Sunday

Joggers in the night like daggers, almost.
The horns quiet.
Three black balloons adrift,
Emblems, perhaps, of lone travelers,
Of abandoned childhood,
Of disappointment, sorrow
Or of balloons.
And why is filming your neighbors worse than writing poetry?

the idiot sounds of crying

the stupidest sounds u ever made,
losing it into the arms of someone taller than u
yr throat shrinking and yr head swelling with pressure
the gulps and breaks of some half-formed thought,
some abortion of a cliche trying to stake its claim on emotion,
but never making it past the choking gate

these are the idiot retard sounds of weeping

He takes it

He takes it in
and out
in stages.

Life is in a process
of thoughts and actions.
Damage Control and Resolution
while the inside rages in huge tidals.

Laughs and faces cover
like a make-up every scar that wounds inside.

So he takes it in
weighs those options
and cracks a joke
walking back and again.

Free of the requests
the responsibility
and the struggles
of the one-to-one.