last week’s poems 12
i’m so close to everything i’ve ever dreamed of and the path is clear and the strength is here but the companions are yet to be found they are somewhere near waiting for our dreams to cross in moonlight hours and with the mystery of daylights working hours hammering home keys to my wits end losing my way before i crash asleep and lose all sense of time and whether or not i’ll succeed down this path which is everything i wanted in life
creativity hack 003
post unfinished art
vulnerability creates connection, sharing unfinished art is a vulnerable act.
we want to see the process, let people in.
they said poetry readings are dead
but here we are on tiktok reading outloud
to an audience of millions
spent a day in San Francisco following Kerouac’s ghost around haight street, stories to come at a later date
“Paulo Coelho revisits ancient myths and distant traditions to evoke themes of love, the pilgrimage of self-knowledge, and the origins of belief. He talks about freedom and solitude, wondering about the future of man in search of stability, love and spirituality.”
this is what i’m aspiring to, but i got stuck in LA, got to get a move on, back to the traveling days
a few final pieces of a puzzle i’ve been working on for so long
a few thousand dollars
and a few thousand hours
is all it will take to get there
and that doesn’t seem like a drop compared
to all this path has taken me through
yellowstone: on a boy’s first kill
Kayce: Hey, what's the matter buddy?
Tate: It's, it's that.
Kayce: It's OK. It's a big deal takin' a life, but everything on earth’s gotta do it to survive. Even trees. The big ones kill all the smaller stuff beneath it.
John: Killin's the one thing everything on this planet does to survive, Tate. It's the one thing we all share. Now you share it, too.
Tate: Will something kill us too, grandpa?
John: Yeah, something will kill us, too, Tate. It might be a bacteria so small you need a microscope to see it. It might be a big old bear. There's no such thing dying of old age. Something kills us all.
there’s no such thing as dying of old age
my two music tastes
sad music + happy words
happy music + sad words
this world prioritized
all the wrong things
for no reason
at all
cars and houses
and gas and roads
we could have had
trails and backyard farms
and local friends
and we could’ve been drinking in parks and writing poems until all of daylight ends
bad vibes at my local bar
couldn’t bring em up
had to drink my drink quick
and get away like fuck
did you want to live that dream?
me taking photos of you
that look like sunshine in June
in soft pastels
from river trips
with warm nights rocking back and forth
at campsites
dripping waterfall wet
from naked dips
and drying off outside a Westfalia
on the rim of the world
give me nothing prescribed
but everything described
not enough energy in
L.A. suburban lifecycles
Basquiat sample
i feel too stable its time to go and come back a wanderer
poems came to those blessed fools who carve away on paper for hours on end
studying poetry with a measuring tape
trying to get the line
heights and lengths right
somehow, never worked
who knew?
self imposed limitations are as real as true limitations
rich colleges full of nothing rich
verbatim
and will you write a poem
about my dress?
and my legs?
and my abs
and my whole body
and my brownish skin?
or maybe like a whole volume of poems?
