Draft One: Tragedy of the Forgotten Flask

Falling off a too tall throne, my flask tumbled down,
down, down to the hard, end-of-the-line floor
where it finally freed its highland malt whiskey.

Split, shattered, and splashing onto the lacquered wood,
like a spilled drink tossing feral fragments
arbitrarily imagined. Condensed ice cubes

of transfigured lucid glass shards, each lonely,
impossibly obfuscating any recollection
of former occupation, purpose, or wholeness.

To think, I carried it out of the Black Forest,
all through the airport, and over the years
for today’s tragic celebration. I held onto it

for this moment where all I can think about
is how I should have gifted it after all,
or at least drank the meaningless liquid.

I've been reading a lot of Nietzsche lately. This time, I really think I might have something, but it's 6am, and not the fresh kind of 6am if you know what I mean. Honestly, I think this one is half done, and by that I think this one will be twice as long when I'm done. I have a lot of ideas for this poem, I just don't have the time to write anything longer.

Draft One: In Your Absence

I know not what I have done.
Mother Mary pray for me,
I can't feel your touch.
If you'll listen; are you there?
In these tender cigarettes,
filtered lightning rods?
Can I find you if I walk
enough dim-lit avenues
touring your absence?

I told my mother about my faith.
She locks her hands together,
she is on her knees.
At times when I need you most,
I feel like I am bleeding
and I cry, save me Jesus Christ.

Argh, I don't know! I am terrible at this. I know it isn't as straightforward as it should be, but how else do I say it?

The Existential Crisis and Solution

I'm trying real hard to resist the urge to trail off again about overwhelming workloads and how only the 5am pickax ever seems to sweep the assignments out and away.

I suppose if I ever needed proof that I was inconsistent and vexing I could just come here, but I guess there is something relieving about saying it over and over again.

Obviously, this isn't new. But from the desk of someone who has changed in every conceivable way, it surely isn't strange to desire a lucid approach to my responsibilities.

I keep telling myself that most of it will get done. I'll graduate before the summer. Though, is that really all that this is about?

Just sigh again, whatever, just put the question off, just like everything else.

Draft One: Tag

There is no time, the sun hangs.
Double-knotted sneakers etch
rivers and tributaries
into the boys' zigzag trail.

They escape behind the school's
emptying parking lot, flee
into the flatlands to play.
Here, the poppies are taller.

Even the towering elms,
the horizon of sycamore,
is hidden. Their boughs are darker
this time of day, somehow

suggesting too many secrets.
They would rather play, run
by superfluous bridges
of neat cut pine, stripped, treated,

and closely latched together.
And the meadow, like the poppies,
the wild daisies, long necked
bells, and chrysanthemums

will trim back. Everything
will be overtaken
by the trickle of snowmelt
and the weight of new mud.

Hopefully today's lessons
sink in. Cling like a muddy
step. Dawdle, feel the moistness
that supernaturally

permeates double-knotted
sneakers before they catch up,
tag, turn, run, and this time,
hop.

I don't usually like to be anything less than modest, but if I do say so myself, I think my poetry might be getting better and better. Let's disregard the fact that it is almost 5 am, the day before I need this, and let's also disregard my penchant for overrating my newly drafted poetry; let's just revel in the fact that it is done, and not awful. Well, I need to go brush my shoulders off, and maybe get some sleep.