withknowledgeofthesituation:

I wish I could draw you a picture
but I’m not a painter.

I wish I could draw you a landscape
of my garage
where the poems manifest themselves
under the old boombox
and the pale, effervescent light
near the screwdrivers.

I wish I could draw you a sketch
of my patio
where I talk to bugs and raccoons
about breaking news
while the ashtray fills up
dirt near the window.

I wish I could draw you a portrait
of my father
with his crooked mustache
praying I don’t end up like
another him
choking down the air
while I pray along with him.

I wish I could draw you a picture
but I’m not a painter. 

withknowledgeofthesituation:

She asked me,
“Why do you smoke?”
I told her,
“It cleans up better
than a gun,
and keeps me around
for just
a little bit longer.” 

Perfection is building
a model toy car, but not

the part where
you mash your palm
into your forehead
as you try to figure out
all the instructions, or

the part where
you snap a vital piece
that was just too fragile
and now you’re forced
to improvise, no

perfection is building
a model toy car

in the parts where
you stroke red paint
onto the body
of a toy corvette
not thinking of anything
but the gentle touch
and the vibrant color, and

in the parts where
you run a small canister
of glue along the fake frame
lost in the focus
that comes with trying
to draw a straight line, and

somehow it always happens
when you’re done
the warmth of sound construction
seems a proper elixir
for the cold agony
of getting through.

pedanticpersiflage.tumblr.com

withknowledgeofthesituation:

I wish I was a

customer of

this world, I

could come and

go as I please,

take my items and

leave.

But, instead, I

am an employee,

like a demented

New Year’s Eve,

I clock in and

clock out,

never to understand

what this world

is all about.

withknowledgeofthesituation:

I am the street sweeper.

I’m the mud on your

feet,

seething at the fact

you get more than that.


I am the street sweeper.

A dog chewing raw

meat,

teeth gnawing on your legs

complaining about the begs.


I am the street sweeper.

You’re the flame, I’m the

heat,

beating you senseless

with numbers and pencils.


You are the street sweeper.

I’m what’s good and what’s

keen,

and I still can’t believe you

don’t have a clue.