Three poems 333


You’re so ugly and special

All mine

Nobody else wants you

I’ll keep you all to myself

Embrace you, hold you tight

Your dusty brown earth

Your garbage piled against the door

You are so repulsive

But I know you

I can open you up

Reveal something peachy, sticky, sweet

You’re overflowing

Spilling all over me suddenly

My own secret plaything

Lick you all up

You are so tender


Lying on the ground in a cemetery

thinking of you and also thinking

of how my body is stacked parallel to hundreds of others

who never knew either of us

but we are all turned palms up to the sky,

in varied forms of rapture

Maybe love will be like dying


I want to write 333 poems &

publish them all in one book

An ode to angel numbers

I found one type of pen

when I was 20 years old

Now that’s the only pen I use

There is no more past

There is only the vast expanse of infinite future

Nevertheless things repeat themselves

I’m always walking down Neil Avenue

Someone is puking in the cobblestone of

Athens, Ohio right now

Vibrating, drunk, and happy to

not feel themselves in their own body

You are always remembering me

When I write things down, I am

impressing one feeling

into lines of paper or pixels on a webpage

Representing pressure + tension

from my perspective but

How do I weigh which feelings to

Record + represent

And which feelings to sequester into intentional amnesia

I don’t recall the feelings I don’t want to

how does that process work within myself?

My silly words to forever be tarnished by the inaccuracy of memory

We tell ourselves the past builds to the present

Decisions we make stack on top of each other

little cans of beans and sauces, boxes of pasta in my pantry

anticipating one day Me, picking it up

opening, activating, simmering, & stewing it

I eat and it nourishes me

No, that’s not it

Not how it works

Nothing culminates & nothing builds

Humans like the illusion of control

they like narrativizing their lives

Nothing leads to anything

It just is, everything is

I met you in a fake situation, and we had a

real relationship

Now we have a fake relationship, while

we are both in real situations

The fake is more real than the really real

Something i repeat to myself

I am looking for the balance

I want to exist in the space between

fake & real

That which is unspoiled by reality

Or rather, exists outside of it

pure and perfect

A world within itself, where its own laws apply

but is still grounded, honest, and clear

A microcosm manipulated to astutely reflect

the vision of its two creators, you and me

But it’s not You and me, it’s me and the universal you

You who helps me, who listens to me, and in return shares with me

You who holds the great big mastiffs as I walk by the window, fogged with their slobber

You who is entertained when you are 10 years old in the schoolyard, by yourself in the grass

in Mid May

You who finds a keychain with my name on it on the sidewalk,

you show it to me but keep it for yourself

You who splits an adderall with me and watches the city lights on your rooftop

You who brings me four bouquets of flowers on my birthday

(Each bouquet from a different one of You)

You who tells me to never settle as I am drunk on a patio near the Atlantic ocean

You who waves at me through your medical mask from the restaurant

where You work

You who bleaches my hair every Wednesday in February, even though it will crack

Just because I think it will make me look pretty,

and You want me to be pretty for You

I love you

I want us to be real, You and I

I want you to love me too

back of the club