“You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy, but I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that money is more fruitful than words, and I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain. I’ll walk you to the hospital, I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks and assure you that you’ll find your place, it’s just the world has a funny way of hiding spots fertile enough for bodies like yours to grow roots. and I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye, or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday and I would have wanted you to give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time, to see if you still had it in you. I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive. If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that the universe is twice as big as we think it is and you’re the only one that made that idea less devastating.”
—Small, Lucas Regazzi“The moon has stumbled to bed, and I am more awake than a damned casket. My words have been ground together like Arabica beans, and this is nothing short of a refresher, for the last few months have been a wake up call, that has left me reaching, in pain, for the phone. I am alone now, boxed into these four walls. I am attached, but only to my constructs. I have nothing more to treasure than grainy memories of happiness in the form of love's tension and thinking I have everything I need to know within a backpack; that my textbooks about psychology, and philosophy will some how lead me to read between the lines, where there is enough space to draw myself a map towards home. There are now four holes in my bag, one near the bottom, where the cotton flesh has exposed it's lining, and there are only so many books its fragility can handle. I have been branded as fragile. I can't hold a bottle of wine and a social setting together without unearthing ways to pick apart the petals of March's wild flowers with absolute certainty of discarding the second last 'I love you not'. Your words have left me tender, your actions, in pieces. I have torn myself into two's and four's and seven's. Each limb's laceration, like the pages of my unlikely tragedy, sounds like the last time you said 'I'm leaving'. I am lost. My heart beat used to palpitate to a monotonous heart beat like a metrinome. I was music. But I was out of time, four octaves too high, and I could never quite find a way of saying 'I need you'. My body was at mercy, I was crucified with a kiss by your door step, and now, all I want back are the words I gave to you. We are the damaged goods, we are the cracked ceramics, We are the lovers, the carvers, the fighters, and to our beloveds, but figments. We are nothing. But we are condemned to these mistakes, and we must fight for more reasons, to love and to carve and to be more than damaged goods; to be music again. I know I've fought hard to just breathe without your name swimming in my heavy April breath, but you're barely worth a memory and I will make myself forget.”
—In Absence of Sleep, Lucas Regazzi
“You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to pretend to be so interested in your ongoing tragedy, but I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that money is more fruitful than words, and I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain. I’ll walk you to the hospital, I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks and assure you that you’ll find your place, it’s just the world has a funny way of hiding spots fertile enough for bodies like yours to grow roots. and I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bull's-eye, or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday and I would have wanted you to give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time, to see if you still had it in you. I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive. If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that the universe is twice as big as we think it is and you’re the only one that made that idea less devastating.”
—Lucas Regazzi, “Small”
“Just being is so much better than being better.”
—Lucas Regazzi“It feels weird Writing you out like a distant idea. Understanding that my words have made you a memory, kind of like the mulberry tree that I used to pick from or a girl called Laura from my childhood, who is admittedly my first love. You are the second love that I’ve felt the need to make a memory. You are, however, the first I’ve felt like my words are a courtesy, or my thoughts are excessive. Instead of a splinter, I thought a forest of you. You were a mosquito bite treated like a storm of locusts. You have not made me bleed as much as this poem wants me on a hospital bed. I am not here, wishing for Winter or pleading for a handshake. I am only sad that all you’ve done is made me in between. I am a crack in the sidewalk, I am a mattress cover, I am holding a plane ticket, I am dissonance. I may be torn. But I am not drowning, I am not breathing, my soul is soggy like a wet napkin after a cup of coffee has fallen in love with the floor.”
—“I Am Dissonance” - Lucas RegazziSmall, Lucas Regazzi
“You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to
pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy,
but
I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that
money is more fruitful than words, and
I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain.
I’ll walk you to the hospital,
I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to
locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and
I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks
and assure you that you’ll find your place,
it’s just
the world has a funny way of
hiding spots fertile enough for
bodies like yours to grow roots.
and
I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,
or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I
wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday
and I would have wanted you to
give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,
to see if you still had it in you.
I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive.
If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and you’re the only one that made that idea
less devastating.”
This poem is hitting particularly hard today.
