by Atticus
all spinning throughout the darkened sky
as if
the whole world
was created
just to hold her—
asleep on the couch
in the morning sun.
She was that wild thing I loved.
My dark between the stars.
SHE TORE POEMS
FROM MY FLESH,
IN FIGHTS,
IN LOVE,
AND SEX.
She didn’t want love,
she wanted to be loved—
and that
was entirely different.
She was the most beautiful
complicated
thing
I’d ever seen—
a tangled mess
of silky string—
and all I wanted of life
was to sit
down
cross-legged
and untie
her
knots.
In this world of bits and pieces
she was whole
so entirely in front of me
the one honest gift
of my life
dripping there
in the rain.
Brushing a girl’s hair
behind her ear
once a day
will solve more problems
than all those
therapists
and drugs.
The world is made up of
too many girls
wondering
if they are pretty
and too many boys
too shy to tell them.
I loved her most,
for all the things she hated
about herself,
for that is what
made her different,
and it was the different
that I loved.
She was just another broken doll
dreaming of a boy with glue.
She sat in her perfect house,
with her perfect husband,
wishing that her perfect life
would end.
They saw in her
a bright star burning,
and basked in the heat of her flame,
but behind the bright
she was smoldering
for breath
in the black of a life
she never asked for.
She beat on against his sky
with forbearing wings,
and with
him gone
she soared
into who she always was.
SHE FOUND HERSELF
OVER A LONG
AND TREACHEROUS ROAD
AND THE MORE
TREACHEROUS
THE ROAD BECAME,
THE MORE OF
HERSELF
SHE FOUND.
Her soul dwelled
in the wild parts
of her heart
vibrating
to the music
it found there.
She sometimes talked aloud
when she thought I couldn’t hear
about how she felt
or what she thought
and I would just listen
and fall in love
again and again
from the inside out.
Don’t ask her to be a rock
for you to lean upon
instead, build her wings
and point her to the sky
and she will teach you both to fly.
Angels must be warm to fly—
that’s why she always
slept in socks.
To me
she is
those final steps
the turn around the last bend
and a little house
with a light on
and a fire lit
with a faint laugh
floating on the warm wind—
she is
my always,
coming home.
I’d always watch
as the world
fell in love with her
I’d smile at the inevitability of it all.
And it wasn’t just the boys
the girls loved her more
they’d grab her hand
and run her away
to drink beneath the stars—
they needed to discover
what I already knew—
if she kissed
better than
the champagne.
She was cool—
the whole world
seemed
to spin around her
in smooth jazz.
There is nothing
prettier in the
whole wide world
than a girl
in love
with every breath she takes.
She was too busy wishing
on shooting stars
to see the dreams
come true around her.
She had been through hell
and though no one could see her demons
they could see the face
that conquered them.
She wasn’t waiting for a knight—
she was waiting for a sword.
That was her magic—
she could still see
the sunset
even on those
darkest days.
I LIVE
MY LIFE
SO
HAPPILY
IN
CRAZY
WITH
HER.
I feel
like girls
who drink
whiskey
tell
good
stories.
A sky full of stars
and he was staring at her.
It
was
her
chaos
that
made
her
beautiful.
Chase your stars fool, life is short.
I would rather
have a body full of scars
and a head full of memories
than a life
of regrets
and perfect skin.
Youth came over me like a mad storm.
I was helpless to the chemicals
roaring in my brain.
Our poems
were notes
left behind
to a
confused
younger
self.
Keep your bustling cities,
give me only the moon,
some wine, and old friends
laughing in the desert,
and I will show you
what the
pagans
called god.
Sometimes
I want a quiet life
other times
I want to go
a little bit
fucking Gatsby.
AN ASHTRAY
WITH A GOOD STORY
MAKES THE SMOKE TASTE BETTER.
So many of us
are starving for life
and have no idea
until the end
when we look back
and see the
uneaten banquet.
The world’s perception of you
exists only in memories.
Give them new ones.
Drugs
to me
have always been
a pretty girl
with a sly smile
beckoning me
with a finger
down the dark path
of a fork in the road.
I was drunk
on her
laugh,
and the
moonlight,
and the
rum.
A good muse
gives you calm seas
in the morning
&nb
sp; and storms
at night
to make you kiss the shore.
There are beautiful words
on that blank paper
you hold in your hand,
use the magic
swirling in your mind
to paint the pictures that you see.
FIND SOMETHING
THAT MAKES
YOU
FORGET TO EAT
AND SLEEP
AND DRINK
AND THEN DO IT
UNTIL YOU DIE
OF THIRST.
Go forth and conquer
for the world is small
and you are a giant
and every step
you take
will make the ground shake
as it rises
to meet you.
To him
the horizon was just a slight curve
fading out behind the last tree line,
begging to be straightened
by a quickly embarked adventure.
