This is a good poem.

Piece together the fragments of your thoughts.
Group them in relation to the spectrum
and spread them out on the coffee table.
Sprinkle
some lavender and
chamomile around
so they look good enough to settle in and seep
into someone
else’s cup.

I’ll take one look
and one swipe of my hand
and make a collage out of the puzzle pieces
you bent and snipped and burned to fit
so nicely
into your idea of Truth
and it will be more beautiful than any song you ever sang –
and that will make you run from it.

And you’ll come back kicking
and screaming
No! then
yes! then
no,
and I will hear you
but I won’t listen.

Should I have added cinnamon to make it easier to digest?
Tramadol to deny?

You see, I do things my own way
and I’d appreciate
if you’d shut the fuck up
and let me hear my own thoughts
because they sing more sweetly than your mental cacophony.

You see,
I’ve seen more corners of the Earth than you thought possible.
No, it’s not round;
In fact, it morphs
and sometimes into the shape of a gun with your finger on the trigger
but never long enough for you to shoot,
only
long enough
for me to change my point of view
and run for my life.

Then it morphs again
and my finger’s on the trigger
but I drop the gun
and let you choose
yourself.

So, I go my own way,
walk on my eyelashes
or swim through the sand
or gather up roses
and grab onto the thorns,
dig through an earthquake
and I’ll probably fall over
but let me.

I don’t want to be saved.

Because the Earth morphs
and becomes an electromagnetic platform
onto which my feet are drawn,
soles bound still to its core.

I don’t really know in which sense I meant
but maybe that’s the reason they’re spoken the same.
Maybe
our souls lie in our feet
and that is why they’re so easily soiled
and just as easily washed.

All I know is life is a choice I make every day,
a chance embraced each time I open my lungs to breathe

but I didn’t put the air in my lungs
I just chose to keep breathing.

Have you ever thought about how we keep breathing the same air through different sets of lungs but all the air we’re breathing has been breathed before?
And it never seems to run out?
And maybe
it’s the love of our lungs for the air that keeps it around?

Have you ever thought about how we write different things down,
abstract or real,
but we never run out of words?
And maybe
it’s the love of our souls for the truth that keeps
us
around?

And maybe
we’re all holding the same pen?

Have you ever started writing and taken a pause to breathe and forgotten where you were?
And you look around and everyone is carrying umbrellas
but you can’t feel the rain?
And then you realize you were just listening to “Dark Side of the Moon” on repeat for three hours
and the pen is still in your hand
and your feet
are still on the ground?

EJZ 06.26.2015

How does it feel?

I.
Wake up with regret –
I keep my shame locked up
in a cabinet
next to half-drunk,
open
bottles of wine,
unrolled
tobacco left on my nightstand,
love letters never received.

Deception is a hell of a good time.

Tastes better the second time around
when I know what I’m coping with.

I sleep with the ghosts
haunting my dreams
with nights I’ve survived to write about.

I could write books
about books
I haven’t written.

How does your throat feel
the morning after you’ve been choked?

II.
How does it feel
to feel
anything –
pain –
through the mellow monotony
you’ve learned to call every day?

How does it feel,
six month delay –
aftershock –
realize
four guns
resting
in the palms
of his hands –
a signature
standing between you
and a grave –
(if you’d even be buried –
probably
just swept under the rug
by his mother
with the rest of the family secrets) –
and you don’t even
care –
you gave up the right to life a long time ago
and really? –
could it really be worse?

III.
How does it feel
the morning after
the first night you felt safe enough to sleep through?

IV.
It feels like running,
like prayer, like
drowning –
like holy, like
nightfall,
like death –
like train-wreck,
like savior,
like savor,
like sweet,
like bitter,
like arson,
like air in my lungs, like –
slow down! – too fast,
like first time,
remember?
the first time –
you want to forget
but remember –
the truth –
like truth, like
singing,
like rainbow, like
passion and fire,
infatuation and
self-degradation
but
self-esteemed,
floating on pebbles,
but floating and free.

Deception is a hell of a good time.

It feels like feeling all over again.
It feels like fast forward stuck on rewind.
It feels like a hell of a hell of a time
but it feels
        it feels
         it feels.

EJZ 05.27.2015