Let's be honest

I asked who i was
and it landed me on this barstool
i requested romance
and now i'm stuck
swimming in this bottle
shrunk down to the size of a moth
and behaving quite the same

the most i can ask for
at this point
is the ironic satisfaction
i get when i drink
from the tit
of a baby's bottle

Jackson's Qualms

i want to explode
kick and scream
in a flash of light
i want to be a firework
the glorious ascent
and a simple exit
that inspires
oo's and aah's
or the covering of ears
an impact nonetheless
i want the nurse to walk in
i want to let everyone know
but it must be kept a secret
for darkness
and closets
and best friends who understand
understand so well
there's no point in talking about it
kept a secret
for girls with sympathetic lips
and smiling eyebrows
or for mockingbirds
so i'll finally
be able to relate to something

instead i
scribble furiously
scribble myself onto paper
scribble a portrait of aches
and confusion
a portrait that no one can paint
ill scribble until the pen breaks
until my heart sinks
until the paper is shredded
and i'm left in tears
sorting scraps
and pounding the table
that has disappointed me again

Late Night Haiku

there is something romantic
about wine bottles
after i have emptied them




warmly romantic
comforting
lonely at my desk

The Funny Thing is...

skeletons are made of math
phospholipid fingertips
hearts are stopwatches

lips ooze with honey
throats swallow gold coins
and regurgitate ashes
which bend the sun
and tarnish feathers

homes are made of melting ice
pyrite smiles
sympathies are pins and needles

yet, i still don't know how i feel
about this outfit

these women keeping
me up all night

and your insightful assumption
that everything is falling apart

_jackson grind