The Blizzard of O’Never

it’s a chore
trying to get me out
i prefer the buzzing of the radiator
over the grinding

of meat on meat
they have spirits, i’ll give them that
but i can’t see them, so give me

(the clothes i put on in my head are better
than the clothes i can afford)

they say,
this is the wrong way to live
but my head

hurts by sound of the streets
cries of the ones who want
to get the on the bus
and date actual people

(the promise land is the land of cake and jewelry
i live near the empty fridge)

whose shadows print them at the edges of islands
or triathlons, or dinner parties,
or conventions, festivities,
or fitness boutiques

but my head and my heart
and my mouth and my finger
tips could puke and puke only
the strangest of pastel paints

(make them wait but not too long, up when they
doozy ‘n drowsing via sip of the absinthe)

Comet is at Serendra
i haven’t seen her in months
my phone buzzes, and my thoughts

i don’t miss her because she makes a point of not being missed
that’s our law of our now-Comethaness
i go to her, my rock
I am the Will to her Grace

(we’re going to build that darn jaeger, imagine side by side, and be
national heroes)

after all, we bother to never
watch procedurals together
’cause we’re solving fictitious crimes together

Jov is at work, so near but she carried it daily
hating her work, loving her work, putting her
everything on hold for her work
and longs

(for the sea
while i fear the salt would kill me)

i grew up under swamps
do you know who lives there with me?
amphibians and fresh water
things, colorful and dull

isn’t nature funny that way?
they wear that warning sign
but still i eat
the brown umbrellas of the earth and of the dirt

(cremation of that Poisona skin
rainbow of the outside and kill)

visit the Nevergrass one day
take note, take promise
the keyboarder of the mafia cafe
topic free from duress

when we first started out
as a silent contemporary
poet underprivileged as all our past

(i left the things i tried to master
all cuddled on the shelf)

it’s all just a lovely game
of leaning on towards Cubao against Uber
surge charges, and Uber stories would be one
filled with laughter

first, we wanted the skies, then we wanted
the underwater black
adored the arctic and the wetlands
the outer space, the unknown, then the thinking ’bout the unknown

(and thinking ’bout all that is

i tried to take on the pencil, the peacock of our universities,
then came books, and math, and philosophy, and speaking
i was good
in all of them

i belonged
and how it reigned stones at my gutters
I am The goddamn Blizzard of O’Never

(there are people living and breeding in my phone
and i put them on silent as i envy their islands)

i’ve always had the sorrow borrowers comment on things i should want
i guess i should be flattered by all the
ob/subservient swans
i guess

the meek and the joyous, they forward opinions
on things i should become
sure, why don’t they just
lay out all the ground work

(and i’d tap dance into
that road-trap abyss, sounds fun)

thought by the giants-to-me to not be myself
then, who am i supposed to be?
apologies, i am not your
textbook human being

i hated helmets, hated warnings
trespassed when sign’s erect
always rooted for the shy
and the sly and the sightless

(fed of humor and killed it
two bullets and a bloody vase and an even bloodier shirt)

i could go on for hours
mouthy novelettes of the TV
then cry about my arms
all muscle i lost

bring forward the cold
bring forward, synergy
bring forward to live at the beyond
the hills, they come, lure

(fed of anger and killed it
by The goddamn Blizzard of Deserve)

i am but a normal brown dot on a brown straight
waiting for a brown cab
with earphones dysfunctional, and like you
wishing for the power of flight

but ‘straight-acting’ is such an ugly word, isn’t it?
implies that how you gait is all
do i look like i’m acting?

(O’, gods
I hope not)

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