It is truly a lost art…just writing.
Using actual script to pen ideas; giving a permanent form to ideas that currently reside only in my mind.
I found a true letter writer on here once before, would be incredible to find him again.
Every time I try
To look life in the eye–
As if love came near–
I shiver in fear.
Damn this habit
Of old scars.
If she were the rabbit,
Then here we are.
And there we go,
If we dare.
To crawl like winter sun
Into the sparkling knives
Into the glittering hair
Damn this dawn
we crawl into the shiver of the winter sun
here we are
like knives to hair
as we look in to old scars
If the rabbit came near in fear and habit
if she were there every time
if I try life
then I dare go into the sparkling glittering eye of love
I just wasted an hour searching for my
keys; like life isn’t short enough already.
I looked in all the usual places: Hat, jacket,
trousers, backpack, coffee table, fruit bowl,
cracks in the sofa, window sill, mantel piece,
potted plant, refrigerator, laundry basket,
medicine cabinet, trashcan–and then of
course I got on my hands and knees and
began looking under everything. Along the
way, I cursed the bedside table, the empty
bed, the armchair that I never sit in, the
fireplace that I am not allowed to have a fire
in, the kitchen cabinets that open when
another one is closed, the windows that
are painted shut, the light switch in the
shower, the years of futility, the failed
relationships, the idea that I ever thought
I could be somebody, the missed opportunities,
the burned bridges, the terrible decisions,
my big round stupid face, and finally my
very own existence–before I found them
still in the front door, and decided to
give myself another chance.
With Bison Jack on hiatus from Missed Connections, I thought I’d post one of my all-time favorites that I found a few years ago. It’s a bit too long for me to play with in my typical fashion, but I like it so very much just the way it is.
Get a bit of Bison in your home! Visit the Matchbook Series store to see a full list of poetic musings available for purchase.
> A poem’s worth less than a box of zip lock bags
> made to temporarily preserve the assorted
> perishable goods we collected
> over a lifetime
> and the sound of music made me sad not
> because i forgot how to
> but because i didn’t want to
And here we lay lying torn apart and rearranged
in this land of strange combustible
And BTW fuck the NRA . mindgallery . twitter
fuck the dance and
i didn’t want
a poem’s sad mercy
zip lock bags preserve the collected goods of a lifetime
to the sound of music rearranged
to a worth less box
made temporarily made
not because i forgot how to
torn apart and perishable
in this strange land
of assorted combustible lying
He mows the lawn methodically, periodically
Each blade of grass manicured like all the others
Except for one large patch which he weeds and cleans by hand
Visitors comment on how pretty the lawn is
But all ask, “why do you not cut that patch over there?”
His answer is always the same
“Never, that’s where the wildflowers grow”.