drives you mad the most

oh baby, i want to know your unknown songs

i want to know how you wrote em so

i had a half-decent poem

and a not-yet dried-up pen

so maybe i could make rent

or make you love me yet

because all my other dollars

and all my other dreams

were long-ago spent

incomplete poetry

sits in my notebooks

and in my head

all this wordplay

ain’t getting me fed

i think we all could do a little more

of creating beautiful things each day

losing pace with my poems

losing face with the ones looking up to me

and losing the race of living truly

consistently

long winter (from the archives)

dreaming of

bonfire smoke on flannel shirts

salty wetsuit hanging up after surf

pine trees in summer sun wilderness

river water swims over waterfalls at night

fresh mountain breeze blowing by motorcyclist

hiking switchbacks leading to cliff jumping daybreak

my depression not injuring my perspective of beauty today

skidding down sand dunes tumbling towards the lake

mountain trail branches flying quickly by bicyclist

crystal cove searching for bears by moonlight

sea waves spray back glistening blissfulness

climbing over fences to dive off the wharf

melodies ringing at beach concerts

still dreaming of

i was trying

she was distracting

i was distracted

but she was trying

shucking poems for a penny a piece

and now they’re worth a dime

what a great investment

is a poem of mine

do you remember what it was like the first time you made a good amount of money doing something you love?

The Book Keeper of On The Sublime

The explorers found a hermit living in the cave. His bones lay comfortably in his dusty, worn, wooden chair as he died with a skeletal smile. They shone their torches around the cave and they saw that along the back wall there was a bookshelf. Each book was ancient but in well-kept condition; they were books that none of the explorers had ever heard of. They were so old they should have been dust by now. But the hermit must have kept them in good condition he must have protected the books against the environment. The explorers took a closer look at the hermit. On his lap lay a half-opened book. One of the explorers gently touched the book and it fell open to an underlined page.

“For the truly sublime naturally elevates us: uplifted with a sense of proud exaltation, we are filled with joy and pride, as if we had ourselves produced the very thing we heard.” - Longinus, On The Sublime

how the fuck do you dream balance?

dear barista

not loving the gig

not getting paid enough

to really truly live

the cup of coffee you served me

was beautiful

and so was the conversation

you had with me

how did you know to ask those questions

that got me out of my head

you helped solve some problems for me

but you’d never know

and if you can romanticize

this job for now

you’ll be fine in whatever

you decide to do next

dear barista

keep those dreams alive

the future is big

had a muse sitting across from me

we had been lovers previously

but never for more than couple of nights

or three

and ever after we’d just keep missing eachother

consistently

had a muse sitting across from me

so i wrote a few poems for her

but only secretly

dear writer,

why have i never seen you

writing?

how long

have you been

staring

at a blank page

and calling it

trying?

show me what you wrote when you were hungover but tried anyway

i’ve got large amounts of privilege

clinging to me

and what the hell have i done with it all?

these ten poems a day

got hard

right about when

people

got interested in them

saturday is in retrograde

i had a lot of friends

who aren’t into poetry

and that was fine

they didn’t judge me

for my poems that didn’t rhyme

they just accepted that i was a little weird

but i was myself

and that made me a better friend

for real

i had a lot of friends

who weren’t into poetry

had a lot of momentum

but it was still coming in waves

had a lot of things to say

but they were hit or miss

these days

my pen was moving so fast maybe my subconscious had some poems to tell

lost truly,

Leo Lawrence

fin,

for now

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