... addiction ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ...

never glare

we wait in line
wait your turn
wait patiently
heads down
shoulders forward
marching thru aisles
never glare
never point
never notice

what if someone sees you?

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... addiction ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... the South ...

hangwoman

at the first
you are inundated
with feigned fulsome.

later, blandiloquence
bequeaths itchy garlands
and laurels around
your neck,

a noose of neglect,
Purgatory for
for the wholly Jilted.

you will find
comfort in the constricting
cords; delight compromises
and fear subsides.

here you are, after all,
on the Gallows Pole.

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... addiction ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... Spring ...

quarrel

We sat in that spot, just off the park road,
and stared at the water as it slid by,
indifferent to its own chaos. The timid tail
of Winter’s chill still hung on to the outer
edges of Appalachian air. Miniature clouds
puffed from your mouth and quickly
vanished with each breath.

“This Spring is different.”

“Oh no it isn’t, they are all the same.

“They are all green. Always green. And heavy
with white and yellow flower heads bobbing in
wayward West winds. The air is drunk and dense
with the crumbs of carrion love adrift on a breeze,
seasoned in symmetry.

“For every yellow petal you will find
a pink, and for every green stalk, a frothy,
white tumble cloud, spilling up and
over the mountain.”

“This one is different.”

“Oh no it isn’t, just more of the same.”

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... addiction ..., ... anger ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... blood ..., ... country ..., ... experimental ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... the South ..., ... the sun ..., ... time ...

voyeur

why would you
possibly come
here, sir?

what would you
hope to see?

i promise that
you’d run 
far away

should you find
the real me.

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... addiction ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... experimental ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... religion ...

nothing save inspiration

what is there to woo
us in this life,
this goddamned modern life?
wretched, despicable life.
when we needed Reason,
we made Science.
when we lusted for Worth,
we made Religion.
what are we judging? and
who the fuck is watching?

Nova says that i am
trillions of cells.
a heap. yet conscious of
my own mortality. each one
single of me can exist for
an amount of time alone,
in a petri dish. each cell
indifferent to me, yet
wholly obedient, yet with
all the Free Will of me;
a spec in the eye of
a man who just
doesn’t seem
to care
what you think.

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