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aayoung

Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Random Shit

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poetry

dancing with cigars in the garage

they creep up on you suddenly
when you aren’t looking for
perfect
these moments when you realize
you have everything you ever
wanted
and you aren’t sure how to process
this much joy
at least everything that went wrong
prepared you to recognize
what is right
light a candle for the lost
they’ve earned it

war by candlelight

amidst the curiosities

of my yet to be packed up

roll top desk

i found a diamond bracelet

you had given me

hiding in one of

the apothecary drawers

it reminded me immediately

how you waged

war by candlelight

instinctively i pulled the pin

on that gauche grenade

lobbing the tacky bauble

into the goose shit encircled pond

behind the house

your weaponry

is not welcome here

anymore

violets

i would like to believe
there is a heaven
where every flower
withered on earth
blooms eternally

i would like to believe
there is a heaven
for loves that were
never to be

a heaven
for all dreams
that would have been
beautiful

fallen petals

it is the poet
who is brought to tears
by the sight
of flowers dying
in a vase

if you’re reading this

if you’re reading this
you must understand
that every poem
is a message in a bottle
set adrift
on an ocean of lifetimes
looking for
a happenstance
recipient
i am shipwrecked
on my island of savage words
i do not wish to be rescued
please
place the scroll back in the bottle
cork it
toss it back to the sea
this poem has more traveling to do
thank you for conspiring with me

crazy glue

your heart
is going to get broken
because i have decided
to piece together
mine

blank generation

i’ve seen the best minds
of my generation
fail to know about anything
that existed prior to 1980
historically culturally politically
unless it could be read
off a baseball card
a cereal box
or an infomercial scroll
during *Nick -at-Nite*
we are the great feckless mass
of scratch and sniffing
trapper keeping
garbage pail kid
consumer children
left
with no direction
on the living room floor
to play with colorful hunks of plastic
while our parents
watched Dallas and Dynasty
then
fucked the
neighbor next door

truthfully

if love was enough
we wouldn’t need
poetry

very much alive

this little poem

feels like poetry

has died

then it remembers

even that

is a poem

it’s very much alive

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