smangalang

a stolen cigarette
the smell of wet dirt
mingles with sirens
& the angry train
what day is today?
& does it really matter?

tuesday     wednesday soon
my hair is getting long
it’s spring
technically
will it ever be
    tangibly?
a slow burst
some flowering
that’s what i imagine
the scent of sex
& garlic on your fingers

hush shush
mush
how sweet you were
before you spoke
a voice can ruin a generation
or at least a tepid evening
blooming with neuroses
he loves me not
he loves me not

it’s such a childish want anyway
a touch for a touch
a wordless exchange
a vacancy all lit in neon
littered with the orange & white petals
of stubbed-out cigarettes

june 2013

“actual content.”

wake up every morning
tell me all your dreams
drink some coffee
& go away for a while

there is a certain secret pleasure in dissolving into the warm, gray folds of depression, of sleeping the day away without knowing what time it is, emerging from a fold of blankets, yawning, & going back to sleep.

they say to let go of the past, but what if it’s all you have? what if there is no future? what if everything that means a thing to you fits into a single shoe box? where do you go when you can’t go back? move move move they keep telling you, but that horizon keeps getting further, darker. you’re chasing daylight & you’ll never catch that fickle bitch.

i leave myself hate-notes in my notebook when i’m drunk. the most recent is a whole page filled up with the words “nobody does; nobody ever will” over & over again. i can’t tell if i’m serious or if i’m just fucking with myself.

i can’t believe i let you take the fucking cat. a thing of all things to love after never having loved an animal.  a fucking cat.

it was an autumn so purple & ripe in its expectancy we couldnt help but fall we couldn’t help it. we fell
we fell we fell
we fell so fucking deep into an abyss a green another shade of purple
i don’t fucking know
a dream i had
a house and alongside a yard with ancient aching trees the kind with old swings attached where kids died & were buried
their ghost stories whispered next to open flame
there was something about the trees
i dont remember
something about the inky shade of the air
too hot
too hot too hot to touch

meanwhile a stretch of lilacs next to the highway glints just right
& makes you rust up inside
(who plants fucking lilacs
next to the highway?)

it’s three years now you know
a life
a fucking life! thats what they call it
(they say it begins at conception i dont think a thing counts
until after youre dead
but its really nobodys business anyway)

may 2013

ice water from a jar

you thought it was strange
to drink ice water from a jar
so i can imagine how peculiar
i appeared in your eyes
my dirty fingernails
my little poems
the river rocks in my pockets
the dried yucca pods
a walk to the art store
to linger over pens
the languid reward of a gin & tonic or four
after a long afternoon
of feeling sorry for myself
under the covers
a spooky little girl
a woman wrapped in gauze
a hot mess
either way
& you
with your strange urge
to feed her pinecones
to bundle her up
in a little packet of sage
& burn her
anointed
her soul like a rotten banana
aflame

april 2013

2 mormon missionaries
riding around
in the rain
standard issue
mountain bike
clean cut
fresh faced
short sleeved
dogmatic waterlog

april 2013