We
are
never
alone
we are
wolves
howling
to the
same moon.
SHE WASN’T
BORED,
JUST RESTLESS
BETWEEN
ADVENTURES.
The trees seemed to breathe more at night.
There was a freshness in the air
like the world was being born again.
Steam billowed from the machine
and danced up
mixing with my breath.
I rode on into the black,
leaves scurrying from the tires,
startled by this strange one-eyed beast.
I always wanted to remember these moments,
alone on the road
the smell of wood burning somewhere,
and wet cut grass covered with tomorrow’s dew.
Fast I’d ride,
deep into the ghostly night,
wind in my face,
eyes screaming tears,
blurring the sky into diamonds,
and my engine,
in its symphony,
became my silence,
a knife’s edge to the numb world
my blissful blurry road.
The hardest step
we all must take
is to blindly trust
in who we are.
We humans
are so tortured
by not properly guessing
what will make us happy.
I’ve always liked boxing,
there’s nothing like
a punch in the face
to remind you
you don’t want to die.
Every word he wrote stood in proud protest to this
most organized world.
Poetry’s magic
is that it is found when it’s needed.
Art takes time—
Monet grew his gardens
before he painted them.
She made gentle the wild oceans of my soul.
New York
is the quietest city
I know,
only among
a million beating hearts
could you still hear
the cigarette burn
on a balcony
in Brooklyn.
Hidden away above two thin staircases
a bed, a desk, and bookshelf,
a writer’s paradise
the rain would fall and set
its cadence to my thoughts
the old radiator pumped hot breath
forcing my window to be cracked a pinch
and there each night I would fall asleep
in a melody of cold and hot—
wrapped up safe in all my ghosts.
I think sometimes
of the great stories lost
to old basements,
floods,
and fires,
it makes me sad
until
I think also
of all the stories
not yet made,
in young minds,
in full pens,
and on paper
not yet printed.
Poetry is a lifelong war waged
against ineffable beauty.
BOYS
LEARN TOO LATE
THAT BEING
“THE MAN,”
IS NOT THE SAME THING
AS BEING
A MAN.
We are all born free
and spend a lifetime
becoming slaves
to our own
false truths.
I worry there is something broken in our generation,
there are too many sad eyes on happy faces.
There
is always
a glimmer
in those
who have been
through the dark.
Loneliness
is a fire
I hold close to my skin,
to see how much pain
I can stand
before running
to the water.
Depression is being color blind and constantly told how
colorful the world is.
Don’t give up now,
chances are
your best kiss
your hardest laugh
and your greatest day
are still yet to come.
Even the bravest wolf hunts with his head down.
We are made of all those who have built and broken us.
POETS
AND
MOTORCYCLES
DON’T MIX;
IT NEVER PAYS
TO DRIVE FAST
WHEN
YOU HAVE HAD
TOO MUCH
TO FEEL.
True art
comes
from flying
with the madness
so close
you burn
your eyelashes.
Some write for fun
others write
because if they didn’t
the words
would grow
and fester
and burst from the seams
of their souls.
Some words
are safer down
on paper.
We all wear masks,
some with makeup
some with smiles
some with wives or husbands
cars or clothes
we hide from the world
and from ourselves
we hide from our truths
behind our eyes
running always from our real
but somewhere there
where truth meets courage
we are waiting to be found
waiting to stand to the world
masks down
and say loudly and boldly
this is us
this is our truth
this is everything real about me
and when that day comes
if it is true
we will begin our lives again
the way they were intended
when the world first
saw our face.
Let my death be a long and magnificent life.
Don’t fear,
her father said,
sometimes
the scary things
are beautiful as well
and the more beauty
you find in them
the less scary
they’ll become.
All life is a revolt against death
and all revolts are eventually quelled.
The question is:
in those moments
with a rock in your hand
and tear gas in your eyes
can you smile to the fates
stand tall
and
make your voice heard?
There is an island I know
I shouldn’t even mention—
it’s a fairy tale, you see
where no one wears shoes
and no one needs to—
the houses are hobbit-like
with grass on the roofs
and the food is fresh from a nearby farm
every morning the tea sits steeping
on long wooden counters
with toast and jams from local berries—
the crickets always crick here
and the birds call, the kind
that make you stop and say,
“Now that is a beautiful song”—
the sun is hot
without a cloud in the sky
and the beach runs out for a mile
in silky white sand
so that when the tide flows back in the afternoon
it heats up, warm as a bath,
when it rains
you build puzzles, and paint, and read
and light fires that crackle
and smell like cedar saunas
and each night, rain or shine,
you drink wine
and listen to records
while you play games—
and sometimes
you’ll lay in long grass
and chase the stars around the sky
heads close together with the ones you love—
