Poetry Is Better Than You

This Poem Was Conceived In The Back Of A Car

This poem took my
innocence and
green fell on me
like youth and puberty
in a jar. Strawberry
moonshine soaked lines—
this poem didn't
even
ask
and I didn't
even
get to say no.
It raped me in one
stroke of brevity
on the sleazy
upholstery.
This poem should
be a red dot on
a map of perverts—
at least
500 feet
from school
property
between the
hours of
seven
and
three.




My Box

I wish life was just
as Taylor Swift says.
Simplicity can exist again—
if I crawl back into
the box. Dust accumulates
on the top like
Dickinson's dust
in her Funeral Brain.
I could crawl back—
or I could leave it
vacant—Room 1408.
Empty, Calling,
Supernaturally roaring
for my entry. I'd need
a code—
9 digits that would
beam me into the
damn thing. "We" me.
I'm tired. I kick my
box and look up to
the sky—
cumulus clouds
of cirrus memories.
Heaven used to
be there—
but I never saw
Mama jump the clouds
like Care Bears. I
never saw her in
the snow-bunnied sky.
I miss that. Bring
my box back.
Box me.
Unwake me.




Cartoon Contortionist In A FlipBook

Conor said we all turn
from a cartoon back into
a man. I sit in a cartooned
state right now—
I am durable—
I live. I am
Bugs Bunny and
a caffeine ball
of life—
like Sponge Bob
like Peter Griffin
like Daria—
I am lame and I
am spreading lameness
by the minute—
closing in like
my box. Put me
back into the
fucking box.
Unbreak down
the walls.
I beg you.
I am a Cartoon—
not a Man.
I am a Man—
not a Cartoon.