Here is my Kickstarter campaign. For $8 I will write you a poem of the style, topic and audience of your choosing. These will be collected into a book.
If we were to end every thought
with the pun, I would tell you
that I have prayed for miracles (in bed)
big and small, for the one beside me
to hear my calls, for my heart
to be opened and luck to roll out (in bed)
to wake tomorrow at thirteen
and know the world unfolding,
for happiness to fill me head to toe.
The secrets I know are whispers
coming back across the veil,
a laughing god willing to offer
both condolences and magic,
good wishes and good thoughts
knowing that I will choose (did choose)
this same life. Though it could be
one misfired neuron, or the voice of the sun,
far away but constant and warming.
In the filter of memory that place–
which had four walls and was alive
with people, there for a cup or a paycheck,
whose furniture was carefully chosen
to match the shade of paint on the walls
and the art, which were photographs
taken by someone as invisible now
as the reason we had run inside–
has been reduced to a window
speckled with raindrops
which broke the traffic light
into countless shattered shades.
The only face I longed to see
bursting through the front door
long ago gone from this city.
Whatever time I have spent
in this hub of achieving
in search or in transit
has been hoping
I’d pass the one meant
to be coming while I was leaving
and we would sit
side by side moping
over our loves and losses
our jobs and our bosses
and upon further inspection
fall in a deep spell
and make love of heaven and hell
You have nothing. Start here.
Your love in the other room
was never there. The pup
in the corner is also new.
You didn’t paint these walls,
nor chip the doorframe, nor put
any of these objects here.
You never worked food service.
Therefore, you never bawled
the night your true love left.
You didn’t carve this scar
in choices. You were born here.
Your father was never distant,
indeed, he was never born.
You were not born. Your first
kiss was not on prom night.
You have never been kissed.
The one you wish had noticed
too never existed. The moment
you bluntly spoke some raw truth.
In your head. A lie. A myth. This
is the first moment. Start here.
Bright lights, no rain.
A cool night in August.
An old song playing.
Crickets in the back.
Even round this city.
Night breeze, I’m driving.
Here is everything I know about cutting hair
I mean, I have never seen the brash cannibal
grown out in all directions, from birth uncared
for locks in every crevice. He can’t smell good.
But the cost of the trim, the taper, the waxing,
the primp is an endless battle against a rash
of ever thickening, ever darkening, ever more
present strands such that a lust for baldness
can never be quelled. The cost of smelling well
for that fleeting moment, impressing your crush,
quenching some thirst to be a dolphin is an itch
that can’t be fully quenched, a scar unhealable,
a curious tear in the psyche for an art collapsing
as soon as one stands up the chair. Shut it down
early, in childhood, come to grips with legs, pits,
ears, and all being a slight fuzz such that nothing
need be done weekly daily, hourly, by the minute,
for the rest of our time on this round smooth cue.