2/12/17 12:46 PM

How can you grieve over someone you’ve never met?
How can you grieve over something you never got?
How do you fill the void left by something you were never taught or shown?

—  Nayeli Gutierrez

07/30/17 12;34 AM
my body is big because there is more of me to love
more skin to hold onto at night
more love to be given to those who are willing to hold all of this 

my body is big because it is too great to not be seen
more art to be appreciated 
more to be fawned over

—  Nayeli Gutierrez
You’re on my skin tonight, the winds shift from gear to gear– I let my fears go tonight. I miss you rings true, you don’t have your number, but I still wait. Maybe you’ll call me some day. Maybe this is all a dream and I’m really the one that’s dead instead. They say poetry shouldn’t be so direct, it should feel like a magician’s act. For this first part, you’re on the moon. I can never get you down. You’re here almost every night, I can’t stop you from shining. I wish I could’ve held you that night. I wish I could’ve called you. I wish I could’ve heard your voice. I wish I could’ve held your hands. I wish I could’ve told you that you weren’t alone and you’ll never be alone. I wish I could’ve kissed your forehead goodnight. I wish I could’ve told you that I loved you. I wish I could’ve stopped the world for you even if it meant you’d only be there for another second. The sweetest things happen so quickly, I wish I could’ve been there to hold you tight, tell you that everything was going to be alright. I wish I could’ve told you that having no hair is in. It’s okay, I’ll go bald with you. I wish I could’ve told you that I’d be waiting for you. I wish I could’ve told you about the books I’ll write for you. I wish I could’ve read poetry to you. A poem a day keeps the heart filled with art. You don’t need to cry anymore. You don’t need to hurt anymore. The sad songs can have happy endings. Romeo and Juliet doesn’t need to die, I’ll rewrite Shakespeare. Classical music doesn’t have to have a sad appeal, I’ll play the happiest songs for you. You’re on my mind tonight, my heart shifts from fear to fear– if I am just an illusion or a dream and you are the dreamer, then dream me into a smile. Keep it warm, keep it alive. Keep me in your back pocket, the best poems are surprises. Keep me inside of your palms, I’ll deliver your words into sweet nothings– tell you that I love you just to love you. Tell you that I miss you just to miss you. Tell you that I need you just to need you. Tell you that you’re important. Tell you that you’re special. Tell you that you’re beautiful. Tell you that you’re sweet. Tell you that you’re cute. Tell you that the story never ends, it just needs a quick pause, the greatest pieces ever written has one or two. Tell you that this? Death? It’s just another adventure and if it’s somehow beautiful– won’t you send postcards? I saw that quote in a movie and it was used kinda weird, I find this prose piece fitting. This is my apology to you, I haven’t been myself as of lately and my intentions are pure. I want my words to reach you, maybe break the fourth wall of my story kind of poetry. If the world is a sick simulation and I’m always destined to be here, at this very moment, stuck at 5:09 am, a little high, a little heartbroken, a pack of cigarettes in, a little damaged, a little lost, a little trapped, a little hurt, a little stressed, a little torn, a little bit without you– then I’ll pick every option that’ll return me to that fateful day when I was asked for a poem. Straight from my thoughts and into your veins. You’re on my skin tonight and I just want you to stay even if you’ll be gone by sunrise.
—  On my skin
a new me

caught, my cold intake
breath ice-dripping
stomach under floorboards
and all my ghost
could whisper to me:

burn the trees

looked to face of whitely-pale
and obsidian eyes
(god i worshipped her so
with all of who i was, and my axe)
she gaped her lips of oh & said:

burn the trees

i’m sorry, my love, i’m sorry
more ice fell from my face
and she placed her hands
just under my useless cheeks
she sang just for me:

burn the trees

so i got up
brushed myself off
(the dust had built stories in me)
went outside - the sun!
been so long,
so long, this warmth

i smiled
for the first time
in years
& walked away
from it all
with my lighter in my pocket.

I read my favorite poem, the first poem I ever loved, just now and I cried because I remember hearing it read aloud by my teacher when I was little and thinking what is this magic. It reminded me why I love poetry. All I want to do with my words is give someone that feeling of wanting to fold a poem up very small and take it with you in your coat pocket all winter.

chicano anti poetry

thinking ive elevated
all the unknown unrated
poets on the south side

simply discrediting
the use of an apostrophe

ant on the floorboards
poems in pockets on benches
art busstopping up

plebeian pledging
with a lot of resolute prowess
an unencumbered outcome

of man in his jeans
in daydream dissertation

I was given the beaded purse by a friend on a birthday in middle-school. The inside is felted with black and the outside seeded with scintillating reels of a green and blue bead. The beads spin inward to form a gaunt, bodiless black face. Though these are all needless and background to its eyes. For the eyes belong to the purse and not the face; an effigy carried in my coat-pocket. With the years, the beads have strung from the fabric, collecting in small pools but the eyes remain- top-heavy and ugly. The eyes have seen and been on each night excursion, ripped of its travel-card clad to its chest and the coins and the keys, and I often wonder what do they think? Do you object? Would you leave? Eyes pooled in the bottom of my pocket. 

Easy To Forget Me

Summary: Dan is a poet oblivious to the world of relationships, Phil has commitment issues. They become friends with benefits. But Dan finds that over time, one of their benefits was never truthfulness.

Part One of the ‘Up At Night’ albumfic series!!

Genre: AU (Friends with Benefits / poet!dan)

Warnings: Mentions of sex (and scenes of pre-smut), swearing, a lot of angst

Word Count: 13k

Read on ao3

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I split my lip to take out
two pins in a contrived
game in Cincinnati – the only
one in the city with rented
shoes, a hall vacant,
folding and refolding  
my note about small goals.

- B B Pine

July 26

An ode to the girls who are still writing poems on their guests checks-
Who have to decipher their own metaphors among chicken scratch about chicken wings and fry orders-
who dig for poems in pockets full of pennies, pens, and parables.

Who run to last call, 1:45
time for two drinks
hands on the bar
help me-
deflect men with straight lined mouths and the smell of bacon grease.

For the girls who laugh off lingering eyes, but still put on mascara in the bathroom because 20 percent is the only way to pay the light bill and you’re pretty sure Shawn the bar regular hates his wife anyway.

For the girls who know that once your feet hurt bad enough, they start to itch.

Who use their fire match tongues to light their ten minute cigarettes and bitch at Brandi about how table thirteen ACTUALLY HAS TO BE DRINKING THEIR FUCKING RANCH.

Who can’t find the will to edit their word work because they spent all night working to find the words to tell Bob the bar regular that he’s probably a racist - without getting fired.

Who wolverine-key their way to their cars because it is already worrisome enough carrying one thing men find valuable beneath your apron, let alone 150 cash.

When you spend the next hours
lavender oil healing
hot rag wiping
furiously masturbating
back to your body

you are not 2.13 an hour robot with the detachable coors light bottle feature.

You are 100 mile an hour missile
not miss a thing
meet in the middle
do you hear that?

You are a hot head smart enough to cool off in the deep freeze.

You are service with a smile get served later
while smiling.

You are woman.

And one day, from your automatic pay
NYC Studio
Bob the bar regular is going to be able to hear you tell him
to fuck off.