The Prodigal Daughter

have no choice when they are already dead:

I probably won’t go see it, i might just for some Crispin action. What am I talking about. The new movie Epic Movie has Crispin in it as Willy Wanka, which makes way more sense to me than Johnny Depp.

i want to let it be known that no poetry on this site is ever finished. i’ll be rewriting these for a while and then hopefully i’ll do a chapbook that you will buy. that’s the idea anyway. just think extended and edited versions of all of the things read here in paper form!

this is no redemption story
no jesus
three fingers raised
			to the sky
	
no job
exiled from Him
			in bible poetry
	
no sinner
born into the world
			blind and happy
	
this is an (in)personal exile story
with no reprieve
months without bread or body
years without kindness or love
ghost crimes committed and
			re written
	
she, exiled into to the past
just memory annals
decomposed by passage of time
becoming sifted delicate dust
until only the original sin(ner)
			re mains
	
...but
	
this is no redemption story
no jesus
three days and
			removed from ascension
	
no job
rewarded for faith
			after leprous skin
	
no sinner
to be forgiven
			inside of themselves

“I like habitual behavior because it’s a known factor and your mind is free to do other things.” –David Lynch

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

–Thomas Hardy

what kind of joke was it to be a born writer in January?

i wonder how long it would take them
to find me and i never write in the
				first
				person
	
you had your hooks in me long
before boys could trip over the wires
	
oh aren't we so avantgaurd, listening
to thick text drum music
	
i didn't wonder when you took them
to find me and i never write in the
				first
				person
	
you and i did it just as long
as i (ad)justified it all in the end
	
oh aren't we so pedantic, writing
to thick text pixel-cursors
	
i am in wonder how long it took them
to find me and i never write in the
				first
				person
	
your plan wasn't thought too long
but it was always the cold calculation
	
oh aren't we so poor, misinformed
by a thick text headed man
	
wonder how long
it took them to find
us: thick texted versions
of ourselves and i never write in the
				                first
				person.

I am obsessed with the shape of poetry.

this brought me to tears…