Bullshit-bits and poem-pieces.

(1)

You could have lived in those old magnolias,
Every crispy crunchy sticky furry part of them
Is all you'd need. The leaves would
Make rooms around you, spindly branch-columns
Leather-leaf lining
Sun-spotted wallpaper
Bloody-kneed cousins unafraid to climb higher and
tell you how the world works when you're 12
As opposed to 10.

And oh
How I wanted to take you there one day.

(2)

I wonder,
How wrong is it to use poems
as weapons?

If I write them on tiny curls of paper
And sneak them into your sight
will they snake between your eyelashes
and take you down from the inside?
And can I carry your tired body
back there where it's safe,
where we belong?
I'll protect you from what made you
In our sweet magnolia rooms,
We can stay a long, long time.
And bloom out on the terrace
Where my parents gave me wine
And they realized I loved you,
In all your loud bravado. You,
My tragic hero,
You, my poorly-timed.

(3)

I haven't let myself
have a key to this old hall yet.

Not because I keep forgetting,
But because I fear
the hours I may spend here,
trying to talk to ghosts.
I'd spread candles and a Ouija board
Out across the floor,
Exhaust myself with spells and
Plea 'til I fall asleep,
Face down in leather cushions where
We both know what happened,
Dreaming of dying
And haunting all of you,
Me and Bobby T.

(4)

I'll go away. But
You can't stop me writing poems in my head about you,
Bad poems for a bad man.
You and I both know
We drive because we're in control
Of something bigger than ourselves
of something powerful
of anything.
We drive because it makes us feel like we're
Getting somewhere.
Getting away.
I'll go away.
But you can't stop me.